“The thesis that men change at the same time that they change the world has never been so manifest as it is now in Algeria. This trial of strength not only remodels the consciousness that man has of himself, and of his former dominators or of the world, at last within his reach… We witness in Algeria man’s reassertion of his capacity to progress. The power of the Algerian Revolution resides in the radical mutation that the Algerian has undergone.”
— Frantz Fanon, A Dying Colonialism (1959)
The streets of Algiers are steeped in stories of defiance. Martyred freedom fighters watch over bustling neighbourhoods on muraled walls – a picture of sacrifice and resilience.
Walking through the Kasbah, we passed an older man sitting alone on a chair beneath such a mural. As is customary when passing an elder, my father greeted him with salaams, inquired if he needed anything, and offered him a water bottle to help with the early autumn heat. The man accepted the water and began conversing with my father. ‘Where in Algeria are you from’ swiftly moved onto their dedication to the country, love for Allah and memories of war – each topic flowing freely into the next.
The elderly man pulled out an image of freedom fighters gathered in the Kasbah from the days of active warfare, pointing from the mural to the photograph and introducing us to each of his friends. The tenderness with which he referred to his martyred friends softened my heart. Even with my limited Arabic, I could understand the years of sacrifice behind every “sahibi, sahibi”, “my dearest friend, my dearest friend.”
Algeria won its freedom from French oppression in July 1962 after 132 years of occupation – one of the most violent and transformative anti-colonial struggles of the 20th century. The war unfolded not just on battlefields, but in cities, villages and prison cells across the country.
From the very beginning, France refused to acknowledge the brutal occupation for what it was, mislabeling it as an ‘operation of public order’. This deliberate misclassification enabled the French state to sidestep international law, denying captured Algerians the status of prisoners of war. It was this legal loophole that allowed for the widespread and systematic use of torture by the French military, particularly during the height of the invasion in 1957.
What followed was a state-sanctioned campaign of terror, with the French government fully aware of (and later openly admitting) its use of torture. Electric shock, beating, waterboarding, rape, forced disappearance and execution were not reserved for fighters alone, but were inflicted upon civilians, including women and children merely suspected of sympathising with the resistance. These were not rogue or isolated acts; they were part of a broader strategy aimed at breaking the spirit of the Algerian people. They did not succeed.
Through my family in Algeria, I came to learn the details of this past. For them, this is not history learned from books, but the lived experience of family members, passed down through stories over the last generation. They speak not of abstractions, but of real people, and in the stories of torture, they use real names including that of my grandfather and my uncle. This is very recent history, etched into the lives of those who continue to remember it, recounting their stories with pride for their resistance, with grief for those lost, and with hope in the Mercy of Allah.
Fanon called it a “radical mutation”, the transformation of an oppressed psyche through liberation. Algeria’s resistance is transformative because it hasn’t been confined to the past or political theory; it lives on in memory, land, and faith. This is apparent when you walk through the old city of Algiers; the Kasbah is beautiful, a myriad of whites, yellows, and oranges. It’s full of twists and turns, a labyrinth of movement, colour, and history. Plants grow, intertwined in the narrow streets, with staircases that wind upwards. Branches cover the narrow stretches of stairs, forming a green roof that encloses you among the sandstone walls. There is artwork on the walls as you ascend light pink stairs, and you are reminded that a community thrives here and walks beside you.
In this country, history is remembered; detailed portraits adorn the streets, requiring consistent care and engagement.There are stories of loved ones and war heroes, hand painted and touched up every time it rains. Most striking is the portrait of Ali Ammar (pictured above) who is known for his courage and steadfastness during the Battle of Algiers. Museums permeate the streets, serving as community spaces for people to gather, more than just an exhibition of art or tragedy.
The memory of martyrs is so evidently alive in the spirit of the Algerian people, in how they see the world. The city is filled with these small but constant reminders; buildings have names like the ‘Plaza of Martyrs’ in the centre of Algiers, with their faces painted lovingly at the places in which Allah took their souls. They are a part of the public consciousness.
Zawiya of Emir Abd al-Qadir
I noticed this especially when my family took a road trip across the country – from Algiers on the coast to Tebessa on the eastern side – to visit the rest of my family. We stopped at the zawiya of Emir Abd al-Qadir, whose life was a testament to defiance through spiritual adherence.
Born in 1808, Emir Abd al-Qadir was a scholar and military leader who became the symbol of resistance against the French colonial invasion of Algeria in the 19th century. He united various tribes in their collective struggle against oppression, and remained steadfast on his principles during an era of violence where all principles were seemingly lost. His intervention to protect the Christian community in Damascus from a massacre in 1860 solidified his reputation as a leader who valued human dignity above all else.
Emir Abd al-Qadir was known to use the zawiya as a base for spiritual and military organisation during the occupation. The zawiya even holds a few relics from that time (chests, letters, etc) and there is a mural featuring Emir Abd al-Qadir and other resistance fighters on a mural outside one of the entrances.
A zawiya is not just a place of knowledge; it is a sanctuary where generations are taught the importance of faith, resistance, and spiritual growth. These spaces served as a refuge for those seeking knowledge and wisdom, and they were often pivotal in not only physically resisting colonial forces, but fighting any outside influence that tried to pull the heart away from its true submission to Allah.
As we approached, the caretaker greeted us warmly, offering a heartfelt salaam. Our visit was not expected, but the women present made space for me to join them. Without hesitation, I was invited into a small sitting room and coffee was prepared. In a mixture of broken Arabic and Englsih, we were able to find moments of laughter and connection.
The zawiya building was beautiful and yet unassuming in a way that allowed it to blend in easily with the surrounding desert landscape. A white-domed structure nestled among the rocks and sand, it felt like a natural extension of the earth. Inside, the walls were earthy yellows and greens decorated with flower motifs, imbuing the space with a serenity and comfort.
At the centre of the space was the masjid, an important reminder that the heart of any resistance is a connection to Allah. This is the true legacy of Emir Abd al-Qadir; resistance is not merely an act of defiance against external forces, but a deeper, spiritual struggle to remain true to one’s faith. This legacy lives deep in the Algerian people.
Land, Identity, Faith
We moved towards the final stops of our journey on the eastern side of Algeria, where my family is from and where the resistance first sparked. As we passed dusty plains dotted with graveyards, my father pointed out their various inhabitants; an uncle here, a grandfather there, a second cousin, another uncle. These were the resting places of those who had fought for their freedom, with the hope that their descendents could walk these lands without fear. We were a testament that their prayers had been answered.
Close by lies the very edge of the Sahara desert – vast, open and still. There is such a deep sense of peace here, an invitation for introspection and a chance to catch your breath and remember your place in the world – a grain amongst the dunes, a star in an endless sky.
Knowing so many of my relatives had spent time growing up here, amongst the sand and dust and stars, filled my heart with joy and a deep sense of reclamation. The people of the desert are strong, resilient, and built to endure, even in the harshest environments.
In this remote corner of Algeria, I spotted a Palestinian flag. References to Palestine are common throughout the country reminding me of the hadith that likens the Ummah to a single body. The pain of Palestine is felt keenly here; their sumud, the steadfastness that has come to define them, is well understood too. It is an extraordinary patience that runs deep in the bones, a will not merely to survive, but to keep hold of ancestral land, identity and faith.
Algeria is proof that with the Power of Allah freedom from oppressors and tyrants is possible. Whilst showing me the graves of my family members, scattered throughout the country, my father told me that 4.5 million souls had sacrificed their lives during the struggle for independence. The unwavering commitment of so many to fight against oppression renewed my hope in Allah’s plan for Palestine, and for the Ummah as a whole.
Algeria is a nation that cannot view itself as apart from its legacy of resistance. Revolution is not a distant memory here and the scars of that struggle run deep through its streets and in the collective consciousness of the people. The sorrow and rage from that period are still palpable, they have not gone away completely. But it was from this sorrow and rage that resistance was born, not merely as a political or social movement, but a spiritual one that continues to connect Algerians to their past, to their homeland, and to their faith. This is the legacy of resistance in Algeria: a deep-rooted certainty that true freedom lies in submission to Him alone.
