#MuslimPhilanthropy Podcast

American Muslim Community Foundation

Founded in 2016, American Muslim Community Foundation is a grassroots, national nonprofit organization in the United States. Our focus is on creating Donor Advised Funds, Giving Circles, distributing grants, & building endowments for the American Muslim community.

Episodes

  1. May 26

    #MuslimPhilanthropy Podcast with Trita Parsi of The Quincy Institute

    For more than two decades, Trita Parsi has been one of the most persistent advocates for a different kind of American foreign policy — one built on diplomacy and restraint rather than military intervention. He founded the National Iranian American Council (NIAC) to give Iranian Americans a political voice, spent years researching the tangled dynamics of U.S.-Iran-Israel relations, and eventually co-founded the Quincy Institute for Responsible Statecraft, one of Washington’s most distinctive and independent think tanks. This week on the Muslim Philanthropy Podcast, AMCF Co-Founder and Chief Development Officer Muhi Khwaja sat down with Trita to talk about the journey, the ideas, and the institution he helped build From Iran to Sweden to Washington Trita was born in Iran in 1974. When he was four and a half years old, his family fled the country just before the revolution — settling in Sweden, where he would spend the next two decades. He studied political science at Uppsala and Stockholm Universities, added a master’s in economics, and eventually made his way to the United States in 2000 to pursue a PhD at Johns Hopkins SAIS, where his dissertation examined Israeli-Iranian relations — a subject so overlooked at the time that the last book written on it had been published in 1988. That research shaped everything that followed. Trita saw how the U.S.-Iran relationship was being distorted by forces most analysts weren’t fully accounting for, and he wanted to build institutions capable of changing the conversation. Building NIAC, then something bigger After graduate school, Trita founded the National Iranian American Council to give the Iranian American community a seat at the table in U.S. foreign policy debates. It was the kind of organizational work that required years of patient institution-building — and it gave him a firsthand education in how Washington actually worked, and where its blind spots were. The signing of the JCPOA — the Iran nuclear deal — felt like a validation of the diplomatic approach he had long championed. But as the Trump administration moved toward withdrawal from the agreement, Trita found himself thinking about a deeper problem: the failure wasn’t just about one deal or one administration. It was about a foreign policy establishment that kept defaulting to militarism even when the evidence argued for something else. Why the Quincy Institute In 2018 and 2019, Trita co-founded the Quincy Institute for Responsible Statecraft alongside a group that included historian and retired Army colonel Andrew Bacevich, researcher Eli Clifton, diplomat Suzanne DiMaggio, and historian Stephen Wertheim. The name was chosen deliberately — a reference to John Quincy Adams’ 1821 speech warning that America should not go abroad “in search of monsters to destroy.” The point wasn’t nostalgia. It was a reminder that a different foreign policy tradition had existed before World War II, and that it could exist again. Bacevich, who lost his son in the Iraq War and spent years as one of Washington’s sharpest critics of American military adventurism, became one of the organization’s defining voices. The founding team brought together expertise across regions, policy areas, and ideological backgrounds — with Eli and Stephen both finishing books at the time that would shape the restraint policy conversation in the years ahead. An institution built differently From the beginning, Trita and his colleagues made deliberate choices about how to fund the Quincy Institute. They would not accept money from defense industries. They would not accept money from foreign governments. And they would build bipartisan support — securing funding from both George Soros’s Open Society Institute on the left and Charles Koch’s Institute on the right — not as a gimmick, but as proof that opposition to reflexive militarism wasn’t a partisan position. Today the Quincy Institute operates on a budget of $8–9 million with a staff of 45 to 50 people organized around global regions. It has also built a funding tracker database to promote transparency in think tank funding across Washington — holding the broader industry to a standard of disclosure that Quincy applies to itself. What it’s really about When Muhi asked Trita to describe the core of what the Quincy Institute is trying to do, his answer was straightforward: shift the paradigm. Not win a single debate or influence a single policy decision, but change what Washington thinks is possible — and remind Americans that the country has other traditions to draw on besides the one that produced the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. “We’re not just trying to tweak the existing foreign policy,” he said. “We’re trying to change the framework itself.” You can learn more about the Quincy Institute at quincy-institute.org. Listen to the full conversation on the Muslim Philanthropy Podcast, available wherever you get your podcasts. The post #MuslimPhilanthropy Podcast with Trita Parsi of The Quincy Institute appeared first on American Muslim Community Foundation.

    40 min
  2. Apr 14

    #MuslimPhilanthropy Podcast – From Fort Pierce to Congress: CAIR Florida on Civil Rights, Community Defense, and What It Means to Show Up

    When a mosque burns down, when a 16-year-old American is imprisoned overseas, when a Muslim family is killed by a drunk driver and the father is in Dubai — who shows up? In Florida, more often than not, it’s CAIR Florida. On a recent episode of the #MuslimPhilanthropy Podcast, AMCF co-founder Muhi Khwaja sat down with the CAIR Florida team: Hiba Rahim, Executive Director; Megan Amer, Policy Director; and Wilfredo Ruiz, Communications Director. What unfolded was a wide-ranging conversation about what it actually takes to defend a community — legally, politically, and on the ground — in one of the most challenging civil rights environments in the country. Three People, Three Paths to the Same Work The most striking thing about this conversation is how differently each of these three leaders arrived at CAIR Florida — and how clearly their paths reflect the breadth of what the organization does. Wilfredo Ruiz was born in Puerto Rico, raised in the Catholic church, served as a Navy defense attorney representing Marines and sailors in court martials, and embraced Islam in 2003 after pulling over outside a mosque in San Juan and walking in. He pursued a master’s degree in Christian-Muslim relations at Hartford Seminary, served as one of only four Muslim chaplains in the entire U.S. Navy fleet, and worked in immigration detention center chaplaincy before landing at CAIR Florida — where he has now served for 15 years. Hiba Rahim grew up partly in Panama City, Florida — deep in the Panhandle, what she calls “LA: Lower Alabama” — in one of the first Islamic schools in the United States, where civic responsibility was embedded into the curriculum alongside Quran and Islamic principles. She was on track for a PhD in psychology when 9/11 happened, and she found herself doing community outreach and interfaith presentations with police departments, the FBI, and church groups instead. She never looked back. She has been with CAIR, non-consecutively, since 2015. Megan Amer is Catholic. Her husband is Muslim. Her kids go to an Islamic school. She has a master’s from George Washington University, worked at the Department of State on nuclear, biological, and chemical weapons, and then moved to police reform through the International Narcotics and Law Enforcement bureau. She moved to Florida five years ago, and after October 7th and the security lockdowns at her children’s school, she realized she needed to do something. She started organizing. She joined CAIR Florida officially, and hasn’t stopped. “We were lucky to have Hiba and Megan on our team,” Wilfredo said. What CAIR Florida Actually Does — and Why It’s Different CAIR Florida was founded at the end of September 2001, weeks after 9/11, by a group of Florida Muslims who saw what was coming and organized before it arrived. In nearly 25 years of operation, the chapter has built a three-part structure that Hiba describes as genuinely unique in the state. The Programs Department works within the systems of society — hospitals, media, police departments, schools — educating the public on Islam and Muslims to foster mutual respect and understanding, while also educating and empowering Muslim community members directly. The Policy Department, led by Megan, does the proactive advocacy work — promoting legislation favorable to Muslim and minority communities, opposing harmful bills and resolutions, getting out the vote, and building the political infrastructure that prevents crises before they require emergency response. The Legal Department handles civil rights defense in the trenches — representing Muslim victims of discrimination from advocacy all the way to the courtroom, often in cases that no other organization in the state is equipped to handle. “There is no other organization that does for the community and within the community what CAIR Florida does,” Hiba said. “There are so many amazing organizations that do relief work — feed the hungry, take care of orphans, shelter women. All of that is incredibly valuable. But there is a very different type of work where you plan for the protection of a community — whether they’re Muslim or not.” The Fort Pierce Mosque Arson: Where CAIR Florida Was Tested Wilfredo walked through one of the most pivotal moments in CAIR Florida’s history: the arson attack on a mosque in Fort Pierce in 2007. It was a small community — Friday prayers drew forty or fifty people. The imam was on Hajj. His sons were the ones at the mosque when it happened. Within hours, more than a dozen news trucks were parked outside with satellite antennas transmitting nationally and internationally. The FBI descended — not just to investigate the arson, but, as Wilfredo put it, to “expand their investigations beyond what happened that day.” The community, as victims, found itself needing legal representation not against the arsonist but against government overreach. CAIR Florida was there: handling media, protecting community members from overreaching FBI interviews, providing legal counsel. The perpetrator was eventually arrested, prosecuted, and imprisoned. And the Fort Pierce community, as Wilfredo described it with visible emotion, rose from the ashes — literally purchasing a former church and school and building a new, larger Islamic center on several acres of land. “I like the Phoenix story,” he said. “Right out of ashes.” Mohamed Ibrahim: An International Victory One of CAIR Florida’s most recent and significant victories was the release of Mohamed Ibrahim — a 16-year-old from Tampa who was imprisoned in an Israeli military prison for over nine months, losing a quarter of his body weight, denied access to his parents, and held in conditions where he contracted scabies. His cousin, Saiful Moussa, a 20-year-old Tampa small business owner who had traveled to the West Bank, had been killed by settlers months earlier. CAIR Florida built what Hiba described as a national coalition — major civil rights organizations signing on to a coordinated letter, sustained media pressure through outlets including The Guardian, relentless advocacy at the Florida and national levels, and an international pressure campaign that included calls to the U.S. Embassy in Israel. Ambassador Mike Huckabee, Megan noted, eventually said he was “getting so annoyed with all these phone calls.” Mohamed Ibrahim was released on Thanksgiving Day. He’s back in Tampa, working at his ice cream shop on Bruce B. Downs. “We mobilized a massive effort,” Hiba said, “and we recognized when something was way bigger than us.” The fight continues for justice in his cousin’s killing. Training 5,000 Officers and Turning Bullying Into Education The day-to-day work of CAIR Florida is less dramatic but no less important. Across its various offices, CAIR Florida has trained over 5,000 law enforcement officers across the state on Islam, Muslim community needs, and cultural sensitivity. When a Leon County school principal said something inappropriate to a Muslim student, CAIR Florida didn’t just write a letter — they drove to Tallahassee, insisted on a face-to-face meeting with the superintendent, and ultimately secured a commitment to train all assistant principals in the county on Muslim students’ rights and cultural sensitivity. “We take these unfortunate incidents and convert them into opportunities to train and educate,” Hiba said. And when a sheriff asked what CAIR was doing to combat extremism in the Muslim community, Hiba had a ready answer: “Sir, what are you doing to combat white nationalist extremists? Because the KKK was firing on people’s yards just two weeks ago.” On Being the Tree That Gets Rocks Thrown at It The conversation turned, inevitably, to the attacks CAIR Florida has faced — from a well-funded Islamophobia network, from Governor Ron DeSantis’s administration, from county commissions that have funneled hundreds of millions of Florida taxpayer dollars into Israeli bonds while Floridians struggle with healthcare, housing, and education. CAIR Florida took the DeSantis administration to court. The judge ruled in their favor. Wilfredo shared something an imam told him during Ramadan, at a moment when the attacks felt overwhelming: “In a field of trees, only the tree that bears fruit gets rocks thrown at it.” “That’s why CAIR is being attacked,” he said. “It’s because of the work we’re doing — the civil rights defense, the advocacy, the promotion of community cohesiveness. That is the antithesis of the Islamophobic agenda.” The Vision: Every Muslim, an Ambassador The conversation closed with a vision that all three panelists returned to in different ways: the Muslim community in Florida — over half a million strong — becoming a force not through institutional growth alone, but through individual presence. “In your workplace, you are an ambassador of Islam,” Wilfredo said. “Our kids are ambassadors in their classrooms. We embody the tenets of Islam and the beauty of Islam, and the peace that Islam assures to everyone around us.” He told the story of a cancer patient in Panama City — not Muslim — who stood in front of cameras after a mosque was burned and said unprompted: “The imam of that mosque never charged me for services. These people are good.” Nobody trained her to say that. She said it because it was true. That, he said, is where the community’s real growth lies. Not in waiting for organizations to grow large enough to protect everyone, but in every Muslim being the reason a neighbor spontaneously speaks up. Listen to the Full Episode Listen to the #MuslimPhilanthropy Podcast CAIR Florida Learn more about AMCF The post #MuslimPhilanthropy Podcast – From Fort Pierce to Congress:

    51 min
  3. Apr 2

    #MuslimPhilanthropy Podcast with Zain Shamoon

    Poetry Was My First Therapist: Zain Shamoon on Muslim Mental Health, Narratives of Pain, and Showing Up for Your Community There is a version of mental health advocacy that stays safely abstract — statistics, awareness campaigns, the occasional social media post reminding people that therapy exists. And then there is the version that Zain Shamoon has been living for the past two decades: showing up in community, creating spaces where people can be witnessed, and insisting that healing was never supposed to happen in isolation. In a recent episode of the #MuslimPhilanthropy Podcast, AMCF co-founder Muhi Khwaja reconnected with a longtime friend: Zain Shamoon — marriage and family therapist, spoken word artist, co-founder of Narratives of Pain, and a core member of the Institute for Muslim Mental Health. What followed was one of the most honest conversations the podcast has hosted — about stigma, identity, art as healing, and what it actually means to show up for people who are struggling. Growing Up in a Family That Talked About the Things Nobody Talked About Zain grew up in Southeast Michigan, the son of a South Asian man who was, as he put it, “very uniquely” a manager of social services — a role that was rare in the community at the time. While his peers were navigating the ordinary silences of suburban Muslim life, Zain’s household was already talking about divorce, housing, substance use, and mental health. Not because it was comfortable, but because it was necessary. “You don’t even know you’re witnessing it because you’re just a kid playing,” he said. “But that became language. How do you remove people’s barriers?” His brother became a doctor. His sister, a social worker. And Zain became a marriage and family therapist — each of them, in their own way, continuing what their parents modeled. But before any of that, there was poetry. Growing up as a tokenized minority in what he described as a very “Mitt Romney-ish” suburb, Zain found that the mental health system wasn’t built for him. The therapists he encountered didn’t want to talk about his culture or his religion — or worse, they saw those things as impediments rather than sources of meaning. So he found something else. “My first mental health therapist that was culturally sensitive — and I want to emphasize the first that was culturally sensitive — was poetry.” That line landed like a thesis statement for everything that came after. The Private Struggle Behind the Public Performer Zain was a performer long before he was a therapist — doing shows across the Midwest, appearing at conferences and colleges. From the outside, he was thriving. Inside, he was fighting. He opened up about living with intense OCD symptoms, depression, and isolation during his early years. “You can be alone in a crowd of people you don’t feel you trust,” he said. “And so I struggled with that.” It was his sister who finally gave him permission to stop chasing a path that didn’t fit — telling him to take whatever classes he wanted instead of following peers into pre-med or law school. He discovered theater, human development, family therapy coursework. Things came naturally. A personal renaissance began. It was also around this time that he found a therapist willing to actually engage with his culture and religion — and the difference, he said, was everything. “We know that the biggest part of therapy that generates positive outcomes is a strong therapeutic alliance. And you can’t do that without broaching people’s cultural and religious backgrounds.” He says the problem hasn’t gone away. In 2026, too many Muslim clients still arrive at therapy and find providers whose cultural sensitivity is performative at best — anxious about getting it wrong, overcompensating, or simply avoiding the conversation. “It’s not the fault of the client who’s just trying to have a better life.” The Institute for Muslim Mental Health: For the Community, and for the Professionals In graduate school, Zain was drawn into the orbit of Dr. Hamada Talib and Dr. Abbasi — two figures who were quietly building what would become the Institute for Muslim Mental Health. He was twenty years old and already in the room. The Institute, which traces its roots to the Journal of Muslim Mental Health founded in 2006, operates on two parallel tracks. The first is community education — programs on ADHD, depression, domestic violence, autism, suicide prevention, and grief, designed for any Muslim who wants to understand these issues better. No professional credentials required. The second track is professional development for Muslim mental health practitioners themselves — the social workers, counselors, therapists, and psychiatrists who often find themselves isolated in their fields, waiting for an annual conference to feel like they’re not alone in caring about this work. The Institute has been building the infrastructure to change that: a membership community, a blog, meetups, speaking opportunities, and an ongoing commitment to making sure Muslim mental health professionals don’t have to wait a year to feel supported. “When you come to the conference, you don’t have to explain yourself,” Zain said. “There are other social workers, counselors, psychiatrists, and imams who care. But you deserve that type of professional support throughout the year — not just at a grand conference.” The Institute is currently running a fundraising campaign to expand its programming. Zain was direct: “The more that you can support us, the more these programs happen — for professionals and for the community at large.” Narratives of Pain: Healing Through the Telling and Witnessing of Stories If the Institute represents the clinical and professional side of Zain’s work, Narratives of Pain represents its soul. About eleven years ago, Zain and a close friend, Hammad Ali, created Narratives of Pain — a trauma-informed storytelling initiative built on a simple premise: the healing properties of therapy ought to be available in community, not just in a clinical office. The project launched at the Muslim Mental Health Conference in 2015. In the decade since, it has hosted nearly 100 events in Michigan, at Yale, in Palo Alto, Toronto, DC, and Seattle. The format is deliberately held. Participants — whether they sing, speak, recite poetry, or simply talk — share something they are going through and ask to be witnessed. The audience can step in or step out if they’re reminded of their own stories. No one takes video without consent. No one takes a story and makes of it what they please. And the host doesn’t riff or make jokes afterward — the emotional container is maintained with care. “Healing through the telling and witnessing of stories,” as Zain describes it. “People deserve not to just wait for their clinician or some magic medication to help them feel seen and heard.” For Zain, Narratives of Pain is personal in a way that goes beyond the professional. Poetry was his first culturally sensitive therapist. This project is his way of making sure others don’t have to wait as long as he did to find that. The Moskers Film Festival and What Muslim Artistic Community Actually Feels Like One of the most unexpected threads in the conversation was Zain’s experience at the Moskers Film Festival — where he performed his own work for the first time since 2017, two nights in a row, for an audience of Muslim artists who weren’t performing for an algorithm or a crowd or a record label. They were performing to be witnessed. He described the competitive toxicity he’d encountered earlier in his career — artists constantly evaluated against each other, proximity to mainstream success used as a measure of worth. Moskers was the opposite. “It didn’t matter if we didn’t perform perfectly. It was communal. Nobody was jockeying for the mic. It just felt equal.” He’s now working on a new musical project with fellow artists Umar Khan and Abbas — a community of musicians who care about gathering as much as they care about making. “I needed that for myself,” he said. “To be fully engrossed in being a community member who is being given that service.” Two Pieces of Advice Worth Holding Onto For anyone who wants to support someone who is struggling: “You do not need to be a mental health professional to affirm people’s mental health. You don’t have to subscribe to agree with what people are going through. You don’t have to subscribe to somebody’s lifestyle to wish them a better quality of life. Don’t underestimate your ability to show up — even if it’s just five minutes, even if it’s just connecting them to the right person.” For artists and creatives: “Let yourself make bad stuff. Do you like writing, or do you only like writing if you get the dopamine of feeling good about it? Do you like playing basketball, or do you only like the praise for it? If you love the art, you have to be willing to go through the garbage of it. Maybe your masterpiece is five garbage pieces away. Just make things.” Listen to the Full Episode The full conversation with Zain Shamoon is available on the #MuslimPhilanthropy Podcast. If his work resonates with you, consider supporting the organizations he mentioned — and sharing this episode with a Muslim mental health professional in your life who needs to feel less alone in the work. Listen to the #MuslimPhilanthropy Podcast Institute for Muslim Mental Health Narratives of Pain on Instagram Learn more about AMCF   The post #MuslimPhilanthropy Podcast with Zain Shamoon appeared first on American Muslim Community Foundation.

    29 min

About

Founded in 2016, American Muslim Community Foundation is a grassroots, national nonprofit organization in the United States. Our focus is on creating Donor Advised Funds, Giving Circles, distributing grants, & building endowments for the American Muslim community.