Beyond the Propaganda Libel and the Imperative of Internal Critique

By V.A. Mohamad Ashrof, New Age Islam 18 August 2025 In the tumultuous intellectual landscape of contemporary Islamic thought, few tasks are as fraught with peril, or as morally urgent, as the act of internal critique. The scholar who turns a critical lens upon their own tradition does so in a crucible of competing pressures: the demand for unwavering communal solidarity, the ever-present risk of one’s work being weaponized by external adversaries, and the profound ethical obligation to pursue truth, however uncomfortable. It is within this crucible that the work of scholars like me—who seek to identify, analyse, and challenge exclusionary and anti-Semitic currents within specific modern interpretations of Islam—must be situated. It is also the context in which Naseer Ahmed’s polemic, “How to Help a Genocide: The Propaganda Value of Ashrof’s Theology,” must be understood and, ultimately, refuted. Ahmed’s article launches an accusation of the gravest possible nature: that a scholarly diagnosis of a theological pathology within Salafi-Wahhabi thought is not merely an academic exercise, but an act of political complicity, one that “arms Zionist End-Times narratives” and provides “native confirmation” for a genocidal agenda against the Palestinian people. This charge, while delivered with passionate conviction, represents a profound intellectual failure. It is an argument built not on rigorous textual engagement or sound historical analysis, but on a series of logical fallacies, a dangerous mischaracterization of the scholarly enterprise, and a political calculus that prioritizes strategic silence over the difficult work of internal reform. This paper will offer a comprehensive, point-by-point refutation of Naseer Ahmed’s critique. I will argue that far from “helping a genocide,” the kind of internal critique undertaken by me is an essential, prophylactic measure against the very ideologies that fuel cyclical violence and dehumanization. It is an indispensable component of a liberatory and humanistic Islamic future, one that can champion the cause of Palestinian justice without being shackled to the anti-Semitic vestiges of a reactionary theology. Ultimately, this paper is more than a rejoinder to a single article. It is a defence of an intellectual method—a method of courageous self-examination that is not only compatible with a politics of liberation but is, in fact, its necessary precondition. It makes the case that the most profound act of solidarity with the oppressed is not to hide our own community’s flaws, but to courageously excise them, thereby building a more just and ethical foundation for the struggles ahead. Mischaracterizing Scholarly Critique as Political Endorsement The central pillar of Naseer Ahmed’s argument is not a refutation of empirical data or textual interpretation, but a moral and political charge that fundamentally misunderstands the nature of scholarly inquiry. He posits a causal chain: my analysis of anti-Semitic tropes in Salafi-Wahhabi literature “delivers the confirmation” that Zionist ideologues require to frame their conflict with Palestinians as an eternal, civilizational clash, thereby justifying genocidal policies. This line of reasoning, however, is built upon a profound philosophical mistake: a category error that conflates the descriptive act of scholarly analysis with the prescriptive act of political endorsement. To describe a phenomenon is not to condone it. To identify the genealogy of a problematic idea is not to celebrate its existence. This distinction is the bedrock of all critical thought, from the sciences to the humanities. This fundamental distinction is what allows for critical distance and objective analysis. As the philosopher of language John Searle articulated in his work on speech acts, the illocutionary force of a descriptive statement (e.g., “Certain texts contain anti-Semitic content”) is fundamentally different from that of a prescriptive one (e.g., “Therefore, violence against Jews is justified”) or an expressive one (e.g., “I approve of this anti-Semitic content”) (Searle, p.15). Ahmed’s entire critique collapses this vital distinction, treating my diagnostic work as if it were a normative cheer for the very pathology it seeks to expose. He reads a description as a prescription, a diagnosis as a celebration of the disease. This conflation leads Ahmed to place an impossible and dangerous burden on the scholar: the responsibility for all potential downstream political misinterpretations or weaponisations of their work. He claims my work “arms” Zionist discourse, but provides no empirical evidence of this causal link—no documented citations in Israeli policy papers, no demonstrable rhetorical uptake in hasbara talking points. The claim is asserted, not proven. In the field of communication studies, establishing such influence requires rigorous analysis of reception and influence chains, tracing how a message is received, interpreted, and utilized by different audiences (Tuchman, p.47). Ahmed offers none. Instead, he advances a principle of intellectual censorship by pre-emptive surrender. His logic dictates that if an external adversary might misuse a piece of information about one’s own community, that information must be suppressed. This is a recipe for intellectual stagnation and the perpetuation of internal maladies. It is a demand that Muslim scholars engage in a form of strategic apologetics, curating a sanitized public image at the expense of confronting internal truths. Such a standard would render impossible any meaningful reform within any tradition. Imagine if Jewish scholars had refrained from critically examining problematic texts about gentiles for fear that anti-Semites would exploit their findings. Imagine if Christian theologians had refused to confront the legacy of supersessionism and the deicide charge because neo-pagans might use it to attack Christianity. Progress in any community is contingent on its willingness to self-correct. As the philosopher Karl Popper argued, progress is contingent on a society’s willingness to engage in rational criticism; societies that shield their dogmas from critique become “closed societies,” incapable of adaptation or moral evolution (Popper, p.201). Ahmed’s position, if adopted, would lock the gates of Islamic intellectual inquiry, leaving harmful ideologies to fester in the dark, unchallenged from within, growing ever more potent until they erupt in ways that do far more damage than any scholarly analysis ever could. Furthermore, the act of scholarly critique, particularly when directed at one’s own tradition, is an inherently reformist act. It is predicated on the belief that the tradition possesses the ethical and intellectual resources to overcome its own problematic elements. It implicitly appeals to a higher standard within the tradition itself. The Quran, for instance, repeatedly calls upon believers to be “witnesses for God in justice, even if it is against yourselves” (4:135) and warns, “let not the hatred of a people prevent you from being just. Be just; that is nearer to righteousness” (5:8). To identify where certain interpretations have fallen short of this Quranic ideal is not an attack on Islam; it is an attempt to recall Islam to its own highest principles. It is a quintessentially Islamic act of Nasiha (sincere advice) and Tajdid (renewal), driven by a commitment to the faith's ethical core. My work proceeds from the conviction that Islam is strong enough to withstand scrutiny and possesses the inherent capacity for self-correction. By framing this internal, corrective impulse as a service to an external enemy, Ahmed commits the logical fallacy of argumentum ad hominem, specifically the variant of motive-hunting. Instead of engaging with the textual evidence and analysis presented by me—by pointing to specific misinterpretations or flawed readings—he attacks the supposed motive and political effect of the work. This rhetorical strategy serves to shut down debate, not to advance it. It creates a chilling effect where any Muslim scholar who dares to critique a current within their faith can be branded a traitor, a collaborator, or, in Ahmed’s hyperbolic framing, an accessory to genocide. This tactic replaces substantive argument with political intimidation. A Complex History of Muslim-Jewish Relations A central rhetorical device in Naseer Ahmed’s polemic is the construction of a straw man argument. He alleges that I “frame Muslim hostility to Jews as primordial theology,” an inherent, timeless, and essential hatred that predates and transcends any political conflict. This framing, Ahmed argues, serves the Zionist narrative that the conflict is not about land and occupation but about an intractable, ancient religious animosity. The problem with this accusation is that it bears no resemblance to the actual methodology of critical-historical and textual analysis, which seeks to understand specificity and context, not to posit ahistorical essences. Ahmed’s critique creates a false binary: either Muslim-Jewish hostility is purely a modern, political reaction to Zionism, or it is an eternal, theological constant. A rigorous academic approach rejects this simplistic choice and instead explores the complex, varied, and historically contingent interactions between a political conflict and pre-existing theological resources. The historical record of Muslim-Jewish relations is far too complex to be reduced to a monolithic narrative of either perpetual harmony or perpetual conflict. It is a long and varied history marked by periods of remarkable coexistence and intellectual collaboration, alongside periods of persecution, legal discrimination, and polemical tension. To ignore this complexity is to engage in either romanticized apologetics or cynical condemnation. A responsible scholarly account must acknowledge the full spectrum of this history. On the one hand, Islamic civilization, for much of its history, offered Jews a degree of tolerance and opportunity for flourishing that was often absent in Christian Europe. The period of Al-Andalus (Muslim Spain) stands as a testament to a symbiotic relationship where Jewish philosophers, poets, and scientists like Maimonides and Judah Halevi contributed immensely to and benefited from a shared intellectual culture. The legal framework of Dhimma, while institutionalizing a second-class status, nonetheless provided a protected, communal autonomy for Jews and Christians as “People of the Book” (Ahl al-Kitab), a stark contrast to the frequent expulsions and massacres they faced in Christendom (Lewis, p.89; Stillman, p.112). The Quran itself provides resources for a pluralistic vision, promising salvation to righteous believers from among Jews, Christians, and Sabians (2:62, 5:69) and recognizing the sanctity of synagogues, churches, and monasteries (22:40). The Prophet Muhammad’s own Covenant of Medina established a constitutional framework for a pluralistic community, including Jewish tribes as part of the ummah (community) with mutual rights and responsibilities. This is a history we should be proud of and draw upon. On the other hand, to sanitize this history and claim that all conflict is a recent invention of Zionism is historically indefensible. The status of dhimmi included discriminatory regulations, such as the jizya (poll tax) and restrictions on building new houses of worship, which, depending on the ruling dynasty and local context, could be applied with varying degrees of severity. There were also undeniable instances of violence long before the advent of modern political Zionism. The 1066 Granada massacre, in which a Muslim mob stormed the royal palace and crucified the Jewish vizier Joseph ibn Naghrela, leading to the slaughter of much of the city's Jewish population, cannot be explained away as a reaction to a 19th-century political movement (Ashtor, p.234). The intolerant reign of the Almohad Caliphate in the 12th century forced many Jews and Christians to convert, flee, or be killed, a persecution that directly impacted the life of Maimonides himself (Gerber, p.78). To ignore these events is to replace history with hagiography. The theological sources themselves reflect this ambivalence. Alongside verses of inclusion, the Quran contains passages of sharp polemic directed at the Jewish tribes of Medina who were accused of breaking covenants and opposing the Prophet. Verses such as 5:82, which states, “You will surely find the most intense of the people in animosity toward the believers [to be] the Jews and those who associate others with God,” have been interpreted in multiple ways throughout history. Mainstream classical exegesis often contextualized such verses, limiting their application to the specific historical groups in question. However, these same verses provided a textual reservoir that could be, and later was, decontextualized and universalized by more rigid and exclusivist interpreters to construct a narrative of inherent Jewish treachery and enmity. Similarly, the Hadith literature contains traditions that reflect both positive interactions with Jews and deeply problematic, polemical accounts, such as the eschatological hadith of the Gharqad tree, which speaks of a final battle where stones and trees will betray the hiding places of Jews (Bukhari 2926; Muslim 2922). My scholarly project, as reflected in the critique by Ahmed, is not to claim these problematic texts constitute the totality or essence of Islam. Rather, it is to perform a genealogical inquiry into how specific modern movements, namely Wahhabism and Salafism, have selectively elevated, decontextualized, and weaponized these polemical strands of the tradition, transforming them from historical accounts into timeless theological truths. This is not an argument for “primordial hatred”; it is an argument about the modern construction of an ideology. It recognizes that political Zionism and the Israeli occupation did not create this anti-Semitic potential ex nihilo. Instead, the conflict created a fertile political ground where these latent, and often marginalized, interpretive “seeds” could be watered and fertilized, sprouting into the full-blown anti-Semitic ideology that characterizes many extremist groups today. In misrepresenting this nuanced argument as a simplistic claim of “primordial theology,” Ahmed avoids the difficult question at the heart of the matter: how do we, as Muslims committed to justice, confront the parts of our textual heritage that can be used to justify hatred, without denying the very real political grievances that fuel contemporary conflict? The answer cannot be historical erasure. It must be a courageous hermeneutic engagement that acknowledges the complexity of our history and tradition, honestly identifies the problematic currents within it, and reclaims the ethical, pluralistic, and just-centred vision that lies at the heart of the Quranic message. My work is a contribution to this vital project. Ahmed’s critique, by retreating into a defensive, historically inaccurate narrative, is a barrier to it. Why a Focus on Wahhabism/Salafism is Not a "Good Muslim/Bad Muslim" Ploy One of the most potent accusations levelled by Naseer Ahmed is that my focused critique of Wahhabism and Salafism constitutes a politically compromised act, playing into the colonial and Orientalist "Good Muslim/Bad Muslim" dichotomy. By singling out one particular strand of Islam, Ahmed argues, I implicitly “sanitise” other sects and participate in a divide-and-rule strategy that serves Western geopolitical interests. He dismisses my "common cold vs pneumonia" analogy—which suggests that while other groups may have issues, Wahhabism represents a uniquely virulent and dangerous strain—as a self-serving justification. This line of attack, however, is a classic example of the “whataboutism” fallacy, a rhetorical tactic designed to deflect specific, evidence-based criticism by dissolving it into a vague sea of generalized grievance. A rigorous academic and reformist project requires specificity; to demand that all problems be addressed simultaneously and with equal weight is to demand that none be addressed effectively. The choice to focus on Wahhabism and Salafism is not an arbitrary or malicious act of “demonization.” It is a methodologically sound decision based on a historical, sociological, and political analysis of this movement's unique trajectory and disproportionate global impact over the past century. While sectarian exclusivism exists in various forms across the Muslim world—as evidenced by the deplorable persecution of the Ahmadiyya community by groups including Barelvis and Deobandis, or the historical tensions between Ash'aris and Mu'tazilites—the Salafi-Wahhabi phenomenon is distinct in its scale, scope, and ideological mechanics. First, the historical alliance between the theological project of Muhammad ibn Abd al-Wahhab (1703-1792) and the political project of the House of Saud created a state-sponsored religious ideology unparalleled in the modern Sunni world. With the explosion of Saudi oil wealth in the 20th century, this alliance was projected globally. Billions of dollars were funnelled into building mosques, founding Islamic centres, printing literature, and training imams from Indonesia to the United States, all promoting a specific, puritanical, and often intolerant version of Islam (Commins, p.115). No other modern Islamic movement—be it Deobandi, Barelvi, or the Muslim Brotherhood in its various forms—has benefited from such a powerful and sustained engine of state-sponsored propagation. This petro-Islamic complex has reshaped global Islam, often supplanting local, traditional forms with a rigid, ahistorical alternative. To ignore this material reality and pretend all sectarianisms are sociologically equivalent is an act of profound historical naiveté. Second, the core theological tenets of Wahhabism lend themselves to a particularly rigid and expansive form of exclusivism. The central doctrine of Kitab al-Tawhid (The Book of Monotheism) is not merely a statement against idolatry; it radically redefines shirk (polytheism) to include many traditional Sunni practices like seeking intercession from saints or celebrating the Prophet's birthday. This creates a powerful mechanism of Takfir (excommunication), first turned inward against other Muslims, but easily extended outward. The concomitant doctrine of al-Wala' wa al-Bara' (Loyalty and Disavowal) is interpreted not just as spiritual allegiance to God, but as a socio-political imperative to actively disavow and dissociate from all that is deemed un-Islamic, creating sharp, impermeable boundaries between the "true" believers and everyone else. While the concept exists in other Islamic currents, its absolutist application in Wahhabi thought provides the "theological operating system" for a Manichean worldview where compromise is contamination and pluralism is heresy (Lauziere, p.56). This systematic boundary-policing is qualitatively different from the localized rivalries of other sub-continental sects. Therefore, my focus is not an act of playing favourites or engaging in colonial mimicry. It is an act of scholarly precision. It follows the documentary evidence and the lines of influence. The critique of these specific theological "seeds" is not intended to claim that Muhammad ibn Abd al-Wahhab was himself monolithically anti-Semitic, but to argue that his theological framework created a fertile ground for later generations, facing new political realities, to cultivate a virulent and systematic antisemitism. It is a genealogical argument about how a rigid theological binary, when cross-pollinated with pre-existing polemical verses and hadith, and fertilized by the political conflict over Palestine, grew into a distinct and dangerous ideology. To accuse this specific analysis of being a "Good Muslim/Bad Muslim" strategy is to misunderstand both the critique and the strategy. As Mahmood Mamdani outlined, the "Good Muslim/Bad Muslim" narrative is an essentialist framework that divides Muslims based on their perceived political utility to the West, ignoring their actual theological and historical complexity (Mamdani, 2004). My work does the opposite: it delves into the specific theological and historical complexities of a particular movement to understand its internal logic. It is an act of differentiation, not essentialization. Such analytic granularity is the enemy of collective blame, not its enabler. By identifying the specific doctrines and interpretations that lead to extremism, it allows for a targeted reform effort that empowers progressive voices within the Salafi tradition itself—and Salafism is not a monolith, containing quietist, political, and jihadist wings (Wiktorowicz, p.207)—while protecting the vast majority of Muslims from being unfairly painted with the same brush. Ironically, it is Ahmed’s demand for a flattened, undifferentiated critique that serves the logic of Orientalism. By insisting that all sects must be treated as equally problematic, he erases the significant internal diversity of Islamic thought and inadvertently reinforces the caricature of a uniformly intolerant Islam. A genuine anti-colonial and progressive stance requires precision. It requires naming and challenging specific structures of power and ideology, especially when they emanate from within one’s own community. The focus on Wahhabism/Salafism is not a colonial game; it is a necessary, evidence-based intervention in a critical contemporary debate, an intellectual triage that rightly identifies a global "pneumonia" without denying the existence of many local "common colds." Contextualizing Hamas, Occupation, and Theological Rhetoric No aspect of this debate is more politically and emotionally charged than the discussion of Hamas and the Palestinian resistance. Naseer Ahmed accuses me of painting Hamas as “inherently anti-Semitic,” of ignoring the political context of occupation, and of distorting the group's ideology by overlooking its revised 2017 manifesto. This critique attempts to frame the issue as a simple binary: one either supports the Palestinian right to resistance and therefore sanitizes the ideology of its armed factions, or one critiques that ideology and is therefore complicit in the oppression of the Palestinian people. This is a false and dangerous choice. A truly liberatory and humanistic perspective must be capable of holding two truths in tension: that the Israeli occupation is a brutal and illegal system of colonial oppression, and that the theological language used by some resistance groups can be deeply problematic, counter-productive, and morally compromised. To begin, any credible analysis must be grounded in the unequivocal affirmation of the Palestinian people's right to resist occupation, a right enshrined in international law. The emergence of movements like Hamas is not a theological mystery; it is a direct and predictable consequence of decades of displacement, dispossession, military occupation, and the failure of a political process to deliver a just and sovereign state (Anderson, p.77). To decontextualize the rhetoric of Hamas from this reality—as many Zionist propagandists do—is a profound act of intellectual and moral dishonesty. The anger, desperation, and heated language that characterize resistance movements are a product of the structural violence they endure. However, to acknowledge this context is not to issue an ethical blank check. The means and ideologies of resistance matter profoundly. A struggle for national liberation rooted in the universal principles of human rights, justice, and self-determination is morally and strategically superior to one that draws on exclusionary, sectarian, or racist ideologies. Critiquing elements of the latter is not an act of “blaming the victim”; it is an act of solidarity that seeks to align the Palestinian struggle with the most potent and universal ethical frameworks, thereby strengthening its moral claim on the world stage. Ahmed’s claim that I ignore Hamas’s 2017 “Document of General Principles and Policies” is a misrepresentation. Acknowledging this document is crucial. It marks a significant pragmatic shift in the movement’s public posture. It removes some of the explicitly anti-Semitic language of the 1988 charter, distinguishes between Zionism as a political project and Judaism as a religion, and accepts the “formula of national consensus” for a Palestinian state on the 1967 borders (Hroub, p.108). This evolution is real and important, and any honest analysis must account for it. However, this political moderation does not erase the group's ideological foundations, nor does it mean the original 1988 charter has been formally and ideologically repudiated. To dismiss this as mere “wartime mobilisation slogans,” as Ahmed suggests, is to fundamentally underestimate the power of ideology. This is not just heated rhetoric; it is a specific, theological framing of the conflict. It transforms a political struggle over land and rights into an apocalyptic, cosmic battle between Muslims and Jews. This framing is strategically disastrous, as it plays directly into the hands of the most extreme Israeli factions who also wish to see the conflict in civilizational terms. Morally, it is indefensible, as it employs a language of ethno-religious eliminationism. The work of a critical scholar like me is to point out that when a resistance movement adopts the theological poison of its oppressor’s most extreme elements—mirroring religious fanaticism with religious fanaticism—it compromises its own struggle. The distinction between anti-Zionism and antisemitism is therefore paramount. Anti-Zionism is a legitimate political position that critiques the nationalist ideology and colonial practices of the state of Israel. My work, in analysing the Salafi and Muslim Brotherhood-inflected theological sources of this rhetoric, is not an attack on the Palestinian cause. It is an attempt to disentangle that just cause from an unjust ideology. It is an argument for a resistance that fights for the liberation of the Palestinian people, not for the fulfilment of an apocalyptic prophecy. A progressive and humanistic stance demands this nuance. It requires condemning the occupation unconditionally while also condemning any antisemitism that emerges in the response to it. It means standing in solidarity with Palestinians while insisting that the language of their liberation be one of universal human dignity, not religious supremacism. Ahmed’s critique, by demanding a choice between political solidarity and ethical critique, ultimately weakens the Palestinian cause by asking its supporters to abandon their critical faculties and embrace a dangerous and counter-productive apologetic. Source Criticism, Logical Fallacies, and the Imputation of Motive Beyond its foundational philosophical errors and historical distortions, Naseer Ahmed’s article is a case study in flawed argumentation, abandoning the standards of scholarly conduct in favour of polemical shortcuts, logical fallacies, and unsubstantiated accusations. A central task of any academic refutation is not only to counter the substance of an opponent’s claims but also to analyse the method by which those claims are constructed. In doing so, we find that Ahmed’s critique of my work consistently relies on rhetorical strategies that are antithetical to a good-faith intellectual exchange. First, as previously noted, Ahmed’s primary mode of argument is the ad hominem fallacy, specifically attacking the perceived motive and political consequence of my work rather than its content. Accusations that I am “wittingly performing Step 2 of the propaganda cycle,” that my timing is “no accident,” and that my aim is to serve Netanyahu’s narrative are all instances of what is known as the motive fallacy (Walton, p.102). This approach is intellectually corrosive because it makes genuine debate impossible. If an argument’s validity is judged not by its evidence and logic but by the assumed (and often unprovable) intentions of its author, then no common ground for discussion can be found. Scholarly debate must proceed from the assumption of good faith until proven otherwise and must focus on the merits of the arguments themselves. Ahmed’s critique reverses this principle, beginning and ending with an imputation of bad faith. Perhaps the most glaring flaw in Ahmed’s polemic is its complete disregard for my extensive public record of opposing Zionism and its enabling narratives. He paints me as a tool for Netanyahu’s agenda while ignoring a body of work that directly dismantles it. To set the record straight, a sample of my recent scholarship from 2025 includes: “Why and How Christian Zionism Triggers Islamophobia?” 20 Feb. 2025 “An Attempt at Debunking a Key Zionist Myth by an Israeli Academic” 8 Mar. 2025, “Zionist-Hindutva Nexus: A Historical and Political Investigation” 15 Mar. 2025, “The Racist Argument of Zionist Nationalism” 16 Mar. 2025 “Mahatma Gandhi’s Critique of Zionism” 9 Mar. 2025 “Are the Jews the Chosen People?” 11 Mar. 2025 “Holy Hatred: How Nazi Propaganda Exploited Christian Anti-Semitic Myths” 15 Feb. 2025 “Anti-Semitism in the Quran: A Critical Analysis” 11 Mar. 2025 “Manufacturing Islamophobia: Hugh Fitzgerald’s Rhetoric.” 6 Apr. 2025 “From Holy War to Human Rights: Deconstructing the ‘Jihad is Genocide’ Narrative” 10 Aug. 2025, The last paper mentioned above, delivers a devastating critique of Zionist narratives, dismantling their flawed assumptions and biases through rigorous scholarly analysis. Second, the article is rife with the fallacy of false equivalence, or whataboutism. His response to the specific critique of Wahhabi antisemitism is to assert that “other sects harbour identical exclusivism.” This is a diversionary tactic. The existence of intolerance in other groups does not logically invalidate the analysis of intolerance in a specific group. Each case must be examined on its own terms, considering its unique theology, history, and socio-political impact. By attempting to dissolve a specific charge into a general malaise, Ahmed avoids engaging with the evidence at hand. It is the logical equivalent of responding to a detailed critique of Nazism by stating that the Soviet Union also had gulags. While the latter is true, it does not refute the specific analysis of the former (Copi, p.78). Third, Ahmed’s treatment of sources demonstrates a lack of methodological rigor. He makes a significant issue of my citation of the MEMRI, pointing to well-known critiques of its selection bias. This is a valid point of scholarly caution. No serious academic should rely uncritically or solely on a source like MEMRI. However, raising this point is not, in itself, a refutation of an argument. The proper scholarly method is triangulation: checking contested translations against original language sources and comparing them with other analyses. Ahmed fails to demonstrate that my argument rests solely or even primarily on MEMRI, or that the specific translations used are inaccurate. Instead, he uses the mere mention of MEMRI as a rhetorical cudgel to dismiss the entire line of inquiry. This is source criticism as a tool of blanket dismissal rather than careful verification. Fourth, Ahmed engages in conspiratorial reasoning regarding the timing of my work. The claim that the publication was deliberately timed to coincide with an Israeli offensive in Gaza and to aid its propaganda efforts is an example of the post hoc ergo propter hoc (“after this, therefore because of this”) fallacy. Correlation—even if it existed—does not imply causation. Scholars publish their work when it is complete and accepted by a journal or publisher. To read sinister political coordination into the timeline of academic publication without any direct evidence is to abandon scholarly standards for the realm of speculation and conspiracy theory (Keeley, p.109). Indeed, one could argue, with far more plausibility, that a crisis is precisely the time when a critical analysis of the ideologies fuelling it becomes most urgent and relevant. Finally, Ahmed’s demand for intellectual purity from his opponent is not matched by his own approach. He criticizes me for allegedly treating Wahhabism as a monolith, yet his own article constructs a monolithic caricature of “Ashrof’s theology.” He fails to engage with the specific textual citations and arguments I present, preferring instead to attack a generalized, distorted version of the thesis. A good-faith rebuttal requires quoting the precise passages one contests and explaining why the interpretation is flawed or the evidence is weak. Ahmed’s article largely avoids this difficult work of close reading, opting for broad-stroke condemnations and accusations. In sum, Naseer Ahmed’s article fails to meet the basic standards of academic discourse. Its reliance on ad hominem attacks, logical fallacies, and speculative accusations disqualifies it as a serious scholarly critique. It models a form of debate where motive is more important than evidence, political alignment trumps intellectual honesty, and the ultimate goal is not to seek truth but to enforce solidarity through the silencing of dissenting or critical voices within the community. This approach, far from protecting Muslims, ultimately infantilizes them, suggesting they are incapable of withstanding the rigors of open debate and self-examination. The Imperative of Internal Critique To refute Naseer Ahmed’s polemic is not merely to defend a single scholar or a particular academic thesis. It is to defend the very principle of critical inquiry within the Islamic intellectual tradition. It is to argue that the path toward a just, progressive, and humane future for Muslim communities lies not in circling the wagons and silencing internal dissent, but in fostering a culture of courageous and unflinching self-examination. Ahmed’s argument, rooted in a politics of fear, proposes that we must hide our internal pathologies lest our enemies use them against us. This paper has argued for the opposite: that we must expose these pathologies to the light of day precisely so that they lose their power to poison us from within and to be used as weapons against us from without. I have demonstrated that Ahmed’s central accusation—that scholarly critique of antisemitism within a specific Islamic current is tantamount to aiding genocide—is predicated on a fundamental category error that conflates description with endorsement. I have shown that his charge of promoting a “primordial hatred” narrative relies on a straw man argument that ignores the complex, nuanced history of Muslim-Jewish relations and misrepresents the genealogical method of tracing how specific modern ideologies are constructed. I have defended the methodological necessity of a focused critique of Wahhabism and Salafism, not as a colonial "Good Muslim/Bad Muslim" ploy, but as a precise, evidence-based response to a uniquely influential and globally consequential theological movement. We have argued for a nuanced engagement with the Palestinian struggle, one that combines unwavering solidarity against occupation with a principled critique of any rhetoric that slips into the dehumanizing language of antisemitism. Finally, I have exposed the methodological flaws, logical fallacies, and ad hominem reasoning that undermine the scholarly credibility of Ahmed’s own critique. The ultimate tragedy of Ahmed’s position is that it inadvertently serves the very forces it seeks to oppose. By demanding that Muslims refrain from critiquing their own extremist elements, he allows those elements to fester and to define Islam in the public square, confirming the worst caricatures of the faith. A refusal to confront anti-Semitic interpretations of the Quran and Hadith does not help the Palestinian cause; it harms it, by allowing the just struggle for freedom to be conflated with a religious war of annihilation. It abandons the moral high ground and alienates potential allies who are committed to universal human rights. A truly liberatory Islamic theology must be an anti-racist theology. It must be a theology that can stand unequivocally with the oppressed in Gaza while simultaneously confronting the poison of antisemitism, whether it comes from a white supremacist in Virginia or a Salafi preacher in Riyadh. It must be a theology that draws upon the deepest ethical resources of the Quran—its categorical command to uphold justice even against oneself (4:135), its prohibition against letting hatred for a people lead one to injustice (5:8), its radical vision of a common human dignity (17:70), and its affirmation of salvation for the righteous of all faiths (2:62). 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He is dedicated to creating pathways for meaningful social change and intellectual growth through his scholarship. URL: https://www.newageislam.com/debating-islam/propaganda-libel-imperative-internal-critique/d/136522 New Age Islam, Islam Online, Islamic Website, African Muslim News, Arab World News, South Asia News, Indian Muslim News, World Muslim News, Women in Islam, Islamic Feminism, Arab Women, Women In Arab, Islamophobia in America, Muslim Women in West, Islam Women and Feminism