Drawing from the Quranic teaching to avoid 'vain talk,' I’m reflecting on how short-form videos and smartphones are hurting our family connections and our children’s mental growth. It’s time to put the phones down, revisit timeless wisdom, and rebuild a warm, intentional home life.

By Hayley

Surah Luqman (31:6) from the Quran: 'And of the people is he who buys the amusement of speech to mislead from the way of Allah without knowledge and who takes it in ridicule. Those will have a humiliating punishment.'

This is my sixth smartphone. When I first got a phone, it was just a tool for calling or sending texts—I remember when every text cost ten cents. Now, I don't even use texts, and I couldn't care less about the cost. All I care about is where my phone is and if it's charged. It’s always in my hand, and it feels like a security blanket; if it’s not there, I feel totally lost. I only put it down when I’m cooking, performing my dua (prayer), or sleeping. The rest of the time, even if I’m not using it, my hands reach for it constantly, like I’m clutching a gold nugget I’m terrified of losing. It’s this little device that’s quietly stealing my time and turning me into a numb, indifferent person.



A lot of the time, I only open it to look up some information—something that should take ten minutes. But one scroll later, I’m sucked into short videos and binge-watching dramas, losing massive chunks of time. Lately, I’ve been addicted to these short-form drama series. I know full well that the plots—the bossy CEOs and the naive heroines—are total fiction that would never happen in real life. I’m not delusional; I know that kind of story isn't my reality, but I still can’t stop hitting the next episode. I’m not even fantasizing about that life; I’m just using those few minutes of drama to dodge the messy reality of my own life—to avoid the housework, the kids' chores, and all the heavy pressures of everyday living. But this short-term escape comes at a high price. Afterward, I’m left feeling empty and regretful, having lost sleep and time that should have been spent with my kids or on my own personal growth. My life has become a contradiction.

I think about my sister, who developed a funny but sad side effect after watching these dramas. When she’s free, she’ll randomly mutter, 'The CEO fell in love with a divorced woman with three kids.' She says it jokingly, but the kids are listening. One time, I asked her middle daughter what her mom had been up to, and the little girl told me, 'Mom’s being weird—she keeps saying that thing about the CEO and the divorced woman. It’s actually kind of gross.' I chuckled, because I get her. It’s like something out of an Eileen Chang novel—a hidden yearning that hurts. Trapped in the mud of daily life, it’s not exactly a crime to indulge in a little fantasy. I know my sister; even if she dreams about this, she’d take all the hardships of her marriage in silence rather than abandon her kids for a CEO dream. Those male leads in the dramas are rich, handsome, and devoted—a life of marital bliss and professional success. These scripts are just beautiful lies spun by screenwriters. For people whose real marriages aren't perfect, it’s just rubbing salt in the wound. It raises the bar for unrealistic expectations for the unmarried and amplifies the dissatisfaction of the married. I’m a person with strong values and a clear head; my only weakness is a lack of self-discipline.



After dinner, I’m physically exhausted and just want to rest, finish my dua, and get to sleep. But the second I crawl into bed and my fingers touch my phone, the urge to sleep vanishes. I get more awake with every scroll, watching one episode and telling myself, 'Just one more.' Next thing I know, it’s the middle of the night. If I really think about it, I spend maybe two hours a day cooking and cleaning, and half an hour helping the kids with homework. Those chores always make me feel physically drained and full of complaints. Yet, I can lie in bed for three or four hours, glued to my phone, without a problem. Living this way, controlled by a phone, makes me feel like a zombie. I feel weak and lightheaded when I’m doing housework or distracted and rushing through my dua, but the moment I pick up my phone, I suddenly feel 'fine' and forget all my fatigue. I’ve tried to control myself, but I keep losing.

My children have become little phone addicts too. Every day they beg me, 'Mom, can we watch for just a little longer?' They even bicker with each other over who gets more screen time. They don't want to go play outside or visit relatives—they just want to stare at their screens. The phone is like a 'third party' between me and my children. I know all of this, but I feel powerless. I know that if I want to change my kids, I have to fix myself first. But I keep wondering if it’s too late—is this just damage control? Whenever I’m trapped in this phone-induced cycle, during my dua, I silently ask Allah to help me spend my time on what actually matters and to be a better mother.



Of course, not everything on a phone is bad. I came across a video that really hit home: people can tolerate years or decades of an unhappy, painful life, but they can’t bring themselves to put in the effort to fight for something better. We’d rather suffer silently than go all-in. If we just pushed hard for a few years, maybe things could change. Why do we settle for drifting along, refusing to step out of our comfort zone to change ourselves? Today, I’m laying out these raw, not-so-flattering thoughts like a confession or a contract to myself. I need to restrain myself and take control, not be governed by this screen. But even as I make these internal promises, I’m still struggling to escape the whirlpool.

Later, I realized something: I’m not really fighting a smartphone; I’m fighting an entire industry designed to make me look at the screen for just one more second. There are thousands of people behind it whose job is to keep me hooked. If I can’t beat them with just my willpower, maybe that’s not something to be ashamed of.

Seneca once said, 'We suffer more often in imagination than in reality.' The visual rush of short videos is just a fleeting mental drug; after the brief high, what we’ve actually lost is our precious time. Benjamin Franklin also said, 'Do you love life? Then do not squander time, for that is the stuff life is made of.'



A person of character uses tools, but isn't used by them. The phone itself isn't inherently good or bad; it all depends on who is in control. I don't have to get rid of it entirely—I just need to reset our relationship. I want to coexist with my phone as an equal, letting it be a helpful tool for learning, recording, and growing, rather than a master that dominates me.



The writer Mai Jia once said that if you stay in the same old routine, you’ll never reach where you want to go. A goal without action is just a daydream. Realizing this, I’m trying to discipline myself by using my phone only for productive hobbies: practicing calligraphy or writing in my diary. If I get distracted during my dua, I’m trying not to beat myself up too much. Reflecting on it and realizing I’m distracted is proof that my heart is still in the right place. If my mind wanders, I’ll just bring it back. As for it being 'too late,' I’m telling myself: my kids are still small, they’re still pestering me for more screen time—which means they’re still waiting for me to set the rules and lead by example. It would be too late if they stopped asking and just sat in silence with their devices. Writing this now? It’s exactly the right time.

That video really struck a chord, but haven't I already taken the first step? I’ve written these thoughts down. Once it's out, I’m not bottling it up alone anymore. I think most people struggle with this, so I’m not going to make some grand promise to 'never be controlled by my phone again'—that’s just unrealistic. I’m only promising one thing for tonight: after my dua, I’m putting my phone somewhere I can't reach from bed. Just that one thing. If I do it tonight, I’ll worry about tomorrow when it gets here.

I’m the type of person who looks back, thinks things over, and refuses to just sit still when there’s a problem. Life is like a giant bed—I’m just exploring the most comfortable way to live out this ordinary life.

I’m grateful for this moment of reflection. May the books we read and the words we write be stepping stones that lead us to a better, more meaningful life! view all

I’ve put together a deep-dive guide featuring 69 high-res photos to rank the top 10 beef noodle spots across Lanzhou, Gansu. We’re breaking down the authentic standard of 'one clear, two white, three red, four green, five yellow' while reviewing the unique flavors of the rich beef broth, secret chili oil, and perfectly chewy hand-pulled noodles at each shop.

About a decade ago, back when social media was still in its infancy, I published a list of the 'Ten Best Beef Noodle Shops in Lanzhou' on Weibo. It went viral, racking up millions of views and getting shared all over WeChat Moments and various blogs.

Even today, travel influencers on video platforms are still flocking to the exact shops I picked back then. But after over a decade of shifts in the Lanzhou noodle scene, some of those 'best' spots have honestly just become average.



(Mogouyan Beef Noodles) photo capture.

I’ve personally eaten at over 300 beef noodle spots in Lanzhou. This post features my top 10 picks (the 2026 edition). I’m not chasing hype or traffic; it’s all about the flavor. Of course, there’s no universal standard for 'good,' so these are just my personal favorites, in no particular order.

If you’re only looking for the most famous spots with the longest lines, you can just refer to my older reviews.

Disclaimer: I’ve personally visited every spot mentioned in this article. All text is original, and every photo was taken on-site. Please don’t steal photos or repurpose my content without permission.

1. Jiawei Pure Broth Beef Noodles

Jiawei Pure Broth Beef Noodles is right next door to Heikemai Beef Noodles on Hualin Mountain. Both are classic Lanzhou staples. While Heikemai is more famous, I actually think the food at Jiawei is better. It just doesn't have the same level of hype, so you won’t see travel influencers camping out there.



(Jiawei Pure Broth Beef Noodles) photo capture.



(Jiawei Pure Broth Beef Noodles) photo capture.

When I went to the Jiawei Hualin Mountain branch, it was marked as 'permanently closed' on the review app (who knows, maybe competitors were messing with it). So, I did everyone a favor and re-added the listing so true foodies could find it. It still doesn't have many reviews, which is fine by me—it keeps this hidden gem authentic and unbothered, which is a blessing for real food lovers.



(Jiawei Pure Broth Beef Noodles) photo capture.



(Jiawei Pure Broth Beef Noodles) photo capture.

At Jiawei, both the beef noodles and the extra beef cost 8 yuan each. Just by smelling the broth, I knew this was the real deal. It just goes to show how many hidden legends there are in the Lanzhou noodle game. I found this spot late, and maybe it's been overshadowed by the neighbor, but after trying it, I can confidently say it beats most noodle shops in the city. The aftertaste is incredible.



(Jiawei Pure Broth Beef Noodles) photo capture.



(Jiawei Pure Broth Beef Noodles) photo capture.

2. Qingxiangge Beef Noodles

There’s a small shop called Qingxiangge Beef Noodles along the Yellow River on South Binhe Road that people kept recommending, so I went early in the morning to snag a bowl from the first batch of broth. The storefront is tiny and tucked away, but the name 'Qingxiangge' sounds grand, like the old-school Lanzhou spots that don't exist anymore, like the famous 'Lanqingge.'



(Qingxiangge Beef Noodles) photo capture.



(Qingxiangge Beef Noodles) photo capture.

A bowl of noodles at Qingxiangge is 8 yuan, but the beef is 10 yuan—which is a yuan more expensive than most places in Lanzhou. It’s a small difference, but in a city where prices are usually super standardized, it stands out. It just goes to show: a hole-in-the-wall noodle shop isn't always cheaper than a fancy-looking place; sometimes, they're actually more expensive.



(Qingxiangge Beef Noodles) photo capture.



(Qingxiangge Beef Noodles) photo capture.

As soon as they set the bowl of Qingxiangge noodles down, the smell told me everything I needed to know—this is that classic flavor many locals crave. The broth is simmered for hours, the chili oil is fragrant without being overpowering, and paired with the 'erxi' (medium-thick noodles), there’s only one word for it: satisfying!

I’m really happy with this little spot. It’s definitely in my top 10 for Lanzhou, even if the shop is tiny and easy to miss.



(Qingxiangge Beef Noodles price list) photo capture.



(Qingxiangge Beef Noodles) photo capture.

3. Dijia Beef Noodles

A while back, I made a special trip from my hotel in Anning to the mountain to visit Dijia Beef Noodles for the second time. I heard the old man who started the shop passed away. Some old-school Lanzhou locals might remember the original Dijia Beef Noodles on Jingning Road; it was open for 20 years before closing in 2010 due to various reasons, but the regulars never forgot it.



(Dijia Beef Noodles) photo capture.



(Dijia Beef Noodles) photo capture.

Six or seven years ago, Dijia reopened, but not at the old address—this time, it’s halfway up Gaolan Mountain. Getting there feels a bit like navigating Chongqing with all the mountain roads. Everyone eating there, aside from the locals, is a true foodie on a mission for that nostalgic taste.



(Dijia Beef Noodles) photo capture.

I first tried Dijia four years ago and it left a lasting impression. The shop is set up in a private courtyard. Both the noodles and the beef are 8 yuan—actually a yuan cheaper than other places. After my bowl arrived, an old guy sitting across from me couldn't help but say how fragrant it smelled.



(Dijia Beef Noodles) photo capture.



(Dijia Beef Noodles) photo capture.

First, I took a sip of the broth. It’s that perfect mix of beef stock and spicy oil—the real, authentic Lanzhou taste. It’s super aromatic. The texture of the noodles at Dijia is a bit weaker; even though they’ve improved since last time—they don't taste like 'reganmian' (dry-mixed noodles) anymore—they still feel a bit loose and don't quite stand out.



(Dijia Beef Noodles) photo capture.

After finishing the noodles, there was still half a bowl of broth left. I added a little vinegar, and the flavor turned sweet, not sour. This is the result of the chemical reaction between the vinegar and the broth, and it’s one of the main ways to judge if a bowl of Lanzhou beef noodles is made the traditional way: a good beef broth should turn sweet when you add vinegar.



Di Jia Beef Noodles: Captured on site



Di Jia Beef Noodles: Captured on site



Di Jia Beef Noodles: Captured on site

4. Chenguang Beef Noodles

One of the hottest noodle shops in Lanzhou's Xigu District, Chenguang Beef Noodles, gets its name from being right next to the Chenguang residential complex bus stop. It opened in 2002 and has been going strong for 24 years now.

I spotted the crowd before I even reached the shop. The place was packed, and the outdoor seating was overflowing into the neighboring businesses—it reminded me of the legendary Chenji Qing Tang and Bai Jianqiang in their prime. It’s actually cool to see how well they get along with the neighbors, as the massive foot traffic from this viral spot definitely keeps the surrounding stores, like the nearby supermarket, booming.



Chenguang Beef Noodles: Captured on site



Chenguang Beef Noodles: Captured on site

I grabbed a bowl of beef noodles, a side of extra beef, and some small side dishes for 19 yuan—pretty standard pricing for Lanzhou. I asked for 'san-xi' (medium-thin noodles), but what I got seemed more like standard 'xi' (thin noodles). To be fair, even among some noodle masters, the line between 'xi' and 'san-xi' gets blurry; 'san-xi' is supposed to be the thickness right between thin and 'er-xi' (thick).



Chenguang Beef Noodles: Captured on site

Here’s a little insider secret about Lanzhou beef noodles: shops in suburban areas like Xigu serve larger portions than those in the city center. I once heard from an industry insider that suburban shops get about 180 bowls per sack of flour, while city center spots push for 200 to 220 bowls.



Chenguang Beef Noodles: Captured on site



Chenguang Beef Noodles: Captured on site

The owner of Chenguang is the sister of the founder of the old Chenji Qing Tang. The broth here is a classic clear soup—not as oily as Deyuan’s—but the chili oil is incredibly fragrant. I knew it was legit just by the smell. Looking at all the locals packing the place, it’s clear the residents definitely approve.

Since the old king of Xigu beef noodles, Chenji Qing Tang, closed down, Chenguang has definitely taken the crown.



Chenguang Beef Noodles: Captured on site



Chenguang Beef Noodles: Captured on site

5. Shuimitian Beef Noodles

New beef noodle brands are popping up all over Lanzhou, so every time I visit, I make it a point to try a few spots I’ve never been to before. Shuimitian in Anning District has amazing soup, great meat, and perfectly chewy noodles—it was a total 'manfu' (a local slang for feeling deeply satisfied/full) experience!

Shuimitian is one of those hidden gems. You won’t find much online promotion and they have barely any reviews on platforms like Dazhong Dianping, but the local word-of-mouth is incredible. It’s mostly just neighbors eating here; you rarely see tourists or people from the other side of town.



Shuimitian Beef Noodles: Captured on site



Shuimitian Beef Noodles: Captured on site

Shuimitian’s biggest flex is that they never cut corners. Rumor has it they buy the premium cuts of beef, paying a few yuan more per pound than the market rate. They stick to traditional clear soup methods, and their chili oil is fragrant without being overly spicy. Best of all, there’s no weird chemical aftertaste, so you don't feel thirsty afterward. The Lantian Jiayuan location is almost always full.



Shuimitian Beef Noodles: Captured on site



Shuimitian Beef Noodles: Captured on site

I visited the Beian Gongguan branch for my second meal. With an open kitchen, it’s super clean and hygienic. I ordered the 'luxury' version with extra beef, a braised egg, and sides. You could tell just by looking that the beef was high quality—it tasted great on its own and was even better soaked in the broth. The noodles were perfectly chewy and the soup was rich; I can totally see why locals never get tired of it.



Shuimitian Beef Noodles: Captured on site



Shuimitian Beef Noodles: Captured on site



Shuimitian Beef Noodles: Captured on site

6. Bai Laoqi Peng-Hui Beef Noodles

The famous Bai Laoqi Peng-Hui Beef Noodles moved to a new spot, and the upgraded space, decor, and vibe are a major step up from the old place. It’s still north of the Yellow River, but a bit further from the original shop in Jinchengguan.

Bai Laoqi is actually the seventh uncle of Bai Jianqiang. The Lanzhou beef noodle scene is basically one big family—Zhang Youde is Bai Jianqiang’s uncle, Ma Junli is Zhang Youde’s brother-in-law, and Ma Anjun and Ma Guoyi are cousins.



Bai Laoqi Peng-Hui Beef Noodles: Captured on site



Bai Laoqi Peng-Hui Beef Noodles: Captured on site

Even though they haven’t been at the new spot for long, their long-standing reputation keeps the place slammed. The new shop is huge, but it was still completely packed. I came with two friends, and I had to snag a table while the other guy went to line up for the noodles.



Bai Laoqi Peng-Hui Beef Noodles: Captured on site

I ordered the 'da-kuan' (extra-wide noodles), which I hadn't had in a while. Bai Laoqi’s wide noodles are even wider than Shaanxi’s 'belt noodles.' Soaking in that beef broth, they have a really hearty, meaty texture. Whether they’re better than the thin ones is really just a matter of personal taste—most people stick to thin noodles, but the wide ones are a great way to switch it up.



Bai Laoqi Peng-Hui Beef Noodles: Captured on site

Bai Laoqi’s beef noodles are top-tier in Lanzhou, with a chili oil that has a distinct, smoky toasted aroma. As for the 'Peng-Hui' (a traditional alkaline additive made from desert plants) in their name, I’m not sure if they’re still using the authentic stuff or if it’s just for the brand name, since real Peng-Hui is in short supply these days and most shops just use standard ramen additives.



Bai Laoqi Peng-Hui Beef Noodles: Captured on site



(Bailaoqi Penghui Beef Noodles) actual photo

7. Heikemai Beef Noodles

Located halfway up Hualin Mountain in Lanzhou, Heikemai Beef Noodles is a classic, old-school shop. Jiawei Beef Noodles is right next door, and both serve that traditional Lanzhou flavor. While I personally prefer Jiawei, Heikemai is definitely worth a visit too.



(Heikemai Beef Noodles) actual photo



(Heikemai Beef Noodles) actual photo

A bowl of beef noodles at Heikemai is 8 yuan, and the beef is another 8, making it 16 total. I love adding a bit of fatty jiahua rou (marbled beef brisket), which has a much better texture than the pure lean meat. One unique thing about Heikemai is that they mix the diced beef and garlic sprouts together—it’s the only place I’ve seen that does this in Lanzhou.



(Heikemai Beef Noodles) actual photo

Heikemai uses a classic old-school method to simmer their beef broth. The first sip might taste a bit light, but the flavor builds up the more you eat; it leaves a great aftertaste and won't leave you feeling thirsty or dry-mouthed later. I accidentally added a bit too much chili to this order of sanxi (thin noodles), but after finishing the noodles, I added a splash of vinegar to the remaining broth, and it tasted surprisingly sweet, not sour.



(Heikemai Beef Noodles) actual photo



(Heikemai Beef Noodles) actual photo

There aren't many shops left in Lanzhou that serve these authentic old-school flavors, but here are a few more recommendations: Dijia, Heikemai, Laoma Penghui, Mazilu, Qingxiangge, and Jinding.



(Heikemai Beef Noodles menu) actual photo



(Heikemai Beef Noodles) actual photo

8. Lulu Beef Noodles

Lanzhou Lulu Beef Noodles is a small, tucked-away spot on the edge of town off Highway 101. It’s got a total 90s vibe, which is the complete opposite of fancy, massive restaurants like Ashiya. Opening a luxury restaurant in Lanzhou usually doesn't pay off because people won't pay high prices for beef noodles; here, it’s still just 8 yuan for the noodles and 9 yuan for the beef.



(Lulu Beef Noodles) actual photo

Lulu doesn't sell side dishes—just meat and eggs. They don't weigh the beef, either; the staff just grabs a portion and tosses it into your bowl, and they don't use separate saucers for the meat.

According to some locals, Lulu serves the same authentic taste from 30 years ago. The noodles are nice and chewy, and the overall flavor leans heavy on the numbing, spicy, and salty side. It leaves your tongue tingling, though it’s a different kind of spice compared to the heavy numbing heat you find in Sichuan cuisine.





(Lulu Beef Noodles) actual photo



(Lulu Beef Noodles) actual photo

If you’re into the old-school Lanzhou taste and like things bold and flavorful, you should definitely check out Lulu. Just keep in mind it’s a super simple, out-of-the-way spot, but you can get there by taking the number 44 bus right to the front door.



(Lulu Beef Noodles) actual photo



(Lulu Beef Noodles) actual photo

9. Ma Anjun Spicy Beef Noodles

Lanzhou beef noodles once had what people called the "Five Wonders," but the only one that’s still thriving today—and getting even more popular—is the one nicknamed "Western Venom": Ma Anjun Spicy Beef Noodles. While Guoyi Beef Noodles has also been trending lately, I think Ma Anjun has deeper roots. I’ve tried both, and I still prefer the beef noodles at Ma Anjun, though Ma Guoyi’s best item is actually their cold noodles.



(Ma Anjun Spicy Beef Noodles) actual photo



(Ma Anjun Spicy Beef Noodles) actual photo

The chili oil at Ma Anjun is made from a fine chili powder and contains no sesame seeds. It’s much spicier than your average Lanzhou beef noodles. Some people aren’t into that, but others are obsessed and would eat it every day—it’s definitely one of those "to each their own" situations.

There’s a popular online meme about how Ma Anjun limits you to 10 scoops of chili oil and charges a fee for every extra scoop, but honestly, no normal person is actually going to add more than 10 scoops.



(Ma Anjun Spicy Beef Noodles) actual photo

I personally think Ma Anjun’s noodles are super chewy and the chili is fire, but it almost misses that classic, clean-broth beef noodle vibe. It’s not the traditional style, but by doing something different and doubling down on that spicy chili oil, they’ve managed to break out of the mold—definitely something for restaurant owners to think about.



(Ma Anjun Spicy Beef Noodles) actual photo

Ma Anjun didn’t used to sell side dishes, only beef, which was a bummer for people who like a little extra on the side. The shop was exposed in the media a year or two ago, and after they closed for renovations and reopened, they actually became even more popular and started offering side dishes too.



(Ma Anjun Spicy Beef Noodles menu) actual photo



(Ma Anjun Spicy Beef Noodles) actual photo

10. Jicheng Clear Broth Beef Noodles (formerly Chenji Clear Broth Beef Noodles)

The legendary king of lines in Lanzhou, Xigu Chenji Clear Broth Beef Noodles, officially closed its doors a while back after 31 years in business. Screenshots of the conversation between the customers and the owner went viral on short-video platforms, sparking a huge debate among local foodies and beef noodle superfans.



A lot of people were heartbroken that Chenji shut down. It was widely considered one of the best bowls of beef noodles in Lanzhou, having grown up alongside generations of Xigu locals and serving as a core memory of the city's food scene.

Even though Chenji is gone, a new spot called Jicheng Clear Broth Beef Noodles opened in the exact same location. The storefront and general vibe feel like a direct continuation of the original Chenji, so I had to come by and see if the flavor held up.



(Jicheng Clear Broth Beef Noodles) actual photo



Jicheng Qingtang Beef Noodle Shop: A real-deal look at one of Lanzhou's most iconic spots.

Even long after the lunch rush, this place is totally packed inside and out. It’s clear that even though the name changed from Chenji Qingtang, the legacy of the original shop still brings in the regulars who have been eating here for years. Beef noodles are everywhere in Lanzhou; honestly, while some are definitely better than others, it's pretty hard to find a truly bad bowl. Making beef noodles isn't exactly rocket science, after all.



Jicheng Qingtang Beef Noodle Shop: A real-deal look at one of Lanzhou's most iconic spots.

Just like the old place, the new menu is super simple—no side dishes, just meat and eggs. The beef is weighed and added right into your bowl, so you won't find separate plates of meat here. I ordered the sanxi (three-fine, a specific thin noodle shape), and the total for my noodles and extra beef was 17 yuan, which is the standard going rate in Lanzhou.



Jicheng Qingtang Beef Noodle Shop: A real-deal look at one of Lanzhou's most iconic spots.

I took my bowl outside to grab a seat, and after that very first sip of the broth, I knew this was still hands-down one of the best bowls of beef noodles in all of Lanzhou. The flavor is a direct continuation of the classic Chenji Qingtang recipe. Even though I’m not sure who the current owner is, they definitely kept the same secret for nailing that broth.



Jicheng Qingtang Beef Noodle Shop: A real-deal look at one of Lanzhou's most iconic spots.



Jicheng Qingtang Beef Noodle Shop: A real-deal look at one of Lanzhou's most iconic spots.



Jicheng Qingtang Beef Noodle Shop: A real-deal look at one of Lanzhou's most iconic spots.

What are some of your favorite beef noodle spots in Lanzhou? Feel free to drop a comment and let me know! view all

Through 10 documentary images combined with fieldwork trips to the loess ravine villages in Northwest China, this article deeply explores the continuation and challenges of cultural imprints and rural ethical ties in Hui Muslim families in the Northwest under the impact of modern school education and internet culture.

The northern loess always looks dusty and gray in memories, with the sky hanging low and the wind dragging across the mountain ridges, making the ravines look even deeper. I walked along the roads of Xihaihed; in winter, car tires crushed the frozen chunks of earth, making a dry, crisp sound like stepping on ancient bones.

Looking out into the distance, the villages huddled in mountain basins, with yellow-mud huts clinging to slopes and cave dwellings embedded in earth walls like rows of blind scars. In a place like that, the moment a child is born and opens their eyes, what they see are those old scripture banners, the endless string of religious terms recited by elders by the edge of the kang (heated brick bed), and those few silent duas (supplications) before and after meals.

From a sociology class perspective, this is a classic "cultural transmission chain"; from the loess slopes, it's just the natural vibe of daily life, like cow dung smoke, scorched rice crust smells, and the dampness of kang mats, slowly sinking into a person's bones. You might write down in regulations and post on signs that religious belief is not allowed before eighteen, but kids can't close their ears tightly, nor can the courtyard air be split cleanly into "allowed" and "forbidden" halves.



II

I walked on the dusty dirt road along the ridge, stepping on crushed ground underfoot with a chilly, empty sky overhead. The wind blew past, carrying the distant, faint bell tolls of a small mosque; these chimes weren't loud, like a thin needle occasionally poking into the ear on a quiet, uniquely-styled afternoon before dispersing.

At the end of the road stood a dilapidated cave dwelling. Half of the cave roof had collapsed, with dirt piles sliding down and exposing the hollow interior. It was a makeshift shelter built during a famine years ago, and after people moved away, a few broken bowls and shattered pots were left buried under the sandy soil at the very bottom. Next to the cave was an abandoned grave plot with crooked earth mounds; when winter snow fell, it often lingered over them for a while, as if still remembering the person lying underground.

I stopped in my tracks and squatted down beside the earth mound. The wind swept past the back of my neck, giving me a slight chill. At that moment, I often thought of a somewhat cold question: when does a person actually start to "possess" their own faith, or lack thereof? Is it that moment in adulthood when a legal document says "I choose freely," or much earlier, when listening to elders softly reciting scriptures on a certain night, or watching a mother bow silently toward her own heart on a certain morning?

What I've always doubted isn't that age of eighteen, nor is it the box checked for "religious belief" on some form.



III

People in the city love using the phrase "blood transmission" to describe the intergenerational rainforest of religion, speaking with a sense of awakening and impatience, hoping religion is an uncatchable invisible virus that kids can't escape as long as their parents carry it.

I don't see it that way.

Blood itself has no scriptures; the liquid flowing in veins is just the same red stuff containing iron, salt, water, and cells, without a single word spelling out the name of a classic, nor any artery carved with "this person must believe in X." What truly gets passed down like blood across generations is the living environment, the language system, the daily routine, and those value judgments that fill the four walls of the yellow-mud huts at a single glance.

Kids learn to tell from a young age: who is "one of us," what is "pure," what action gets praised as "you understand reason," and what words make elders frown as soon as they leave the mouth. The word "religion" here is rarely broken down and discussed like in a classroom; it lies flat right under your feet, and you get so used to the friction of walking on it that only when someone actually flips it over do you realize there's concrete, dirt, and maybe something deeper underneath.

On a legal level, we emphasize that citizens can independently choose their faith after reaching a certain age; this rule is super meaningful for preventing extreme infiltration and protecting ordinary people, and it must be strictly guarded as the bottom line. Yet what I see in the loess villages is another slower, simpler reality: growing up, kids are slowly shaped by family vibes, village structures, and holiday rituals to the point where it's hard to chop off all experiences built before turning "eighteen years old."

This isn't really a religious issue, but rather the traditional culture inherent in agricultural societies, the inevitable inertia of any spiritual form commemorated for thousands of years.



IV

I remember one winter when heavy snow had just fallen around Liupan Mountain and the road was still iced over. The car couldn't get through, so I had to carry my backpack, stepping on the squeaky hard snow, walking step by step into the mountains. The sky was gray and overcast, and the distant loess mountains were wrapped in a dirty white layer like an old sheepskin scroll crumpled up and barely smoothed out.

Arriving at a ravine entrance, I rested in a yellow-mud hut. The light inside was dim, the windows didn't seal tight, and the wind drilled in through the gaps bit by bit. Sitting on the kang were a family of four: two elderly people, a middle-aged woman, and a teenage boy who had just started junior high. A few faded old calendar posters hung on the wall, and a smoke-blackened scripture plaque hung in the corner.

The boy was spreading out a modern textbook, reciting the simplest scientific actions in his mouth, while his eyes kept drifting toward a broken enamel mug on the kang. Stuck inside the mug were numerous withered twigs—originally brought from the mosque entrance during a festival carrying symbolic meaning, which family members said couldn't just be thrown away casually.

I struck up a conversation with him, asking what he wanted to do in the future. He said he wanted to go to the city, learn computers, and become a teacher to teach kids "to read more characters." When he said the phrase "to read more characters," the old folks in the room smiled and said: even if you learn to read, don't forget the scriptures. The boy lowered his head and smiled somewhat awkwardly, seemingly without arguing back.

This scene can be replayed with different actors across many loess villages. The older generation views the world through religious language, while the younger generation learns another system explaining all things through textbooks and the internet. These two systems intersect inside a yellow-mud hut and on the very same kang. That year, policy said he gained the freedom to choose how to face belief, but what he truly wanted was his grandfather's enamel mug soaked in scripture sounds, his mother's nights sustained by reciting prayers during tough times, and the whole interpersonal structure of "keeping the rules" in the village.

Materialist dialectics tell me that humans are shaped within social relations. Individual "freedom" never arises out of a vacuum. You can draw a clear line with laws, but that line, marked across mountain slopes, becomes winding and blurry due to the ups and downs of the terrain.



V

I often recall those thick theoretical books I read in my early years, with yellowed pages and sharp wording. The books said that religion played complex roles in the history of social classes, offering comfort, unity, and risks of being exploited; they also said that viewing nature, society, and thinking through a scientific worldview gradually leads humanity away from mysterious reliance.

These words sound clear in a classroom and roll off the tongue easily in a meeting room. Yet when you truly walk into parched loess ravines like Xihaihe, those words suddenly grow heavy.

Where do the "drawbacks" of religion lie? I pondered back and forth on the mountain road. No, it's not surnames, nor is it subtle immersion. For someone building the foundation of a modern nation, perhaps the risk of religion appears when it hardens into rigid identity labels replacing citizen status, or when it turns into some closed sectarian logic that obscures a broader social vision, thus clashing with societal diversity. Sometimes, individuals use the guise of religion for personal gain, turning pure belief into tradable goods, harming others' rights as well as state and social order. In those moments, laws must clearly draw boundaries without ambiguity.

Yet beneath the thick earth, I saw another side. Those illiterate elders, during famine years, relied on faith to hold the bottom line of not stealing, not robbing, and not selling out neighbors; those who never stepped outside the mountain ridges their whole lives raised diligent, frugal, and trustworthy kids through simple religious teachings. Their speech was aligned, yet they knew "hearts must be pure" and "hands must be clean." These morals do not conflict with our socialist core values.

The issue isn't whether one has faith, but how to understand faith and how to arrange its relationship with scholarship, science, and public interest. The problem isn't "blood transmission," either, but letting the next generation possess true critical thinking—learning a full set of modern knowledge and value principles while also soberly viewing family religious traditions without blind superstition or casual contempt.



VI

For many years, I gathered materials in ethnological fields, conducting interviews and writing notes. As I recorded, I doubted myself. I doubted whether my language was being led astray by certain methods, and whether I was looking at the kids in the mountains from a high pedestal.

I would never stand on high to critique the "drawbacks" of a certain religion. Under national law, all religions are equal, and before academic reflection, they are equally treated—neither painted as spotless sacred images nor simply demonized.

If we really want to talk about breaking the mold, I prefer using the phrase "breaking the impasse" to ask myself: how can we let the new generation practice independent thinking without abandoning family and emotional ties? How can we let religious systems gradually transition from "bloodline labels" to "spiritual resources where individuals can walk, choose, or keep a distance" while upholding national bottom lines?

Walking along the loess ridges, I often used a simple imagery to imagine this possibility: an ancient path with a yellow-mud hut school on one side and the school courtyard wall on the other. Every day, kids walk from home to school and back home again, their soles treading the exact same dusty road. One end of the road holds the entire tradition recited by parents; the other end holds the natural science, legal common sense, and historical facts taught by teachers.

After walking this path for a long time, a habit of "comparison" naturally grows inside a kid's heart. They might not immediately deny anything, nor blindly accept it, but gently and repeatedly ask a few questions inside: "Is this true?", "On what grounds?", "Is there another explanation?". Such critical skepticism might look restless to some eyes, but in my view, it is the unmistakable beginning of materialist dialectics taking root in a living soul.



VII

On a winter night, I once sat with a rural teacher on the steps outside a broken cave dwelling. The night wind was biting, and clouds covered the sky, leaving just a corner exposed like an imperfect eye. Opposite the cave stood a small mosque, its newly replaced tin roof reflecting a sliver of cold light.

That teacher was a native Hui Muslim whose parents and he himself attended elementary school chanting scriptures, keeping fasts, and walking through festive streets. Later, he studied further, walked a bit further, and became a village primary school substitute teacher. By day he taught textbook materials, by night he tutored kids with homework, and occasionally he attended meetings listening to superiors talk about education reform and compulsory student protection.

I asked him how he views the faith issues of the village kids. He fell silent for a long time, smoking a cheap cigarette while looking at the lonely mosque roof across the way, and finally spoke a few slow sentences: When kids are little, they don't understand anything, they just imitate; whatever they see, they copy. If you're afraid they'll get dragged away by bad things, blocking their ears isn't the fix. You need to show them more things, let them hear multiple voices, and teach them discernment. Teach them law, science, respect, and make them dare to ask "why." Just teaching them fear won't work.



These words weren't pretty, but they hit hard. Reflecting on them repeatedly in different settings later, I realized this anxiety is dialectical thinking born straight out of the loess. It's not simply shouting "bans" or letting things fend for themselves, but finding a calm, fine line between "restriction" and "guidance": banning illegal extremism while ensuring people don't skip out on the right paths, resembling flipped book pages or furrowed brows. Distant focal points blur under wisps of kitchen smoke below. At that moment, people easily slip into a delusion: under the yellow loess, all other voices seem buried away.

I’m well aware that on the other side of this country, things look different: chaotic cities, skyscrapers reflecting neon lights, kids in spacious classrooms reciting stories about scientists, and information flowing like water on every screen. Different lives, different rhythms, all unfolding under the same sky.

When we talk about religion, the marginalized, or the dialectical materialism needed to "break the cycle," we shouldn't just be rushing to judge any specific village or sect. For many families in this day and age, it’s not just "bloodline-transmitted" religion; it’s consumerism and the way parents get hooked on scrolling through short-video apps for hours. Kids are growing up learning to judge value based on the latest trends and prices, and these things are influencing them just as deeply, regardless of their age or what they actually want.

If we stay alert to the generational influence of religious traditions but completely ignore these new, pervasive forces that prevent any real "individual independence," then our materialist dialectics become biased and one-sided.



Walking along these loess hills, I know that the real change needed isn't about any specific faith, but about getting rid of the lazy habit of blaming everything on "bloodlines" or "human nature." Personal awakening doesn't come from shouting anti-religious slogans or giving kids some "rationality vaccine." It happens through the slow, steady process of education that chips away at these hillsides, just like the wind carving out the ravines. Inside a small mud-brick house, three generations sit on the kang (heated brick bed). The oldest one might still be reciting prayers as a lifelong habit, finding comfort in his sunset years; the middle generation has likely worked in big cities, seen the world, learned to protect their rights through the law, and knows to tell their kids, "You have the right to choose, but whatever you choose should help you grow"; the youngest generation is learning systematic science at school, listening to teachers talk about the constitutional right to freedom of belief, knowing the country doesn't encourage superstition but protects legal religious activities, and understanding that students should focus on their studies and healthy growth.

A family might be gathered around the same table, but they’re holding onto different fragments of the world. There’s bound to be friction, debate, misunderstanding, and generational gaps. But as long as there’s one shared understanding—that national law comes before any religious or family belief, and that any religious activity must stay within the legal red lines—then no matter how much they argue, it won't lead to anything dangerous.



In this context, religion isn't some "inescapable fate in your blood" anymore; it’s something out in the open, on the table, and permitted.

At the end of the day, the term "breaking the cycle" reminds me not to expect a one-size-fits-all solution for problems buried deep in the soil and bloodlines. The loess earth is stubborn; if you hit it hard, the surface crumbles and dust flies everywhere, but it won't be rebuilt according to your blueprint. Religion is the same way; you can't just force centuries of tradition to fall into line overnight.

What can actually change, little by little, is education, the environment, language, and that spark of wisdom in the hearts of the kids growing up in these ravines.

I keep coming back to that metaphor of the dirt road. Between home and school, the village and the nation, tradition and modernity—this road isn't wide, it isn't straight, and it’s always getting washed out by the rain. Kids walk this road every day, feeling the hardness of the stones under their feet and getting used to the different perspectives they encounter. Worldviews, school knowledge, historical memory, family stories, and religious language—all these things get tangled up in their lives. Materialist dialectics are only useful when a person learns to navigate this tangle, make choices through the contradictions, avoid blind obedience or shallow contempt, and keep from getting trapped in a one-dimensional mindset.

I don’t believe that bloodlines determine a person’s beliefs for life. I also don’t believe that simple regulations can suddenly liberate someone’s mind. I only believe in that kind of clarity—the kind forged in thick soil through years of hardship, the kind that respects history while constantly reflecting on it, and the kind that stays just a little skeptical of any "absolute truth."



Eleven.

At dusk in Xihai'gu, I was heading back on the old road near Liupan Mountain. The clouds on the horizon were stretched into a dark red line, soon to be swallowed by the night. Black goats moved along the side of the road, their hooves scratching for dry grass roots on the frozen slopes. In the distance, a faint light shone from a broken-down cave dwelling.

I know that under that light, there might be a kid doing homework, writing about the material world from his textbook; or there might be an elder quietly reciting a prayer passed down by his ancestors, adding a touch of peace to the moments after dinner.

This is what makes up a real, complex Northwest China. The shadow of religion, the light of science, the boundaries of law, the memories of ethnic groups, and the priorities of the nation are all here. Splitting them into "binary opposites" or slapping on labels of "bad" or "good" is unfair to this land and unfair to the people living on it.

The most I can do is record these shadows and lights, reminding myself: when we talk about an "independent perspective," we must never forget the feet walking on this loess soil or the ears that hear both the scratching of a pen and the sound of prayer. True freedom isn't an abstract slogan; it’s the courage and clarity that each individual life slowly grows under protection.

Night presses down, turning the loess into a blurry wash of ink. I pull up my collar and walk back along the old path. I know that some questions don't have answers yet—like what the future of religion will look like on this land, or how the new generation will find their footing between bloodlines and their own choices.

Maybe one day, when new schools light up more mountain ridges, when scientific and academic education seep into more mud-brick houses like clear water, and when generations of kids get used to treating every suggestion from home with inquiry and thought, the term "bloodline-transmitted" will lose its intensity and just become a footnote in history.

But I don’t know when that day will come or how it will arrive.

I only know that as long as I can still walk these roads, I will come back to these loess mountains again. I’ll go to those lights, listen to the echo of study sessions and prayers, and ask myself in the depths of my heart: On this thick soil, is it possible to weave our understanding of religion, our protection of human dignity, and our confidence in materialist dialectics into a net that holds up both the weight of tradition and the lightness of the future?

I’ll leave that question mark here, hanging in the wind of Xihai'gu, to be tested by the loess and the snow over time. view all

We are taking a deep dive into how Takaful (mutual insurance) actually works within the modern world of Islamic finance. We are going to break it down objectively, looking at the commercial costs, the real-world coverage, and the core Shariah principles that forbid Gharar (excessive uncertainty) and Riba (interest/usury).

I’ve talked about the basics and the underlying issues of Takaful on my live streams. Even though most people don’t really deal with this, I wouldn’t choose Takaful insurance even if I were living in Malaysia. The bottom line is that it’s expensive and the coverage is weak. Most people in Malaysia end up choosing traditional insurance because, for the same price, you actually get better protection. To back this up, I’ve picked out three specific papers to analyze:

Muhammad Anwar, 'Comparative Study of Insurance and Takaful (Islamic Insurance)' (1994, Pakistan Development Review).

Atiquzzafar Khan, 'Islamic Insurance in Theory and Practice: A Critical Appraisal' (2013).

Abdulazeem Abozaid, 'A Critical Shariah Review of Takaful Structures Towards a Better Model' (MPRA Paper 93015, 2016).

These three papers systematically critique mainstream Takaful theories. I’ve summarized some of the authors' key points here. Of course, these scholars aren't saying Takaful is completely invalid—they offer some improvements—but to me, those suggestions feel like purely academic talk. From their perspective, it sounds like only a charity could ever fully live up to the original spirit of Takaful.

In the late 1970s, Takaful was launched as the Shariah-compliant alternative to traditional commercial insurance. Because conventional insurance involves Muʿāwada (exchange contracts) that often contain Gharar (uncertainty), Maysir (gambling/speculation), and Riba (unequal exchange of like assets), most Shariah boards flagged it as having major legal defects. The core solution for Takaful was to redefine premiums as Tabarruʿ (conditional donation). Classical jurisprudence considers donation contracts more flexible regarding uncertainty, meaning Gharar doesn't automatically void them. With this framework, the Accounting and Auditing Organization for Islamic Financial Institutions (AAOIFI) built the current model: participants donate to a risk fund; a joint-stock operator manages the fund for a fee; the fund assets belong to the participants, not the shareholders; underwriting surpluses go to the participants; and if there is a deficit, the operator can provide a Qard Hasan (interest-free benevolent loan) to cover it.

However, from the very beginning of its commercialization, Shariah scholars were already pushing back. In a 1992 report, the Council of Islamic Ideology of Pakistan (CIIP) even ruled that the commercial Takaful institutions existing at the time didn't fully comply with Shariah requirements. This triggered a debate that lasted from the 90s through the 2010s: does simply renaming contracts and filtering for Shariah-compliant investments really solve the fundamental legal issues inherent in commercial insurance?

I. Muhammad Anwar: Early critiques of commercial Takaful in the 90s and his proposed fixes.

Muhammad Anwar’s 1994 paper represents the reflective academic perspective of the 90s. He pointed out that while commercial Takaful avoids putting money into interest-bearing assets, the actual nature of the transactions hasn't changed—the Tabarruʿ (donation) is essentially just a legal fiction.

The core of a classical Tabarruʿ donation is that it should be selfless, not meant for a return. But in reality, people pay into Takaful specifically to get a payout if they face property loss, death, or sickness; it's not a selfless donation to a mutual pool. Meanwhile, the premiums are still calculated exactly like traditional insurance based on value, age, and risk levels, and the claim processes are near-carbon copies of standard insurance. The CIIP posed a dilemma: if the payment is a debt, the principal should be returned; if it’s a Mudaraba (profit-sharing) investment, you can’t use the profits of some participants to cover the losses of others. Reality Takaful sidesteps both classical contracts and just uses 'donation' as a mask.

Under these conditions, the three major Shariah prohibitions still show up in Takaful. First, there's Gharar (excessive uncertainty). Defenders claim the law of large numbers and actuarial science manage the risk, but critics point out that for the individual, the payout is still highly uncertain—will it happen? How much? When? A donation contract might handle some uncertainty, but not unlimited, massive Gharar. Family Takaful is even worse because it doesn't follow loss-compensation principles. Second, there’s the Maysir (gambling) incentive: participants pay a fixed fee and might get a huge payout or lose their money, which breeds moral hazards like lying on applications or fake claims. Third, there is the risk of Riba (unequal exchange of like assets). It's still essentially money-for-money: you get more back than you paid if you have a claim, or you lose the principal if you don't. Even though some scholars argue premiums aren't loans, Anwar believes there’s no consensus here.

Regarding operations, Anwar highlighted several flaws. Surplus distribution rules vary wildly; some Malaysian institutions only pay out to those who didn't file a claim, which the CIIP criticized as punishing those who already suffered a loss. For deficits, the Qard Hasan (interest-free loan) is used, which shifts the burden to shareholders rather than the members sharing the loss, turning a tool for individual charity into a permanent corporate safety net. Governance is also an issue: participants own the risk pool assets but have no voting rights. Shariah boards only check contracts, they don't solve the conflict of interest between shareholders and participants. Re-Takaful is also scarce, leading many firms to just use traditional reinsurance under the principle of Darura (necessity).

While Anwar acknowledged the validity of the CIIP’s critique (which suggested a state-run Waqf model), he also questioned it: state institutions are often inefficient, and just calling it a Waqf doesn't solve the fundamental Gharar problem. Eventually, the CIIP softened its stance, admitting that private institutions could participate if they met specific Shariah criteria.

Anwar didn't want to abolish Takaful; he proposed fixes. First, treat excess payouts as a Qard Hasan loan from the pool to the beneficiary, which should be paid back, with Zakat (obligatory charity) or the pool used only if the person is truly broke. This would remove the incentive to 'game' the system. Second, prioritize repairing or replacing damaged items instead of paying cash, to weaken the 'money-for-money' Riba suspicion. Interestingly, this was refuted in the same journal by Muhammad Hussain, who noted that Riba isn't defined by whether you pay in cash or goods—the fundamental issues of Gharar and gambling would still exist.

II. Atiquzzafar Khan: A critique of governance and the 'assets without power' issue for participants.

In his 2013 dissertation, Atiquzzafar Khan shifted the focus to corporate governance. Under the standard Wakalah-Mudaraba model, participants technically own the Participant Takaful Fund (PTF), but the operator is a commercial corporation. Participants don't own shares, have no voting power, and no say in how surpluses are handled. Shariah boards are limited to reviewing product contracts and investment lists, lacking the power to stop shareholders from prioritizing their own profits.

Khan focused on the Qard Hasan loan mechanism. When the fund runs a deficit, shareholders provide a 'benevolent' loan to be paid back by future participant surpluses. In reality, if the operator takes a huge cut of the surplus as a performance incentive, the loan never gets paid back, and the Qard Hasan effectively becomes a tool for shareholders to cover their commercial risks. He argued that only a pure, cooperative mutual model could solve these conflicts, but that’s nearly impossible under modern corporate law.

III. Abdulazeem Abozaid: Questioning the Tabarruʿ fiction and proposing an Ibaha (permissibility) alternative.

Abdulazeem Abozaid (2016) pushed the critique to a deeper level of contract law. He cited a legal maxim: judge a contract by its substance and the intention of the parties, not just the wording. A true Tabarruʿ (donation) requires three things: the intent to give without a return, it must be irrevocable, and the ownership of the item must fully transfer to the recipient.

Abozaid went through the standard Takaful structure step-by-step: participants pay to get coverage, not to donate; the business allows you to cancel the policy and get money back, which contradicts the 'irrevocability' of a donation; and the contract creates a two-way obligation. Because the participant gives and then receives a promise of compensation, it’s effectively a 'donation-for-donation' swap. This makes it a Muʿāwada contract, and the Gharar prohibition kicks back in. Also, the Takaful fund often isn't a separate legal entity, yet it’s treated as a party to the contract, which is a total legal fiction and a breeding ground for conflicts of interest.

Abozaid also criticized the 'Waqf' (endowment) Takaful model. Waqf property is supposed to be permanent and not consumed. But Takaful needs to use the money to pay out claims, so they treat each premium as a 'new' donation into the Waqf. It lands right back in the same trap: participants donate but expect a return, which violates the donation rules. Changing the name to Waqf doesn't solve the contradiction.

Abozaid also called out the messy reality of surplus distribution. While standards say the surplus belongs to participants, many firms take the lion's share as 'performance incentives' for management. Standards even allow operators to donate the surplus to charity without asking the participants, which ignores the participants' role as owners. As for the Qard Hasan loans, he provided three critiques: it binds loans to agency/Mudaraba contracts (which isn't encouraged), it's unfair to new participants who have to cover old deficits, and it doesn't get paid back when operators hoard the profits, making it look exactly like traditional insurance.

Since both the Tabarruʿ and Waqf paths have legal flaws, Abozaid looked at the classical Arab tradition of 'Nihd'—a custom where travelers would pool their food to eat together, with no transfer of ownership, and everyone keeping what remained. Even though there was uncertainty about how much each person would eat, early scholars accepted this as a valid form of mutual aid.

The core rules of the Ibaha (permissibility) model: participants pay into a pool that everyone has permission to use; ownership stays with the participants at all times; a person filing a claim is getting 'permission' to take from the pool, not receiving a 'donation'. The operator acts only as a Wakalah (agent) for a flat fee and is banned from taking the surplus. The Qard Hasan loan is abolished; if the pool runs out, the participants would have to contribute more or end the policy. Surpluses belong exclusively to the participants.

Abozaid admits that the Ibaha model is currently just a theoretical concept with no large-scale commercial footprint. The paper doesn't offer a practical roadmap for how participants would actually vote on major decisions or how to make this fit into modern insurance regulations. Even among Shariah scholars, there's disagreement on whether a historical custom like Ibaha can simply be moved into modern, large-scale financial risk management. view all

This article offers an in-depth look at the evolution of Kosher food in modern society. We’ll break down the journey from home-based traditions to industrialized food certification, the cutthroat competition between commercial giants, and the historic debates surrounding issues like gelatin and animal stunning, providing a comparative perspective for understanding modern Halal certification.

While writing this, I noticed a book by an author from a sister faith that covers almost the exact same ground as my previous piece. You could practically swap out the group names, and the debates—whether it’s pig-derived gelatin, pre-slaughter stunning, or the sturgeon issue—are all essentially the same arguments found in the Halal world. Here is the lowdown on that book for any of you looking for a rational take on how these traditions are evolving.



Roger Horowitz’s book, 'Kosher USA: How Coke Became Kosher and Other Tales of Modern Food,' was published in 2016.

When historians write about the history of American food, why do they so often skip over Kosher? How did ancient Jewish dietary laws actually survive in a secular, industrialized society? It’s not just a simple food question; at its core, it’s about how ancient religious practices handle the demands of modernity. Most stories out there come from corporate PR, painting a neat picture where religious tradition smoothly integrates into the industrial machine and hits the supermarket shelves. As a historian, Horowitz argues that history isn't just a straight line to a happy ending, and much of the evidence supporting those narratives is actually rooted in commercial agendas.

In some cases, food companies can bake Kosher requirements right into their production lines; in others, these standards get pushed to the fringes, invisible to the average non-Jewish consumer. The author’s own family experience—with its mix of Orthodox, Conservative, and non-practicing members—helped him realize that the debate over 'what is actually Kosher' is a fundamental part of the Jewish tradition itself. Those arguments at the family dinner table are really a micro-version of larger socio-religious conflicts.

I. The Sturgeon Debate: A Millennial Tug-of-War Between Scripture, Commentary, and Custom

At a family dinner after Yom Kippur, the Conservative grandfather served sturgeon, but the Orthodox in-laws refused to sit down, as they didn't consider it Kosher. Behind this dinner table drama is a debate over religious law that has been going on for a thousand years.

According to the Book of Deuteronomy, for a sea creature to be Kosher, it must have both fins and scales that can be removed. Sturgeon have fins and hard, bony bumps on their skin, so the argument boils down to whether those bumps count as the 'scales' mentioned in the scripture.

There has long been a split in Jewish tradition. Maimonides argued that scales must be removable, though he allowed Jews in Turkey to eat small sturgeon. The Rema later tightened the standard, insisting that scales must be removable by hand or tool; because sturgeon’s bony plates are deeply embedded in the flesh and tearing them would ruin the meat, he concluded they aren't 'real' scales, which became the mainstream view among Ashkenazi Jews. However, Rabbi Ezekiel Landau of Prague issued a counter-ruling, arguing that if you soak the bony plates in lye, they can be removed, making sturgeon Kosher. This sparked a massive controversy, even leading to a scandal where later scholars allegedly faked a retraction from Landau.

The disagreement didn't fade with time and made its way into 20th-century America. While Orthodox Jews generally avoid sturgeon, the American Conservative Jewish movement officially ruled it Kosher in 1967. Horowitz uses this to point out that ancient texts don't automatically give you one clear, modern answer; regional customs (minhag) and later rabbinical interpretations continue to shape the practical law. When you drop these debates into a modern industrial society, the friction gets multiplied.

II. Kosher Certification for Coca-Cola: How Food Science Redefined Religious Oversight

Back in 1931, Rabbi Pardes of Chicago granted Kosher certification to Coca-Cola. But he only did a visual walk-through of the factory, knew nothing about food chemistry, and completely missed the issue of glycerin in the formula. At the time, industrial glycerin was mostly made from the bones and fat of non-Kosher animals. After Orthodox Rabbi Tobias Geffen of Atlanta received inquiries from rabbis across the country, he got permission to look at the secret formula and hired an independent chemist, who confirmed that Coke contained 0.09% glycerin.

This brings up the famous Jewish legal principle of 'bitul b’shishim' (nullification by a factor of sixty): if an impure substance is accidentally mixed in and makes up less than 1/60th of the total, its impure status is considered nullified. But Geffen made a strict ruling: that principle only applies to accidental contamination; glycerin was an intentionally added, functional ingredient, so even at such a tiny percentage, the nullification rule didn't apply. Therefore, the Coke of that era was not Kosher.

The solution came through ingredient substitution: Procter & Gamble began producing plant-based glycerin from cottonseed oil, and for Passover production, they replaced grain-based alcohol with alcohol fermented from molasses. In 1935, Geffen officially ruled that Coca-Cola was Kosher for Passover.

This chapter brings to light a key figure often glossed over by the Orthodox Union’s (OU) official narrative: Abraham Goldstein, a chemist and founder of OK-Labs (Organized Kashrus Laboratories). As a secular-trained chemist, Goldstein insisted that modern Kosher vetting couldn't just rely on rabbis visually touring a factory—you had to understand food chemistry and audit the entire production process. He started a publication called 'Kosher Food Guide' to answer thousands of consumer questions about processed foods. He harshly criticized Pardes, arguing that accepting corporate ad money for certification was a conflict of interest, especially when making religious rulings without knowing the chemistry.

Goldstein also got involved in the 'Junket' product controversy. Junket used rennet derived from the fourth stomach of non-Kosher calves. Pardes cited ancient methods, arguing that once the stomach tissue is dried, it doesn't transfer flavor, so it's Kosher. Goldstein countered that modern industry doesn't use those ancient drying methods; the extraction happens in a wet, industrial environment where flavor transfer definitely occurs, making Junket non-Kosher.

But Goldstein’s views were met with pushback from Orthodox rabbinical groups, who publicly declared him unreliable and tried to kill his publication. History is full of irony: the core principle Goldstein proposed—that Kosher vetting must involve chemistry and not just rely on a company’s written word—was eventually adopted by the major Orthodox organizations, even though his own contribution was erased from their history.

A new crisis hit in 1957 when Procter & Gamble updated their glycerin process to a continuous flow model, where plant-based and animal-based glycerin shared the same piping, creating a risk of cross-contamination. Even with the company’s written assurances, the risk of 'b'lios' (flavor transfer) remained, so P&G invested $30,000 to build a dedicated, physically isolated production line for plant-based glycerin.

The whole Coca-Cola saga created a lasting industry standard: modern Kosher certification can't just look at the ingredient list; you have to understand the entire chemical process and evaluate the risk of cross-contamination in the equipment, rather than just trusting the company's word.

III. The Jell-O Debate: 'Ponim Chadashos' (New Substance) and the Interfaith Divide

When an originally impure substance is completely transformed into something entirely new, does the original religious ban disappear? This concept is strikingly similar to the 'istiḥālah' (transformation of substance) debate in Islamic jurisprudence regarding pork-based gelatin.

The core ingredient of Jell-O is gelatin, and in the mid-20th century, most industrial gelatin was made from pigskin or bones from non-Kosher slaughtered livestock. A long-running debate broke out in the American Jewish community over whether chemical hydrolysis turned pork-derived gelatin into 'ponim chadashos' (a new substance), becoming a major ideological dividing line between Orthodox and Conservative Jewish movements.

The more lenient camp was led by the Lithuanian Rabbi Grodzinski. His logic: the biblical prohibition on bones is limited; the bones lose their edible value during chemical processing; and through strong acid, alkali, and high-temperature hydrolysis, the resulting gelatin is an entirely new substance compared to the original bone or hide, thus satisfying the 'ponim chadashos' standard. This view gained support among some American rabbis in the 1930s and 40s, and Jell-O even held Kosher certification for a time.

The strict camp, led by Goldstein, insisted on the principle 'kol ha-yotzei min ha-tamei tamei': that which comes from the impure is impure. They questioned whether industrial hydrolysis truly counted as the kind of fundamental transformation described in the scripture and the Talmud. Meanwhile, after WWII, the American industry shifted, making pigskin the primary ingredient in gelatin due to economic advantages, which only fueled the fire.

In 1951, General Foods got certification from two rabbis associated with the Agudath Israel group and heavily marketed Jell-O as Kosher. But an investigation later revealed the plant was using large amounts of pigskin, and the certification was pulled. Since then, the mainstream Orthodox position in America has solidified: commercial gelatin made via chemical hydrolysis does not qualify for 'ponim chadashos,' and the source must be from animals that were slaughtered according to Kosher rules. Therefore, standard Jell-O is not Kosher.

The Conservative movement went the other way. In 1969, Rabbi Isaac Klein issued a formal ruling arguing that chemical hydrolysis does achieve 'ponim chadashos,' accepting the Kosher status of pig-derived gelatin and endorsing Jell-O. Klein admitted that, emotionally, it was hard to accept a product from a pig, but he maintained that this was just an emotional factor, not a barrier under religious law.

From that point on, a box of Jell-O became a litmus test for Jewish identity in America: whether or not you ate it marked you as either Orthodox or Conservative. The business world didn't wait for a religious consensus; General Foods just found a few independent rabbis to certify them so they could keep the 'K' symbol on their boxes. But the market spoke: many Orthodox consumers simply refused to buy products with non-Kosher gelatin. Dannon yogurt, for example, saw sales drop after adding gelatin, eventually removing it to regain certification from the OU (Orthodox Union).

Horowitz points out that this debate exposed the inner dilemma of ancient religion facing modern chemical engineering: the scriptures and ancient rabbinical texts never saw modern, large-scale chemical hydrolysis coming. The crux of the debate wasn't just interpreting scripture; it was a factual judgment: did industrial processing actually create a 'new' substance? Religious rulings became highly dependent on understanding real-world industrial production.

IV. Who Has the Right to Judge Kosher: The Power Games of the Certification Industry

In the early days, America had no unified Kosher certification system. Consumers mostly relied on two things: reading ingredient labels or trusting the personal judgment of a local rabbi. The 1938 Federal Food, Drug, and Cosmetic Act made ingredient labeling mandatory, but labels only show what's added, not invisible cross-contamination or hidden processing aids. Relying on the label wasn't enough, which made on-site supervision (a 'mashgiach,' or Kosher supervisor) essential.

The OK-Labs founded by Goldstein was a pioneer in commercial contract-based Kosher certification, but his deep involvement in religious rulings as a layman earned him the hostility of Orthodox rabbinical groups. The Orthodox Union (OU) also went through a long internal power struggle: the lay management handled the business side, while the rabbinical board held the final say on religious law. Early on, the OU was terrified of another 'Goldstein incident' and was wary of lay interference. After several rounds of negotiation, the OU set up a joint Kosher division, reaching a compromise: rabbis hold the final authority on Kosher status, while laypeople handle the business side.

The OU registered the Circle-U symbol as a trademark, using secular trademark law to turn religious rulings into commercially enforceable labels. But a new problem arose: there were tons of independent rabbis out there giving out 'K' symbols, leading to 'rabbi shopping,' where companies would seek out individual rabbis willing to certify their specific product—Jell-O being a classic example.

This chapter reveals the double-edged sword of the modern Kosher industry: institutionalized certification solved the confusion of scattered local rulings, but created new conflicts. Corporate interests, rabbinical authority, food science expertise, and consumer demands—these four forces are constantly pulling against each other, and the issues of conflicts of interest and certification shopping have never been fully resolved.

V. The Achievements and Boundaries of Industrialized Kosher

For many companies, the Kosher mark isn't just about the Jewish market; Muslims and vegetarians often buy Kosher products too, providing a nice bonus. Companies are willing to spend the money to retrofit production lines and add separation equipment just to get that Kosher stamp.

But this fusion has its limits. Companies usually only want to do the bare minimum to get certified; as soon as the market shifts, they'll pull the special equipment. In a globalized supply chain, additives like spices, enzymes, emulsifiers, glycerin, and gelatin come from all over the world. Certification agencies have to track the entire supply chain, not just the factory where the final product is made. And since standards vary between agencies, it just encourages companies to 'shop around' for the easiest certification.

Overall, Kosher and industrial systems have integrated most successfully in beverages, snacks, and dairy. But in areas like meat and wine, the unique legal requirements create structural conflicts that are really hard to fit into a standard industrial assembly line.

VI. Wine, Meat, and Religious Slaughter

From the crushing of the grapes to the final bottling, every step of the winemaking process must be handled by observant Jews; if a non-observant person touches the wine, it loses its Kosher status.

American wine production is highly automated, and most assembly line workers aren't observant Jews, so meeting the religious requirements is incredibly expensive. Manischewitz spent years negotiating with rabbis to see how much machine automation could replace human labor, and rabbis are deeply split on this. Unlike soft drinks, which don't have the special restrictions of 'yen nesekh' (wine touched by non-Jews), wine carries the baggage of strict ancient prohibitions against idolatry, making it a weak link in the wave of Kosher industrialization.

Meat is the core of the Kosher system, and it’s also the area with the most chaos. Harry Kassel was a well-known Kosher meat dealer in the 20th century. Kosher meat requires two main conditions: the animal must be of a permitted species, and it must undergo 'shechita' (Jewish religious slaughter). After the slaughter, the fat and blood vessels must be removed, and the lungs must be checked for damage (treifah). If there are any adhesions or injuries, the whole animal is discarded. A huge number of animals slaughtered don't end up passing the test.

This creates a sharp economic conflict: large slaughterhouses want to maximize efficiency, but Kosher slaughter and the subsequent inspection process drive up costs and lead to massive waste. Throughout the 20th century, fraud was common in the American market: the slaughter was done in name only, skipping critical inspections or selling non-Kosher meat as Kosher, and scandals about 'mashgiachim' (supervisors) being bribed by businesses were endless. Kassel fought hard to maintain a high-standard supply chain, but he was under constant commercial pressure.

Shechita (Jewish religious slaughter) involves using a razor-sharp knife to cut the trachea and esophagus, and the animal is not stunned before slaughter. The Jewish community argues from a theological standpoint that this method minimizes animal suffering; animal rights groups, however, have long criticized it as cruel and pushed for laws to mandate pre-slaughter stunning, while the Jewish community defends it as a matter of religious freedom. In reality, on high-speed industrial lines, animals still endure significant stress even with shechita, and it’s nearly impossible for a supervisor to properly oversee the process on a fast-moving production line.

In the past, debates over Kosher were all internal, based on scripture and commentary. But in the late 20th century, secular animal welfare ethics emerged as an external force, posing a whole new challenge to traditional religious slaughter—an issue the ancient legal texts never saw coming. view all

We have documented 7 classic Chinese-style mosque complexes in the Xunhua Salar Autonomous County of Qinghai through a collection of 220 high-definition, real-life photos. From the flying eaves and upturned corners of the prayer halls to the exquisite brick and wood carvings, this project captures the architectural treasures of the Salar people in the Hehuang Valley.

Quick note: This article is about 5,000 words long and includes 220 photos.

All text and images are original; copyright infringement will be prosecuted.

The origins of the Salar people can be traced back to the Salur tribe of the Oghuz Turkic tribal alliance in Central Asia. The Salur tribe is listed among the descendants of the twenty-four Oghuz branches in the Jami' al-tawarikh (Compendium of Chronicles). By the 11th century, there was still a branch of the Turkmens known as 'Salar,' which is the direct ancestral lineage of the Salar people. The ancestors of the Salar began moving eastward around the Yuan Dynasty, with some theories suggesting they traveled with the Mongol expeditionary forces in 1225. The mainstream view on their starting point is Sarakhs in modern-day Iran; the Tejen River (Hari Rud) flowing through this area originates from the Hindu Kush mountains in Afghanistan and eventually vanishes into the heart of the Karakum Desert in Turkmenistan.





▲ Autumn in Xunhua

Folk narratives turned the Salar migration into the legend of the Camel Spring: Brothers Galeman and Aheman led their people eastward, pulling a white camel carrying the soil, water, and a copy of the Quran from their homeland. When they reached Jiezi, the white camel transformed into stone and lay down by a spring. Seeing that the water and soil were similar to their home, they settled down. Over time, they lived and intermarried with the surrounding Han, Tibetan, Hui, and Mongol peoples, forming a new ethnic community by the Ming Dynasty.

During this process, 'Agni' (derived from the Turkic words for 'older brother' and 'younger brother'), based on patrilineal blood ties, became the basic organizational unit of grassroots society, playing a crucial role in maintaining social internal relations among the Salar.







▲ The Salar People







▲ Salar Prayer (Dua)

Salar history took a profound turn during the Qing Dynasty: In the eighth year of the Yongzheng reign, the Qing court, seeking to bring them under 'royal influence,' granted the name 'Xunhua' and established the Xunhua Sub-prefecture. Following this, the region experienced major events like the anti-Qing uprising in the 46th year of the Qianlong reign, the Shaanxi-Gansu Hui uprising during the Tongzhi reign, and the 'Hehuang Incident' during the Guangxi reign. Salar grassroots society continued to evolve under the development of the Tusi (local chieftain) system, the Gazui (religious leader) system, and the feudal landlord system. Today, the Salar people number about 100,000, mainly living in the Yellow River valley across Xunhua, Hualong, and Jishishan counties, speaking the Salar language, which belongs to the Turkic language family.



▲ Jiezi Grand Mosque in Xunhua County







▲ A glimpse of Qingshuihe Township in the Yellow River Valley

Salar homes are primarily unique 'fence-style buildings' (libaolou). They use a post-and-lintel timber frame structure made of pine, while the walls are built with an internal lattice of saplings and shrub branches rather than mud bricks or masonry. Both sides are plastered with mud, leaving a hollow space in the middle. This design saves material, reduces weight, and provides ventilation and insulation, making the homes warm in winter and cool in summer. Ornate carvings are often found on the doors, windows, and beams. These houses are typically two stories: the upper floor serves as bedrooms and guest rooms, while the ground floor is used for storage and livestock pens. The layout is mostly a three-sided courtyard, with the main room, entrance, and side rooms arranged to suit the terrain.



▲ Salar traditional home in Mengda Dazhuang





▲ Salar traditional home in Tashapo Village



▲ Salar traditional clothing







▲ Salar household items

Salar mosques are characterized by expansive internal wooden prayer halls and helmet-shaped minarets. Under the Chinese-style building shell, they retain the function of climbing to call for prayer, which echoes Central Asian architectural traditions. They integrate local Hehuang construction techniques; the helmet-shaped minarets often feature layered beam frames—such as the well-style, lifting-beam, and curved-shed styles—topped with intricate, overlapping roofs that are both structured and visually distinct.

01

Hongshuiquan Mosque

Seventh batch of Major Historical and Cultural Sites Protected at the National Level

Hongshuiquan Mosque is located in Hongshuiquan Village, Hongshuiquan Hui Ethnic Township, Ping'an District, hidden deep in the mountains south of the Huangshui Valley. It was first built in the second year of the Ming Yongle reign. Since then, it has undergone five renovations and expansions, reaching its current complete layout during the Qianlong period of the Qing Dynasty. The Qianlong-era expansion took 13 years, funded by local Muslims, with hundreds of Han, Tibetan, and Hui craftsmen from places like Shanxi participating, eventually setting the standards seen today.



▲ Hongshuiquan Village



▲ Hongshuiquan Mosque

The Hongshuiquan Mosque faces west towards the east (Islamic architecture requires the Qibla wall and Mihrab to face Mecca, so the complex is oriented away from Mecca), with the entrance facing south, consisting of two courtyards. The imitation wood blue-brick screen wall is 10 meters long and 6 meters high, featuring five-step dougong (traditional interlocking brackets) under the eaves and an imitation hip-and-gable roof with ridge beasts. In the center of the screen wall, there is a diamond-shaped frame containing brick carvings of 'Kylin and Phoenix bringing prosperity.' The four corners feature carvings of pumpkins, Buddha's hand citrus, pomegranates, and longevity peaches. The wall is based on a hexagonal embroidered flower pattern, with 255 unique flower patterns carved into the center of each, featuring peonies, lotus flowers, pomegranates, Buddha's hand, and gourds, interspersed with lions, bats, and the character for 'Longevity' (Shou). Locals call this the 'Hundred Flower Picture' or 'Hundred Steamed Bun Picture,' as it is said the craftsmen were inspired by the floral patterns local women steamed into their bread. The top of the screen wall features a Taiji diagram, the base is decorated with lotus pedestals, and both sides feature carvings of 'lions playing with embroidered balls' and 'senior and junior lions.'

The structure of the main gate is astonishing; it lacks a main beam, with the top constructed by stacking short wooden pieces in a crisscross pattern. The enormous load of the roof is dispersed through layers of dougong brackets, a technique folk-named 'two ghosts carrying the burden.' The brick carvings on the screen walls on both sides of the gate are equally sophisticated: one side depicts 'mice stealing grapes,' implying many children and much happiness; the other depicts a 'Kylin with a pine tree,' symbolizing a lucky creature guarding wealth and a Kylin bestowing children.

























▲ Hongshuiquan Mosque main gate

Passing through the main gate, the minaret comes into view. This is a triple-eaved, hexagonal, pyramid-roof pavilion—distinct from the more common octagonal shapes in Buddhist or Taoist architecture. It stands about 20 meters high, with stacked eaves and soaring wings, narrowing layer by layer as it rises. It features airy corridors and lattice windows, giving it a towering, elegant, and expansive appearance. The dougong on each level are different, becoming more intricate as they reach the top. The interior is supported by two massive 'heaven-reaching pillars' that extend to the top to hold the helmet-shaped roof, with 12 outer wooden pillars; the overall structure is known as 'Erlang carrying the mountain with twelve cows.' The ground-floor brick carvings depict 'cats leaping and butterflies dancing' and 'rabbits guarding Chinese cabbage.' Since cats and butterflies sound like the word for 'old age' (maodie) and cabbage sounds like 'hundred wealth' (baicai), these designs blend secular wishes with spiritual belief.















































▲ Hongshuiquan Mosque minaret

To the west of the minaret lies the core building of the mosque: the prayer hall. It consists of a front hall and a rear kiln hall, with roofs connected in a series of rising and falling heights, creating a rhythmic, layered appearance in the limited courtyard space. The front hall is five rooms wide and seven rooms deep, with a T-shaped plan, a single-eave hip-and-gable roof, and a treasure roof on the main ridge. The ridge features clearly layered brick carvings of flowers. The front porch column heads use corbels to support the beam frames, while the wooden lintels are carved with 'two dragons playing with a pearl,' 'dragons and phoenixes,' and 'dragons and tigers.' The screen walls on both sides of the front hall feature rich and lively brick carvings of 'peacocks playing with peonies,' 'mandarin ducks playing in the water,' 'pomegranates with many seeds,' and various flowers.



























▲ Hongshuiquan Mosque prayer hall

The interior of the prayer hall is unpainted and plain, famous for its exquisite wooden structure, which represents the climax of the mosque's decorative art. The kiln hall features a double-eave hip-and-gable roof. The upper part is a 'heavenly palace pavilion,' with balcony railings, partitioned doors, and dougong carved in layers. The ceiling in the center is an octagonal caisson (sunken panel), which recedes inward in layers, looking like a giant open umbrella—thus it is called the 'Sky-Dropped Umbrella.' The screen doors in the lower part of the kiln hall are carved with mountains, flowers, and pavilions, and the door skirt panels are engraved with the character for 'Longevity' (Shou) in different fonts. The Mihrab is shaped like a vase with carved flowers at the mouth, and the flower petals are decorated with the Eight Auspicious Symbols of Tibetan Buddhism.







▲ Hongshuiquan Mosque kiln hall















▲ Hongshuiquan Mosque prayer hall interior











▲ Hongshuiquan Mosque kiln hall interior



▲ Hongshuiquan Mosque Mihrab











▲ Hongshuiquan Mosque kiln hall's 'heavenly palace pavilion' and its caisson ceiling

Outside the prayer hall, the mosque still has auxiliary buildings like study rooms, which, along with the screen wall, main gate, and minaret, form a main-secondary complex that conforms to the mountain terrain. The decorative elements throughout the mosque are perfectly placed, blending cultures from various ethnic groups. Animal figures like dragons, phoenixes, Kylins, and lions, as well as the Taiji diagram, the Eight Immortals, the four arts (qin, chess, calligraphy, painting), plum blossoms, orchids, bamboo, chrysanthemums, and the Eight Auspicious Symbols of Tibetan Buddhism, all appear in abundance.

02

Ahetan Mosque

Seventh Batch of Major Historical and Cultural Sites Protected at the National Level

The Ahetan Mosque is tucked away in Ahetan Village, Gendu Town, Hualong County, right on the north bank of the Yellow River. Originally built in the third year of the Zhiyuan era of the Yuan Dynasty (1322), it was constructed by the ancestors of the Salar people when they migrated from the south bank of the river. It was expanded during the Wanli era of the Ming Dynasty and repaired again in the forty-fifth year of the Qianlong era of the Qing Dynasty, yet it has preserved its original Yuan and Ming architectural layout and style. Facing east, the mosque follows a courtyard layout consisting of a screen wall, a main gate, a minaret (call-to-prayer tower), the main prayer hall, and study rooms, all seamlessly integrated in a balanced design.



Ahetan Mosque

The main gate faces the screen wall and is a brick-and-wood structure with three bays, four pillars, and three gabled roofs. It features elaborate nine-step, four-curve dougong (traditional interlocking wooden brackets) in a 'pin' shape, with the Five Pillars of Islam—Shahada (faith), Salah (prayer), Zakat (charity), Sawm (fasting), and Hajj (pilgrimage)—carved onto the lintel.





Ahetan Mosque Main Gate

The minaret is a three-story, hexagonal, pavilion-style tower about nine meters high. The base is built of brick while the upper levels are wood. It features swooping eaves, dragon and tiger-head roof tiles, and a distinctive hexagonal helmet-shaped roof.















Ahetan Mosque Minaret

The main prayer hall faces east and is massive in scale, with the front hall and the mihrab (prayer niche) chamber connected. It has a single-eave, hip-and-gable roof covered in grey tiles. The main and side roof ridges feature intricate and beautiful brick carvings of flowers. The exterior walls under the eaves are also stacked with grey bricks. Inside, the walls are left unpainted and plain, while numerous pointed arch windows make the space feel bright and airy.









Ahetan Mosque Main Prayer Hall













Ahetan Mosque Interior





Ahetan Mosque Mihrab Chamber Interior

03

Jiezi Gongbei

Seventh Batch of Major Historical and Cultural Sites Protected at the National Level

The Jiezi Gongbei is located in Jiezi Town, Xunhua County, within a Sufi Daotang (monastery). It is a vital sacred site for the Qadiriyya (Arabic for 'the capable ones') order—one of the four major Sufi orders in China—and serves as the birthplace of its 'Four Gate' branch. It houses the tomb of Han Chengxiang (known by his religious name, Musa), the founder of the Four Gate Qadiriyya. (The term 'Gongbei' is a transliteration of the Persian 'Gonbad' or Turkic 'Kumbet', meaning tomb or dome).







Jiezi Daotang

Han Chengxiang traveled twice to the Daotang in Yarkant (Shache, Xinjiang) in 1858 and 1883 to seek guidance from masters. During his time in Yarkant, he accompanied the Khwaja (Arabic for a respected elder) of the Daotang on Hajj to Mecca. After studying the theories of the four major Sufi orders, he was sent back to his hometown in 1877 to spread the teachings. He returned to Xunhua again in 1889 by his master's order, where he continued to spread the Four Gate Qadiriyya until his passing in the twenty-sixth year of the Guangxu era (1900). He was originally buried in the public cemetery next to the Great Mosque of Jiezi, moved to its current location in 1950, and saw the Gongbei rebuilt in 1984 and again in 1998.

The Jiezi Gongbei is an eight-sided, three-story pavilion-style structure about 25 meters tall. It is a mix of brick and wood. The base is built of grey bricks carved with suns, waves, pine trees, and various flowers. The second and third stories feature relief carvings of dougong under the flat tie-beams, with additional dougong at the pillar heads. The hanging flower-shaped pillars under the corner beams support the layered roof, which is topped with a treasure vase and a crescent moon and star.



















Jiezi Gongbei

The Jiezi Gongbei, along with the adjacent mosque, meditation rooms, and lecture halls, forms a complete architectural complex. The screen wall in the courtyard, which has existed since the initial construction in 1953, defines the entrance and shields the inner courtyard with its beautiful and detailed brick carvings.





Jiezi Gongbei and Courtyard Screen Wall

04

Purihouxixi Tomb Complex

Unclassified

The Purihouxixi Tomb Complex is located in Jiezi Town, Xunhua County, right next to the Jiezi Great Mosque. It consists of six tombs of varying sizes. The original sites of the tombs of the Salar founding ancestors, Galeman and Aheman, are nearby. 'Purihouxixi' is not a name but is said to be a respectful title for officials in Samarkand. The six people buried here were Samarkand officials and their attendants. Legend says the Samarkand government sent them to check on their kin who had migrated east; upon arriving in Jiezi and seeing the fertile land and peaceful life, they decided to stay.







Purihouxixi Tomb Complex

05

Qingshui Hedong Mosque

Seventh Batch of Major Historical and Cultural Sites Protected at the National Level

The Qingshui Hedong Mosque is situated on the south bank of the Yellow River in Qingshui Township, Xunhua County. First built in the first year of the Hongxi era of the Ming Dynasty (1425), it is the Haiyi Mosque (head mosque) of the eight Salar districts. Despite various renovations over the centuries, it maintains its Ming Dynasty scale and style. It is a single-courtyard complex arranged along a central axis containing a screen wall, the main gate, and the prayer hall, with study rooms to the north and the minaret to the south, creating a compact and orderly layout.

The mosque's main gate faces the screen wall and is a three-bay, four-pillar, three-story brick-and-wood structure with a gabled roof and five-step dougong. The minaret on the south side is a three-story, hexagonal, pavilion-style tower 17 meters high. It features a brick base, a wooden upper structure, and a hexagonal helmet-shaped roof. Inside, six wooden pillars extend to the top, leaning inward. The dougong are complex and ornate, and the railings and hanging pillars are delicately carved. Climbing to the top offers a stunning view of the Yellow River and the distant Jishi Mountains.











Qingshui Hedong Mosque Minaret



















Qingshui Hedong Mosque Minaret Interior

The prayer hall is massive, with the front hall and the mihrab chamber connected. The front hall has a single-eave, hip-and-gable roof and measures five bays in both width and depth. Under the eaves, you'll find wooden carved lintels and sparrow braces (bracket supports). Between the eaves pillars are wooden partitions, with brick-carved screen walls on both sides. Inside, the hall is unpainted and kept simple, supported by 42 wooden pillars that give it a grand, spacious feel. The mihrab chamber is separated from the front hall by exquisite wooden folding screens featuring intricate openwork carvings of canopies, dougong, and hanging pillars, all drawing the eye naturally toward the mihrab on the center of the Qibla wall.







Qingshui Hedong Mosque Main Prayer Hall













Qingshui Hedong Mosque Main Prayer Hall Interior

The wooden carvings on the Qibla wall of the mihrab chamber are particularly exquisite. The wall is composed of many rectangular wooden panels carved with Arabic calligraphy, flames, scrolls, and vase-and-flower patterns. The craftsmanship is incredibly precise and delicate. The mihrab is framed by a double-flame pointed arch with openwork carvings of tangled flowers, and the interior is filled with floral patterns that cover every corner, even faintly revealing outlines of traditional Chinese instruments like the qin (zither) and pipa (lute).



















Qingshui Hedong Mosque Mihrab Chamber Interior



Qingshui Hedong Mosque Mihrab

06

Mengda Dazhuang Mosque

A Seventh-Batch Major Historical and Cultural Site Protected at the National Level

The Mengda Dazhuang Mosque is located in Dazhuang Village, Mengda Township, Xunhua County. Nestled right by the Yellow River with mountains in the background, it’s the head mosque of the Mengda Gong (a traditional local Salar administrative unit) and stands as the most exquisite example of Salar architecture today. Its exact founding date is debated, but a 1984 renovation uncovered an inscription on the southern wall of the main prayer hall dating back to the Tianqi era of the Ming Dynasty, suggesting it was built during that period. While it saw multiple expansions during the Qing Dynasty, its core structure and architectural style have stayed true to their original Ming Dynasty roots.

The mosque doesn't have a single front gate; instead, it features a central minaret with symmetrical triangular archway gates on the north and south sides. This arrangement gives the eastern facade a horizontal, "mountain-shaped" (shan-zi-xing) silhouette, with the two side gates also forming smaller mountain-shaped profiles, creating a layered and harmonious look. The minaret is a three-story, hexagonal pavilion with a pointed roof. The base is brick, while the upper levels are timber. The roof is topped with an ornate, multi-layered hexagonal helmet design, supported by complex and gorgeous double-tiered dougong (traditional interlocking wooden brackets).





Mengda Dazhuang Mosque Minaret

The prayer hall has a T-shaped floor plan, featuring a dynamic exterior profile and a deep, multi-layered interior space that feels much larger than it looks from the outside. The front hall is five bays wide and five bays deep, utilizing a timber-frame construction and the jian-zhu (pillar reduction) technique, with a juanpeng (cradle-vaulted) roof for the front porch. The inner prayer niche area is three bays wide and three bays deep, featuring a tai-liang (raised beam) frame and decorative five-step dougong brackets between the pillars.















Mengda Dazhuang Mosque Prayer Hall

The interior of the prayer hall is incredibly ornate and stunning. The beams and brackets are decorated with official-style xuanzi (swirling) paintings, while the main pillars are painted in blue, yellow, red, and green with intricate golden-edged floral designs. The timber framing, brackets, and architraves feature complex patterns of peonies, chrysanthemums, passion flowers, and cloud motifs. You can even spot honeycomb patterns on the spacer boards, which are influenced by Tibetan art, while the walls are filled with large-scale floral murals, seashell patterns, and beautiful Arabic calligraphy.

The mihrab (niche indicating the direction of Mecca) is painted in a vibrant vermilion, accented with stone blue, dark green, and gold. It features Arabic calligraphy, circular scripture seals on the sides and the lintel, and gold-leaf floral patterns along the arch. The center of the niche holds a circular scripture emblem, with radiating colorful bands reminiscent of Mamluk-era design, though the style is also clearly influenced by the "precious light" motifs found in Tibetan Buddhism. The base features traditional patterns like peonies and swastikas, perfectly blending local Hehuang culture with Han and Tibetan artistic elements.













































Mengda Dazhuang Mosque Interior













Mengda Dazhuang Mosque Interior of the Prayer Niche







Mengda Dazhuang Mosque Mihrab

North and south of the main prayer hall are several rooms with front porches, serving as study rooms, ritual washing facilities, and kitchens, creating a classic courtyard layout. Tucked away to the west is a separate gongbei (tomb of a Sufi saint), which sits slightly apart from the main complex.



Mengda Dazhuang Mosque Gongbei

07

Tashapo Mosque

A Seventh-Batch Major Historical and Cultural Site Protected at the National Level

Tashapo Mosque is located in Tashapo Village, Mengda Township, Xunhua County. "Tashapo" means "a place to escape danger" in Tibetan. The village was built into the mountains, creating a layout where everyone lives clustered around the mosque. After the Salar people settled in Xunhua, some moved further east from areas like Jiezi and Mengda to live here. The mosque dates back to the 15th year of the Chenghua era in the Ming Dynasty. An inscription on the brickwork north of the minaret marks a major renovation or expansion around 1755, during the 20th year of the Qianlong Emperor’s reign.

Facing the entrance, the mosque features a brick-and-timber archway gate with three bays, four pillars, and three levels of roof, topped with a hip roof and eleven-step dougong brackets. Inside, it connects to a back porch with a cradle-vaulted roof, flanked by brick walls intricately carved with trees, flowers, and dragon-phoenix motifs.



Tashapo Mosque Front Gate

The minaret is an 18-meter-tall, three-story, hexagonal pavilion with a pointed roof. The base is made of brick, featuring detailed carvings of flowers and clouds. The second and third floors are timber-built with double-layered railings. Inside the third floor, there is a beautiful zaojing (caisson ceiling). The structure is wider at the top than the bottom, allowing rainwater to fall directly to the ground from the third-story eaves—a unique "top-heavy" design that is one of a kind among minarets in the Hehuang region.















Tashapo Mosque Minaret

The prayer hall is T-shaped. The front hall is five bays wide and five bays deep with a single-eave hip-and-gable roof. The main and secondary bays feature doors with intricate three-interlaced-six-petal lattice patterns. Under the eaves, you’ll find seven-step dougong brackets, while the architraves are decorated with floral carvings. The massive beams are supported by qima queti (horse-riding braces) carved with cloud and floral patterns, and the front porch features a cradle-vaulted roof. The prayer niche area is three bays wide and three bays deep. Inside, the space is divided by delicate wooden lattice screens, and the mihrab is covered in complex, deeply carved floral relief. The End

















Tashapo Mosque Prayer Hall



Tashapo Mosque Interior and its Mihrab view all

This article provides a comprehensive breakdown of the core principles of halal diets as found in Islamic scripture, and how these are interpreted across the four major schools of jurisprudence. We’ll also dig into how modern industrial slaughter, food additives, and global cold-chain logistics are shaking up traditional dietary ethics.

Halal dietary guidelines aren't just a rigid, set-in-stone list of laws. The Quran laid the foundation, but over time, different legal schools built on those principles by incorporating Hadith (recorded sayings and actions of the Prophet), local customs, and the realities of their environments. Now, in the modern age, industrial food production, global trade, and the certification industry are creating a whole new set of unprecedented challenges for this ancient legal framework.



Everything in this piece is distilled from the book mentioned above, which covers the history of halal food. The book dives into how people consumed halal food in the past and how the modern halal certification industry has evolved—two topics I'm really interested in. The author touches on questions I've covered in my own videos and articles, proving that there's nothing new under the sun and there will always be people who get it. I’m going to skip the basic concepts everyone already knows and share the parts I think are actually worth your time.

The ban on alcohol in the Quran is a perfect example of the logic behind Islamic legislation. The revelations followed a gradual process: in the Meccan period, the Quran mentioned that grapes and dates could produce intoxicating drinks, viewing them as a gift from Allah, and didn't forbid them; even the descriptions of Paradise mentioned wine. Early on in Medina, the scriptures noted that while alcohol had some benefits, its sins outweighed them. Later, it was decreed that believers shouldn't participate in dua (prayer) while intoxicated, but a total ban still wasn't issued. It wasn't until the later Medinan period that wine, gambling, and pagan sacrifices were grouped together as 'the filth of Satan,' and believers were ordered to stay away from them completely. The tradition of exegesis uses the principle of naskh (abrogation), where later verses supersede earlier ones, making verses 90-91 of Surah 5 the final word on alcohol.

Another highly debated verse is Surah 5:5, which states: 'Today, all wholesome foods have been made lawful for you. The food of the People of the Book is lawful for you, and your food is lawful for them.' From the medieval era to today, scholars have argued over how to interpret this, which directly impacts the real-world question of whether or not you can eat meat slaughtered by the People of the Book (Jews and Christians). Throughout all these dietary rules, there is one core spirit: there is no intent to make things difficult for believers; these rules aren't meant to be an unnecessary burden on their lives.

When you look at this historically, meat was a luxury item in pre-modern societies, and ordinary people didn't really have to deal with the question of whether meat was 'halal' very often—something modern people tend to forget. In the 7th-century Arabian Peninsula, resources were scarce. A normal person's diet mostly consisted of dates, dairy products, and barley bread; they were lucky to eat meat once a month. Camels were valuable assets for transport and wouldn't be slaughtered unless it was a matter of survival. Beef was also rare, and lamb was the most accessible meat. Many people lived almost like vegetarians. Hadith records show that Ali, the fourth Caliph, rarely ate meat in a year, and Umar II advised people not to be greedy for meat or get addicted to it. Even the Prophet’s favorite dish, Tharid (a broth-soaked bread dish), was usually reserved for holidays or special guests.

By the time of the great empires—the Mamluks, Ottomans, and Mughals—meat consumption became strictly divided by social class. Meat went to the capital first, while provinces got the leftovers. High-ranking nobles and officials got first dibs, followed by average citizens, and slaves came last. Men also usually got priority over women. Ottoman law treated bread as a essential necessity the state had to provide, but meat wasn't part of that state guarantee; most commoners only ate meat on holidays.

Today, we just assume a believer needs to constantly check if their food is halal, but in the pre-modern world, halal meat was mostly a concern for the wealthy. It wasn't until modern industrialization made meat cheap and widely available that the general public had to deal with halal compliance so frequently.

When it comes to wild animals like rabbits, lizards, foxes, hyenas, horses, or hedgehogs, different legal schools have vastly different takes. These differences usually come down to two things: first, they rely on different versions of the Hadith, and second, the hunting and eating habits of the regions where the schools originated. The Maliki school, which emerged in the resource-poor Hijaz region, is the most lenient, generally allowing the consumption of rabbits, lizards, and hyenas—common prey in that area. The Shafi'i and Hanbali schools are somewhere in the middle, allowing some animals but calling others makruh (disliked). The Hanafi school is much stricter, labeling many wild animals as forbidden, putting it closer to the Shia Jafari school. The Jafari school is the strictest of all, classifying rabbits, lizards, and hyenas as haram (forbidden).

The debate over horse meat and lizards is pretty representative. The Quran mentions horses, mules, and donkeys were created for riding and adornment, which leads some scholars to say horse meat is off-limits. Others argue that since the Quran doesn't explicitly ban it, it's fine to eat. For lizards, the Malikis lean on Medinan Hadith to permit them, while the Hanafis and Shia lean on Kufan traditions to ban them. At its heart, it’s just a difference in regional Hadith versions. It’s worth noting that many of these animal bans aren't in the Quran, but come from the Hadith. In the classical era, these conflicting rulings were just seen as reasonable academic differences, not heresy.

Seafood is where dietary law really hits the most friction. Surah 5:96 states: 'The catch of the sea and its food are lawful for you.' But this short verse led to all kinds of different interpretations. All schools only agree on two things: fish with scales are allowed, and fish don't need the ritual slaughter required for land animals. Other than that, almost all seafood is controversial. The Malikis are the most open, allowing sharks, whales, shrimp, crab, squid, shellfish, sea turtles, and crocodiles. The Shafi'is accept sharks, whales, and cephalopods, but are skeptical about crabs and turtles. The Hanbalis are in the middle. The Hanafis only recognize 'fish' in the narrow sense, banning marine mammals, crustaceans, and mollusks. The Shia Jafari school only allows fish with scales, though they make an exception for shrimp, treating it like the 'locusts of the sea,' while everything else is haram.

Real history shows how legal rulings are influenced by economics. In Iran, sturgeon technically didn't have the typical scales required by Shia tradition, so they should have been banned. But after the 1979 Iranian Revolution, caviar became a massive export pillar for the country. In 1983, Khomeini issued a fatwa explaining that the hard bony plates of the sturgeon counted as the 'scales' mentioned in the scripture, making caviar legal. This proves that economic reality drives the reinterpretation of ancient texts, and that’s nothing new.

Take Egypt’s traditional fermented fish, Fesikh. The ingredients themselves (scaled fish) are halal, but if the open-air fermentation process goes wrong, it can easily lead to food poisoning. Local Muftis used the legal framework of tayyibat (wholesome/good) and khabā’ith (vile/harmful): even if the original ingredient is lawful, if the final product causes harm to the human body, it's considered 'vile' and should be declared haram. Indonesia follows the Shafi'i school, so their whale and shark fishing industries are backed by legal fatwas. The Ottoman Empire officially followed the Hanafi school, which theoretically banned lobster and oysters, but you'd find them on menus for diplomatic banquets in the 19th century—showing the gap between official legal codes and social reality. Even for fish that die naturally in the sea, schools argue: Malikis and Shafi'is say it's fine if it hasn't rotted, while Hanafis and Shia equate it to carrion, insisting fish must be caught alive.

Ritual slaughter rules have also seen major shifts between the medieval and modern eras. In the medieval period, the Sunni mainstream accepted meat slaughtered by the 'People of the Book,' provided they didn't invoke the name of a false god. During the Mamluk and Ottoman eras, Muslims would often buy meat from Jewish butchers; in Istanbul, there were over a dozen Jewish slaughterhouses well into the 18th and 19th centuries. The Shia took a more restrictive path: early on, they accepted meat from the People of the Book, but started shifting in the 9th and 10th centuries and completely rejected it by the 11th. The reason wasn't about the slaughtering process itself, but the belief that the People of the Book held erroneous faiths and were inherently 'unclean,' thus unqualified to invoke the name of Allah during slaughter.

Surprisingly, most modern Sunnis have shifted to that strict medieval Shia stance. It’s not because the Quran changed, but because social reality changed the logic of legal interpretation. Meat consumption has become mass-market, which has fueled anxiety about purity; global trade means consumers can’t supervise slaughtering on-site, which increases doubt; the religious purification movements of the late 20th century reinforced group boundaries; and the business of halal certification encourages agencies to adopt stricter standards to prove they are the 'most' authentic.

Entering the industrial age, electrical stunning before slaughter and automated poultry slaughter lines have become the two big new battlegrounds. Classical texts don't have the answers, so jurists have to use old legal tools to deal with modern problems.

So-called 'stunning'—using electricity, bolts, or gas to knock an animal unconscious before cutting its throat—is standard practice in Western slaughterhouses. It’s often forced by animal welfare laws and gets caught up in complex debates over immigration, religious exemptions, and animal rights. Historically, Nazi Germany used animal protection laws to ban Jewish ritual slaughter, using animal ethics as a cover for antisemitism. After WWII, Europe generally mandated stunning while allowing religious exemptions, but implementation varies: Norway, Sweden, Switzerland, and Iceland offer zero exemptions, while the UK, France, and Spain do. EU regulations confirm the right to an exemption but let member states set their own limits. Even scientists don't have a consensus on whether stunning actually reduces animal suffering, so both sides of the debate just cherry-pick the research that supports them.

Jurists fall into three camps: One, represented by Al-Qaradawi, accepts stunning without limit, relying on the 'food of the People of the Book' verse. Critics, however, point out that many workers in imported meat production aren't actually practicing members of those faiths, which creates doubt (shubha). The mainstream compromise only accepts 'reversible' stunning, where the animal is unconscious but still shows vital signs—meaning it's still alive when the throat is cut. If stunning causes death, it's treated as carrion and is haram. Piercing bolt guns, gas, or total-heart-stop electrical shocks are banned; non-piercing bolt guns and head-only electric shocks are allowed. Water-bath stunning for poultry is still debated. Institutions like Al-Azhar and Iran’s Khamenei hold this view. The third group rejects stunning entirely, led by Pakistan's Taqi Usmani and Iraq's Sistani, fearing that in an industrial setting, you can't guarantee the animal hasn't already died, or that residual blood makes it haram, and that some stunning methods are painful in themselves. This view is gaining popularity; the number of non-stunned halal slaughterhouses in the UK is rising every year.

Cattle and sheep slaughter mostly still involve manual knives, so the conflict is focused on automated poultry lines. Birds are hung on conveyor belts and a high-speed blade cuts their necks, often paired with water-bath stunning. The core legal puzzle is: can a machine count as the 'slaughterer'? If you say 'In the name of Allah' (tasmiyya) once when turning the machine on, does that cover thousands of birds? The industrial problem is that some birds die from the electric shock, and blades miss some; if a live bird isn't slaughtered and enters the scalding tank, it becomes carrion.

A small minority of views use the 'People of the Book' verse to accept mechanical poultry slaughter wholesale. The middle-grounders set multiple constraints: an operator must say the name of Allah when starting the machine, and manual inspection is required to remove dead birds. The conservatives are dead set against it: they argue that in the old days, one invocation covered a continuous manual slaughter, whereas an assembly line is thousands of independent cuts, so a single activation isn't enough. Plus, machines don't have a soul, and a recording of an invocation is invalid; a human must say the name at the exact moment each animal is slaughtered. Commercially, Brazilian chicken exporters to the Middle East will explicitly label their products as 'hand-slaughtered' to satisfy conservative markets.

There's a sharp contrast between ancient and modern views: ancient Hadith taught not to be overly critical of the butcher—if a believer accidentally forgot to say the name, the meat was still okay. The legal spirit was not to add burdens to the believers. But the global, long-distance supply chain has birthed modern skepticism; the principle of 'doubt' is magnified, and people would rather be overly strict than take a risk. The change in material conditions has reshaped legal priorities.

Beyond alcohol, things like opium, cannabis, coffee, and tobacco were all introduced later, so there is no mention of them in the Quran or reliable Hadith. Jurists use analogical reasoning, the principle of 'public interest,' and the five goals of Islamic law to make rulings, and these views change as social knowledge and science evolve.

Regarding alcohol, the Hanafi school early on had a unique take: they argued only wine made from grapes or dates was 'khamr' (the prohibited alcohol), and fermented grain drinks were fine as long as you didn't get drunk. This view was later heavily criticized and faded away. The modern consensus is that anything that can intoxicate is banned, regardless of the source. Brewing, buying, selling, or gifting alcohol is prohibited, and alcohol holds no legal status as property. The Quran doesn't set a physical punishment for drinking, so the severity of penalties varies by region.

Even though legal texts explicitly forbid alcohol, it has historically existed in society. In Andalusia, there was relative tolerance for non-grape fermented drinks, and poetry often used alcohol as a theme. Mamluk Egypt had taverns everywhere until the 13th century, after which conservative pressure tried to suppress them but couldn't eradicate them. Ottoman rulers would often issue anti-alcohol edicts during disasters to appear pious, but those bans were fleeting. Many Sultans who banned alcohol drank it themselves, and the elite class drank regularly; the state even taxed fermented drinks and set up official distilleries. The Safavid and Mughal empires faced the same contradiction: rulers would ban alcohol while their own courts drank. Prohibition was often more of a periodic political performance than a real attempt to change society. Today, alcohol policies range from total bans and non-Muslim-only sales to complete openness.

Coffee arrived in the Middle East in the 15th-16th centuries and caused a huge debate. Some scholars thought coffee changed your mental state and, by analogy to alcohol, was 'disliked' or even illegal, and coffee shops were seen as breeding grounds for rumors and sedition. The other side argued coffee didn't cause drunkenness and should be allowed. Governments closed coffee shops, but the consumer demand was unstoppable, and by the 17th-18th centuries, coffee was widely accepted.

Tobacco arrived in the Middle East at the end of the 16th century and became a classic modern legal puzzle. Early on, the spectrum was wide: some thought it smelled bad, wasted money, and hurt the body, making it 'vile.' Others countered that the Quran didn't forbid it, and you can't just declare something forbidden without a clear reason, only avoiding it if it specifically hurts an individual. Now that modern medicine has proven the health risks, mainstream scholars label smoking as makruh (disliked), and some authorities classify it as haram, though opinions still differ.

An interesting social phenomenon: both the WHO and tobacco companies have actively engaged in religious debates. The WHO collects and spreads anti-smoking fatwas, wrapping public health issues in religious morality; tobacco companies find scholars who hold the opposite view to issue counter-fatwas. What used to be an internal religious discussion has been weaponized by external organizations and commercial capital. Despite religious criticism, the smoking rate for men in many countries remains high—a gap between religious mandates and social reality.

Overall, 'halal-haram' isn't a fixed list. When faced with new things not mentioned in the scriptures, jurists use classical tools and combine them with modern realities to reach new conclusions. Researching halal diets requires distinguishing between the ideal of legal texts and actual social practice; many things might be officially banned but still widely practiced. At the same time, modern external forces actively participate in the production of these rulings. A lot of social issues fall into the 'makruh' gray area, but popular discourse often simplifies everything into a black-and-white binary.

In the contemporary era of globalization, 'halal' has gone from individual religious guidelines to a massive global business. On the market, official government halal agencies coexist with private commercial ones. Private agencies live on service fees from companies, which creates an inherent conflict of interest: to win market share, some agencies lower standards, while others use the strictest possible standards as a marketing point.

Global trade leads to many practical dilemmas: halal certificates issued by different countries often don't recognize each other, creating trade barriers; common consumers can't tell which certification is real, leading to rampant fake labeling; and the multi-layered outsourcing of international supply chains makes it nearly impossible for certification agencies to check the whole chain, leaving them to rely on companies' self-declarations and creating compliance loopholes.

There are several eternal tensions within this business system. First, the conflict between religious ideals and commercial profit: companies want to cut costs and avoid changing production lines, while religious audits demand full checking of ingredients, slaughter, and additives, which drives up costs. When one line is shared between halal and non-halal products, cleaning and isolation become huge issues. Second, the conflict between national trade interests and pure religious demands: when states set standards, things like foreign trade, jobs, and economic reality are factored in—the Iranian caviar case is the perfect example. Third, the risk of consumerism: the halal label has become a consumption symbol. With the rise of halal makeup, luxury goods, and travel, critics argue that just buying 'halal' products is a poor substitute for internal religious virtue.

Compared to pre-modern times, the shift is profound: ancient society relied on 'acquaintance networks' and community reputation, and market inspectors only looked for fraud; there were no standardized 'halal stickers.' Modern urbanization and long-distance supply chains have destroyed that trust, transferring it to a third-party certificate printed on packaging—the label itself has become a product.

Looking globally, there is no one single international halal standard. The Malaysian MS1500, the Gulf Cooperation Council’s GSO2055, and the OIC/SMIIC-1 are the three main official documents. Standards aren't just technical specs for factories; they are trade tools that carry national industrial interests and 'soft power' competition.

Standardization itself involves trade-offs: classical law accepts school diversity, but industrial standards must have definitive, actionable steps. Setting a standard means choosing one legal view over others, which makes it impossible to please everyone. The OIC/SMIIC-1, as a coordination template, purposefully uses vague language in key controversial clauses to handle the vast differences between member states, which means it doesn't actually get rid of trade barriers.

Multiple certifications increase the burden on businesses, making it hard for small companies to survive; some countries use their own standards as market entry barriers. Malaysia wants to be the global halal hub and push MS1500; Gulf states use their massive import market to push GSO2055. It's a fight for who has the power to define the rules. At the same time, paper standards aren't the same as real-world results: budget and auditor capability create execution gaps; and many private agencies don't follow official standards, further fragmenting the market.

The era of processed food brings new legal challenges. Scientific lab tests and DNA analysis can identify ingredients, but science can only check components, not their 'halal-ness'—that still requires legal interpretation. Two classical tools are used here: First is istihāl (transformation), where an illegal substance undergoes such a complete chemical change that it becomes legal—but there’s no consensus on what 'complete' means. Second is istihlāk (dilution/dissolution), where a small amount of illegal ingredients is 'absorbed' by a large amount of legal ones—but there’s no standard threshold for this in modern industry.

Gelatin is the prime example. Industrial gelatin can come from pork bones and skin, or from halal-slaughtered cows/sheep. Lenient views say that high-heat hydrolysis causes a chemical transformation, so pork gelatin is okay. Middle-ground views prioritize animal source, only allowing pork gelatin in extreme necessity. Most mainstream agencies today hold a strict view: no matter how much it's processed, if the source is pig, it’s haram. Food companies have largely switched to carrageenan or pectin (plant alternatives) to avoid the drama.

At the same time, some thinkers are digging back into the Quranic concept of tayyib (wholesome/pure) to criticize mainstream commercial halal certification. Mainstream certification only focuses on checking for forbidden ingredients and slaughter methods, ignoring animal rearing, labor treatment, and environmental pollution. An alternative ethical view is emerging: even if a product meets the 'halal' checklist, if factory farming makes animals suffer or ignores labor rights, it doesn't meet the 'tayyib' requirement of being wholesome.

This movement has two paths: one is adding 'animal welfare' or 'organic' labels on top of existing halal certifications; the other is more radical and rejects commercial certification entirely, choosing to connect directly with small farmers and local communities. However, this movement is still non-mainstream and hasn't been adopted by any national standards, and it faces the reality that high-end, ethical products are expensive and unaffordable for the average person. view all

[Internet Repost]

Drawing from the Quranic teaching to avoid 'vain talk,' I’m reflecting on how short-form videos and smartphones are hurting our family connections and our children’s mental growth. It’s time to put the phones down, revisit timeless wisdom, and rebuild a warm, intentional home life.

By Hayley

Surah Luqman (31:6) from the Quran: 'And of the people is he who buys the amusement of speech to mislead from the way of Allah without knowledge and who takes it in ridicule. Those will have a humiliating punishment.'

This is my sixth smartphone. When I first got a phone, it was just a tool for calling or sending texts—I remember when every text cost ten cents. Now, I don't even use texts, and I couldn't care less about the cost. All I care about is where my phone is and if it's charged. It’s always in my hand, and it feels like a security blanket; if it’s not there, I feel totally lost. I only put it down when I’m cooking, performing my dua (prayer), or sleeping. The rest of the time, even if I’m not using it, my hands reach for it constantly, like I’m clutching a gold nugget I’m terrified of losing. It’s this little device that’s quietly stealing my time and turning me into a numb, indifferent person.



A lot of the time, I only open it to look up some information—something that should take ten minutes. But one scroll later, I’m sucked into short videos and binge-watching dramas, losing massive chunks of time. Lately, I’ve been addicted to these short-form drama series. I know full well that the plots—the bossy CEOs and the naive heroines—are total fiction that would never happen in real life. I’m not delusional; I know that kind of story isn't my reality, but I still can’t stop hitting the next episode. I’m not even fantasizing about that life; I’m just using those few minutes of drama to dodge the messy reality of my own life—to avoid the housework, the kids' chores, and all the heavy pressures of everyday living. But this short-term escape comes at a high price. Afterward, I’m left feeling empty and regretful, having lost sleep and time that should have been spent with my kids or on my own personal growth. My life has become a contradiction.

I think about my sister, who developed a funny but sad side effect after watching these dramas. When she’s free, she’ll randomly mutter, 'The CEO fell in love with a divorced woman with three kids.' She says it jokingly, but the kids are listening. One time, I asked her middle daughter what her mom had been up to, and the little girl told me, 'Mom’s being weird—she keeps saying that thing about the CEO and the divorced woman. It’s actually kind of gross.' I chuckled, because I get her. It’s like something out of an Eileen Chang novel—a hidden yearning that hurts. Trapped in the mud of daily life, it’s not exactly a crime to indulge in a little fantasy. I know my sister; even if she dreams about this, she’d take all the hardships of her marriage in silence rather than abandon her kids for a CEO dream. Those male leads in the dramas are rich, handsome, and devoted—a life of marital bliss and professional success. These scripts are just beautiful lies spun by screenwriters. For people whose real marriages aren't perfect, it’s just rubbing salt in the wound. It raises the bar for unrealistic expectations for the unmarried and amplifies the dissatisfaction of the married. I’m a person with strong values and a clear head; my only weakness is a lack of self-discipline.



After dinner, I’m physically exhausted and just want to rest, finish my dua, and get to sleep. But the second I crawl into bed and my fingers touch my phone, the urge to sleep vanishes. I get more awake with every scroll, watching one episode and telling myself, 'Just one more.' Next thing I know, it’s the middle of the night. If I really think about it, I spend maybe two hours a day cooking and cleaning, and half an hour helping the kids with homework. Those chores always make me feel physically drained and full of complaints. Yet, I can lie in bed for three or four hours, glued to my phone, without a problem. Living this way, controlled by a phone, makes me feel like a zombie. I feel weak and lightheaded when I’m doing housework or distracted and rushing through my dua, but the moment I pick up my phone, I suddenly feel 'fine' and forget all my fatigue. I’ve tried to control myself, but I keep losing.

My children have become little phone addicts too. Every day they beg me, 'Mom, can we watch for just a little longer?' They even bicker with each other over who gets more screen time. They don't want to go play outside or visit relatives—they just want to stare at their screens. The phone is like a 'third party' between me and my children. I know all of this, but I feel powerless. I know that if I want to change my kids, I have to fix myself first. But I keep wondering if it’s too late—is this just damage control? Whenever I’m trapped in this phone-induced cycle, during my dua, I silently ask Allah to help me spend my time on what actually matters and to be a better mother.



Of course, not everything on a phone is bad. I came across a video that really hit home: people can tolerate years or decades of an unhappy, painful life, but they can’t bring themselves to put in the effort to fight for something better. We’d rather suffer silently than go all-in. If we just pushed hard for a few years, maybe things could change. Why do we settle for drifting along, refusing to step out of our comfort zone to change ourselves? Today, I’m laying out these raw, not-so-flattering thoughts like a confession or a contract to myself. I need to restrain myself and take control, not be governed by this screen. But even as I make these internal promises, I’m still struggling to escape the whirlpool.

Later, I realized something: I’m not really fighting a smartphone; I’m fighting an entire industry designed to make me look at the screen for just one more second. There are thousands of people behind it whose job is to keep me hooked. If I can’t beat them with just my willpower, maybe that’s not something to be ashamed of.

Seneca once said, 'We suffer more often in imagination than in reality.' The visual rush of short videos is just a fleeting mental drug; after the brief high, what we’ve actually lost is our precious time. Benjamin Franklin also said, 'Do you love life? Then do not squander time, for that is the stuff life is made of.'



A person of character uses tools, but isn't used by them. The phone itself isn't inherently good or bad; it all depends on who is in control. I don't have to get rid of it entirely—I just need to reset our relationship. I want to coexist with my phone as an equal, letting it be a helpful tool for learning, recording, and growing, rather than a master that dominates me.



The writer Mai Jia once said that if you stay in the same old routine, you’ll never reach where you want to go. A goal without action is just a daydream. Realizing this, I’m trying to discipline myself by using my phone only for productive hobbies: practicing calligraphy or writing in my diary. If I get distracted during my dua, I’m trying not to beat myself up too much. Reflecting on it and realizing I’m distracted is proof that my heart is still in the right place. If my mind wanders, I’ll just bring it back. As for it being 'too late,' I’m telling myself: my kids are still small, they’re still pestering me for more screen time—which means they’re still waiting for me to set the rules and lead by example. It would be too late if they stopped asking and just sat in silence with their devices. Writing this now? It’s exactly the right time.

That video really struck a chord, but haven't I already taken the first step? I’ve written these thoughts down. Once it's out, I’m not bottling it up alone anymore. I think most people struggle with this, so I’m not going to make some grand promise to 'never be controlled by my phone again'—that’s just unrealistic. I’m only promising one thing for tonight: after my dua, I’m putting my phone somewhere I can't reach from bed. Just that one thing. If I do it tonight, I’ll worry about tomorrow when it gets here.

I’m the type of person who looks back, thinks things over, and refuses to just sit still when there’s a problem. Life is like a giant bed—I’m just exploring the most comfortable way to live out this ordinary life.

I’m grateful for this moment of reflection. May the books we read and the words we write be stepping stones that lead us to a better, more meaningful life! view all

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I’ve put together a deep-dive guide featuring 69 high-res photos to rank the top 10 beef noodle spots across Lanzhou, Gansu. We’re breaking down the authentic standard of 'one clear, two white, three red, four green, five yellow' while reviewing the unique flavors of the rich beef broth, secret chili oil, and perfectly chewy hand-pulled noodles at each shop.

About a decade ago, back when social media was still in its infancy, I published a list of the 'Ten Best Beef Noodle Shops in Lanzhou' on Weibo. It went viral, racking up millions of views and getting shared all over WeChat Moments and various blogs.

Even today, travel influencers on video platforms are still flocking to the exact shops I picked back then. But after over a decade of shifts in the Lanzhou noodle scene, some of those 'best' spots have honestly just become average.



(Mogouyan Beef Noodles) photo capture.

I’ve personally eaten at over 300 beef noodle spots in Lanzhou. This post features my top 10 picks (the 2026 edition). I’m not chasing hype or traffic; it’s all about the flavor. Of course, there’s no universal standard for 'good,' so these are just my personal favorites, in no particular order.

If you’re only looking for the most famous spots with the longest lines, you can just refer to my older reviews.

Disclaimer: I’ve personally visited every spot mentioned in this article. All text is original, and every photo was taken on-site. Please don’t steal photos or repurpose my content without permission.

1. Jiawei Pure Broth Beef Noodles

Jiawei Pure Broth Beef Noodles is right next door to Heikemai Beef Noodles on Hualin Mountain. Both are classic Lanzhou staples. While Heikemai is more famous, I actually think the food at Jiawei is better. It just doesn't have the same level of hype, so you won’t see travel influencers camping out there.



(Jiawei Pure Broth Beef Noodles) photo capture.



(Jiawei Pure Broth Beef Noodles) photo capture.

When I went to the Jiawei Hualin Mountain branch, it was marked as 'permanently closed' on the review app (who knows, maybe competitors were messing with it). So, I did everyone a favor and re-added the listing so true foodies could find it. It still doesn't have many reviews, which is fine by me—it keeps this hidden gem authentic and unbothered, which is a blessing for real food lovers.



(Jiawei Pure Broth Beef Noodles) photo capture.



(Jiawei Pure Broth Beef Noodles) photo capture.

At Jiawei, both the beef noodles and the extra beef cost 8 yuan each. Just by smelling the broth, I knew this was the real deal. It just goes to show how many hidden legends there are in the Lanzhou noodle game. I found this spot late, and maybe it's been overshadowed by the neighbor, but after trying it, I can confidently say it beats most noodle shops in the city. The aftertaste is incredible.



(Jiawei Pure Broth Beef Noodles) photo capture.



(Jiawei Pure Broth Beef Noodles) photo capture.

2. Qingxiangge Beef Noodles

There’s a small shop called Qingxiangge Beef Noodles along the Yellow River on South Binhe Road that people kept recommending, so I went early in the morning to snag a bowl from the first batch of broth. The storefront is tiny and tucked away, but the name 'Qingxiangge' sounds grand, like the old-school Lanzhou spots that don't exist anymore, like the famous 'Lanqingge.'



(Qingxiangge Beef Noodles) photo capture.



(Qingxiangge Beef Noodles) photo capture.

A bowl of noodles at Qingxiangge is 8 yuan, but the beef is 10 yuan—which is a yuan more expensive than most places in Lanzhou. It’s a small difference, but in a city where prices are usually super standardized, it stands out. It just goes to show: a hole-in-the-wall noodle shop isn't always cheaper than a fancy-looking place; sometimes, they're actually more expensive.



(Qingxiangge Beef Noodles) photo capture.



(Qingxiangge Beef Noodles) photo capture.

As soon as they set the bowl of Qingxiangge noodles down, the smell told me everything I needed to know—this is that classic flavor many locals crave. The broth is simmered for hours, the chili oil is fragrant without being overpowering, and paired with the 'erxi' (medium-thick noodles), there’s only one word for it: satisfying!

I’m really happy with this little spot. It’s definitely in my top 10 for Lanzhou, even if the shop is tiny and easy to miss.



(Qingxiangge Beef Noodles price list) photo capture.



(Qingxiangge Beef Noodles) photo capture.

3. Dijia Beef Noodles

A while back, I made a special trip from my hotel in Anning to the mountain to visit Dijia Beef Noodles for the second time. I heard the old man who started the shop passed away. Some old-school Lanzhou locals might remember the original Dijia Beef Noodles on Jingning Road; it was open for 20 years before closing in 2010 due to various reasons, but the regulars never forgot it.



(Dijia Beef Noodles) photo capture.



(Dijia Beef Noodles) photo capture.

Six or seven years ago, Dijia reopened, but not at the old address—this time, it’s halfway up Gaolan Mountain. Getting there feels a bit like navigating Chongqing with all the mountain roads. Everyone eating there, aside from the locals, is a true foodie on a mission for that nostalgic taste.



(Dijia Beef Noodles) photo capture.

I first tried Dijia four years ago and it left a lasting impression. The shop is set up in a private courtyard. Both the noodles and the beef are 8 yuan—actually a yuan cheaper than other places. After my bowl arrived, an old guy sitting across from me couldn't help but say how fragrant it smelled.



(Dijia Beef Noodles) photo capture.



(Dijia Beef Noodles) photo capture.

First, I took a sip of the broth. It’s that perfect mix of beef stock and spicy oil—the real, authentic Lanzhou taste. It’s super aromatic. The texture of the noodles at Dijia is a bit weaker; even though they’ve improved since last time—they don't taste like 'reganmian' (dry-mixed noodles) anymore—they still feel a bit loose and don't quite stand out.



(Dijia Beef Noodles) photo capture.

After finishing the noodles, there was still half a bowl of broth left. I added a little vinegar, and the flavor turned sweet, not sour. This is the result of the chemical reaction between the vinegar and the broth, and it’s one of the main ways to judge if a bowl of Lanzhou beef noodles is made the traditional way: a good beef broth should turn sweet when you add vinegar.



Di Jia Beef Noodles: Captured on site



Di Jia Beef Noodles: Captured on site



Di Jia Beef Noodles: Captured on site

4. Chenguang Beef Noodles

One of the hottest noodle shops in Lanzhou's Xigu District, Chenguang Beef Noodles, gets its name from being right next to the Chenguang residential complex bus stop. It opened in 2002 and has been going strong for 24 years now.

I spotted the crowd before I even reached the shop. The place was packed, and the outdoor seating was overflowing into the neighboring businesses—it reminded me of the legendary Chenji Qing Tang and Bai Jianqiang in their prime. It’s actually cool to see how well they get along with the neighbors, as the massive foot traffic from this viral spot definitely keeps the surrounding stores, like the nearby supermarket, booming.



Chenguang Beef Noodles: Captured on site



Chenguang Beef Noodles: Captured on site

I grabbed a bowl of beef noodles, a side of extra beef, and some small side dishes for 19 yuan—pretty standard pricing for Lanzhou. I asked for 'san-xi' (medium-thin noodles), but what I got seemed more like standard 'xi' (thin noodles). To be fair, even among some noodle masters, the line between 'xi' and 'san-xi' gets blurry; 'san-xi' is supposed to be the thickness right between thin and 'er-xi' (thick).



Chenguang Beef Noodles: Captured on site

Here’s a little insider secret about Lanzhou beef noodles: shops in suburban areas like Xigu serve larger portions than those in the city center. I once heard from an industry insider that suburban shops get about 180 bowls per sack of flour, while city center spots push for 200 to 220 bowls.



Chenguang Beef Noodles: Captured on site



Chenguang Beef Noodles: Captured on site

The owner of Chenguang is the sister of the founder of the old Chenji Qing Tang. The broth here is a classic clear soup—not as oily as Deyuan’s—but the chili oil is incredibly fragrant. I knew it was legit just by the smell. Looking at all the locals packing the place, it’s clear the residents definitely approve.

Since the old king of Xigu beef noodles, Chenji Qing Tang, closed down, Chenguang has definitely taken the crown.



Chenguang Beef Noodles: Captured on site



Chenguang Beef Noodles: Captured on site

5. Shuimitian Beef Noodles

New beef noodle brands are popping up all over Lanzhou, so every time I visit, I make it a point to try a few spots I’ve never been to before. Shuimitian in Anning District has amazing soup, great meat, and perfectly chewy noodles—it was a total 'manfu' (a local slang for feeling deeply satisfied/full) experience!

Shuimitian is one of those hidden gems. You won’t find much online promotion and they have barely any reviews on platforms like Dazhong Dianping, but the local word-of-mouth is incredible. It’s mostly just neighbors eating here; you rarely see tourists or people from the other side of town.



Shuimitian Beef Noodles: Captured on site



Shuimitian Beef Noodles: Captured on site

Shuimitian’s biggest flex is that they never cut corners. Rumor has it they buy the premium cuts of beef, paying a few yuan more per pound than the market rate. They stick to traditional clear soup methods, and their chili oil is fragrant without being overly spicy. Best of all, there’s no weird chemical aftertaste, so you don't feel thirsty afterward. The Lantian Jiayuan location is almost always full.



Shuimitian Beef Noodles: Captured on site



Shuimitian Beef Noodles: Captured on site

I visited the Beian Gongguan branch for my second meal. With an open kitchen, it’s super clean and hygienic. I ordered the 'luxury' version with extra beef, a braised egg, and sides. You could tell just by looking that the beef was high quality—it tasted great on its own and was even better soaked in the broth. The noodles were perfectly chewy and the soup was rich; I can totally see why locals never get tired of it.



Shuimitian Beef Noodles: Captured on site



Shuimitian Beef Noodles: Captured on site



Shuimitian Beef Noodles: Captured on site

6. Bai Laoqi Peng-Hui Beef Noodles

The famous Bai Laoqi Peng-Hui Beef Noodles moved to a new spot, and the upgraded space, decor, and vibe are a major step up from the old place. It’s still north of the Yellow River, but a bit further from the original shop in Jinchengguan.

Bai Laoqi is actually the seventh uncle of Bai Jianqiang. The Lanzhou beef noodle scene is basically one big family—Zhang Youde is Bai Jianqiang’s uncle, Ma Junli is Zhang Youde’s brother-in-law, and Ma Anjun and Ma Guoyi are cousins.



Bai Laoqi Peng-Hui Beef Noodles: Captured on site



Bai Laoqi Peng-Hui Beef Noodles: Captured on site

Even though they haven’t been at the new spot for long, their long-standing reputation keeps the place slammed. The new shop is huge, but it was still completely packed. I came with two friends, and I had to snag a table while the other guy went to line up for the noodles.



Bai Laoqi Peng-Hui Beef Noodles: Captured on site

I ordered the 'da-kuan' (extra-wide noodles), which I hadn't had in a while. Bai Laoqi’s wide noodles are even wider than Shaanxi’s 'belt noodles.' Soaking in that beef broth, they have a really hearty, meaty texture. Whether they’re better than the thin ones is really just a matter of personal taste—most people stick to thin noodles, but the wide ones are a great way to switch it up.



Bai Laoqi Peng-Hui Beef Noodles: Captured on site

Bai Laoqi’s beef noodles are top-tier in Lanzhou, with a chili oil that has a distinct, smoky toasted aroma. As for the 'Peng-Hui' (a traditional alkaline additive made from desert plants) in their name, I’m not sure if they’re still using the authentic stuff or if it’s just for the brand name, since real Peng-Hui is in short supply these days and most shops just use standard ramen additives.



Bai Laoqi Peng-Hui Beef Noodles: Captured on site



(Bailaoqi Penghui Beef Noodles) actual photo

7. Heikemai Beef Noodles

Located halfway up Hualin Mountain in Lanzhou, Heikemai Beef Noodles is a classic, old-school shop. Jiawei Beef Noodles is right next door, and both serve that traditional Lanzhou flavor. While I personally prefer Jiawei, Heikemai is definitely worth a visit too.



(Heikemai Beef Noodles) actual photo



(Heikemai Beef Noodles) actual photo

A bowl of beef noodles at Heikemai is 8 yuan, and the beef is another 8, making it 16 total. I love adding a bit of fatty jiahua rou (marbled beef brisket), which has a much better texture than the pure lean meat. One unique thing about Heikemai is that they mix the diced beef and garlic sprouts together—it’s the only place I’ve seen that does this in Lanzhou.



(Heikemai Beef Noodles) actual photo

Heikemai uses a classic old-school method to simmer their beef broth. The first sip might taste a bit light, but the flavor builds up the more you eat; it leaves a great aftertaste and won't leave you feeling thirsty or dry-mouthed later. I accidentally added a bit too much chili to this order of sanxi (thin noodles), but after finishing the noodles, I added a splash of vinegar to the remaining broth, and it tasted surprisingly sweet, not sour.



(Heikemai Beef Noodles) actual photo



(Heikemai Beef Noodles) actual photo

There aren't many shops left in Lanzhou that serve these authentic old-school flavors, but here are a few more recommendations: Dijia, Heikemai, Laoma Penghui, Mazilu, Qingxiangge, and Jinding.



(Heikemai Beef Noodles menu) actual photo



(Heikemai Beef Noodles) actual photo

8. Lulu Beef Noodles

Lanzhou Lulu Beef Noodles is a small, tucked-away spot on the edge of town off Highway 101. It’s got a total 90s vibe, which is the complete opposite of fancy, massive restaurants like Ashiya. Opening a luxury restaurant in Lanzhou usually doesn't pay off because people won't pay high prices for beef noodles; here, it’s still just 8 yuan for the noodles and 9 yuan for the beef.



(Lulu Beef Noodles) actual photo

Lulu doesn't sell side dishes—just meat and eggs. They don't weigh the beef, either; the staff just grabs a portion and tosses it into your bowl, and they don't use separate saucers for the meat.

According to some locals, Lulu serves the same authentic taste from 30 years ago. The noodles are nice and chewy, and the overall flavor leans heavy on the numbing, spicy, and salty side. It leaves your tongue tingling, though it’s a different kind of spice compared to the heavy numbing heat you find in Sichuan cuisine.





(Lulu Beef Noodles) actual photo



(Lulu Beef Noodles) actual photo

If you’re into the old-school Lanzhou taste and like things bold and flavorful, you should definitely check out Lulu. Just keep in mind it’s a super simple, out-of-the-way spot, but you can get there by taking the number 44 bus right to the front door.



(Lulu Beef Noodles) actual photo



(Lulu Beef Noodles) actual photo

9. Ma Anjun Spicy Beef Noodles

Lanzhou beef noodles once had what people called the "Five Wonders," but the only one that’s still thriving today—and getting even more popular—is the one nicknamed "Western Venom": Ma Anjun Spicy Beef Noodles. While Guoyi Beef Noodles has also been trending lately, I think Ma Anjun has deeper roots. I’ve tried both, and I still prefer the beef noodles at Ma Anjun, though Ma Guoyi’s best item is actually their cold noodles.



(Ma Anjun Spicy Beef Noodles) actual photo



(Ma Anjun Spicy Beef Noodles) actual photo

The chili oil at Ma Anjun is made from a fine chili powder and contains no sesame seeds. It’s much spicier than your average Lanzhou beef noodles. Some people aren’t into that, but others are obsessed and would eat it every day—it’s definitely one of those "to each their own" situations.

There’s a popular online meme about how Ma Anjun limits you to 10 scoops of chili oil and charges a fee for every extra scoop, but honestly, no normal person is actually going to add more than 10 scoops.



(Ma Anjun Spicy Beef Noodles) actual photo

I personally think Ma Anjun’s noodles are super chewy and the chili is fire, but it almost misses that classic, clean-broth beef noodle vibe. It’s not the traditional style, but by doing something different and doubling down on that spicy chili oil, they’ve managed to break out of the mold—definitely something for restaurant owners to think about.



(Ma Anjun Spicy Beef Noodles) actual photo

Ma Anjun didn’t used to sell side dishes, only beef, which was a bummer for people who like a little extra on the side. The shop was exposed in the media a year or two ago, and after they closed for renovations and reopened, they actually became even more popular and started offering side dishes too.



(Ma Anjun Spicy Beef Noodles menu) actual photo



(Ma Anjun Spicy Beef Noodles) actual photo

10. Jicheng Clear Broth Beef Noodles (formerly Chenji Clear Broth Beef Noodles)

The legendary king of lines in Lanzhou, Xigu Chenji Clear Broth Beef Noodles, officially closed its doors a while back after 31 years in business. Screenshots of the conversation between the customers and the owner went viral on short-video platforms, sparking a huge debate among local foodies and beef noodle superfans.



A lot of people were heartbroken that Chenji shut down. It was widely considered one of the best bowls of beef noodles in Lanzhou, having grown up alongside generations of Xigu locals and serving as a core memory of the city's food scene.

Even though Chenji is gone, a new spot called Jicheng Clear Broth Beef Noodles opened in the exact same location. The storefront and general vibe feel like a direct continuation of the original Chenji, so I had to come by and see if the flavor held up.



(Jicheng Clear Broth Beef Noodles) actual photo



Jicheng Qingtang Beef Noodle Shop: A real-deal look at one of Lanzhou's most iconic spots.

Even long after the lunch rush, this place is totally packed inside and out. It’s clear that even though the name changed from Chenji Qingtang, the legacy of the original shop still brings in the regulars who have been eating here for years. Beef noodles are everywhere in Lanzhou; honestly, while some are definitely better than others, it's pretty hard to find a truly bad bowl. Making beef noodles isn't exactly rocket science, after all.



Jicheng Qingtang Beef Noodle Shop: A real-deal look at one of Lanzhou's most iconic spots.

Just like the old place, the new menu is super simple—no side dishes, just meat and eggs. The beef is weighed and added right into your bowl, so you won't find separate plates of meat here. I ordered the sanxi (three-fine, a specific thin noodle shape), and the total for my noodles and extra beef was 17 yuan, which is the standard going rate in Lanzhou.



Jicheng Qingtang Beef Noodle Shop: A real-deal look at one of Lanzhou's most iconic spots.

I took my bowl outside to grab a seat, and after that very first sip of the broth, I knew this was still hands-down one of the best bowls of beef noodles in all of Lanzhou. The flavor is a direct continuation of the classic Chenji Qingtang recipe. Even though I’m not sure who the current owner is, they definitely kept the same secret for nailing that broth.



Jicheng Qingtang Beef Noodle Shop: A real-deal look at one of Lanzhou's most iconic spots.



Jicheng Qingtang Beef Noodle Shop: A real-deal look at one of Lanzhou's most iconic spots.



Jicheng Qingtang Beef Noodle Shop: A real-deal look at one of Lanzhou's most iconic spots.

What are some of your favorite beef noodle spots in Lanzhou? Feel free to drop a comment and let me know! view all

[Internet Repost]

Through 10 documentary images combined with fieldwork trips to the loess ravine villages in Northwest China, this article deeply explores the continuation and challenges of cultural imprints and rural ethical ties in Hui Muslim families in the Northwest under the impact of modern school education and internet culture.

The northern loess always looks dusty and gray in memories, with the sky hanging low and the wind dragging across the mountain ridges, making the ravines look even deeper. I walked along the roads of Xihaihed; in winter, car tires crushed the frozen chunks of earth, making a dry, crisp sound like stepping on ancient bones.

Looking out into the distance, the villages huddled in mountain basins, with yellow-mud huts clinging to slopes and cave dwellings embedded in earth walls like rows of blind scars. In a place like that, the moment a child is born and opens their eyes, what they see are those old scripture banners, the endless string of religious terms recited by elders by the edge of the kang (heated brick bed), and those few silent duas (supplications) before and after meals.

From a sociology class perspective, this is a classic "cultural transmission chain"; from the loess slopes, it's just the natural vibe of daily life, like cow dung smoke, scorched rice crust smells, and the dampness of kang mats, slowly sinking into a person's bones. You might write down in regulations and post on signs that religious belief is not allowed before eighteen, but kids can't close their ears tightly, nor can the courtyard air be split cleanly into "allowed" and "forbidden" halves.



II

I walked on the dusty dirt road along the ridge, stepping on crushed ground underfoot with a chilly, empty sky overhead. The wind blew past, carrying the distant, faint bell tolls of a small mosque; these chimes weren't loud, like a thin needle occasionally poking into the ear on a quiet, uniquely-styled afternoon before dispersing.

At the end of the road stood a dilapidated cave dwelling. Half of the cave roof had collapsed, with dirt piles sliding down and exposing the hollow interior. It was a makeshift shelter built during a famine years ago, and after people moved away, a few broken bowls and shattered pots were left buried under the sandy soil at the very bottom. Next to the cave was an abandoned grave plot with crooked earth mounds; when winter snow fell, it often lingered over them for a while, as if still remembering the person lying underground.

I stopped in my tracks and squatted down beside the earth mound. The wind swept past the back of my neck, giving me a slight chill. At that moment, I often thought of a somewhat cold question: when does a person actually start to "possess" their own faith, or lack thereof? Is it that moment in adulthood when a legal document says "I choose freely," or much earlier, when listening to elders softly reciting scriptures on a certain night, or watching a mother bow silently toward her own heart on a certain morning?

What I've always doubted isn't that age of eighteen, nor is it the box checked for "religious belief" on some form.



III

People in the city love using the phrase "blood transmission" to describe the intergenerational rainforest of religion, speaking with a sense of awakening and impatience, hoping religion is an uncatchable invisible virus that kids can't escape as long as their parents carry it.

I don't see it that way.

Blood itself has no scriptures; the liquid flowing in veins is just the same red stuff containing iron, salt, water, and cells, without a single word spelling out the name of a classic, nor any artery carved with "this person must believe in X." What truly gets passed down like blood across generations is the living environment, the language system, the daily routine, and those value judgments that fill the four walls of the yellow-mud huts at a single glance.

Kids learn to tell from a young age: who is "one of us," what is "pure," what action gets praised as "you understand reason," and what words make elders frown as soon as they leave the mouth. The word "religion" here is rarely broken down and discussed like in a classroom; it lies flat right under your feet, and you get so used to the friction of walking on it that only when someone actually flips it over do you realize there's concrete, dirt, and maybe something deeper underneath.

On a legal level, we emphasize that citizens can independently choose their faith after reaching a certain age; this rule is super meaningful for preventing extreme infiltration and protecting ordinary people, and it must be strictly guarded as the bottom line. Yet what I see in the loess villages is another slower, simpler reality: growing up, kids are slowly shaped by family vibes, village structures, and holiday rituals to the point where it's hard to chop off all experiences built before turning "eighteen years old."

This isn't really a religious issue, but rather the traditional culture inherent in agricultural societies, the inevitable inertia of any spiritual form commemorated for thousands of years.



IV

I remember one winter when heavy snow had just fallen around Liupan Mountain and the road was still iced over. The car couldn't get through, so I had to carry my backpack, stepping on the squeaky hard snow, walking step by step into the mountains. The sky was gray and overcast, and the distant loess mountains were wrapped in a dirty white layer like an old sheepskin scroll crumpled up and barely smoothed out.

Arriving at a ravine entrance, I rested in a yellow-mud hut. The light inside was dim, the windows didn't seal tight, and the wind drilled in through the gaps bit by bit. Sitting on the kang were a family of four: two elderly people, a middle-aged woman, and a teenage boy who had just started junior high. A few faded old calendar posters hung on the wall, and a smoke-blackened scripture plaque hung in the corner.

The boy was spreading out a modern textbook, reciting the simplest scientific actions in his mouth, while his eyes kept drifting toward a broken enamel mug on the kang. Stuck inside the mug were numerous withered twigs—originally brought from the mosque entrance during a festival carrying symbolic meaning, which family members said couldn't just be thrown away casually.

I struck up a conversation with him, asking what he wanted to do in the future. He said he wanted to go to the city, learn computers, and become a teacher to teach kids "to read more characters." When he said the phrase "to read more characters," the old folks in the room smiled and said: even if you learn to read, don't forget the scriptures. The boy lowered his head and smiled somewhat awkwardly, seemingly without arguing back.

This scene can be replayed with different actors across many loess villages. The older generation views the world through religious language, while the younger generation learns another system explaining all things through textbooks and the internet. These two systems intersect inside a yellow-mud hut and on the very same kang. That year, policy said he gained the freedom to choose how to face belief, but what he truly wanted was his grandfather's enamel mug soaked in scripture sounds, his mother's nights sustained by reciting prayers during tough times, and the whole interpersonal structure of "keeping the rules" in the village.

Materialist dialectics tell me that humans are shaped within social relations. Individual "freedom" never arises out of a vacuum. You can draw a clear line with laws, but that line, marked across mountain slopes, becomes winding and blurry due to the ups and downs of the terrain.



V

I often recall those thick theoretical books I read in my early years, with yellowed pages and sharp wording. The books said that religion played complex roles in the history of social classes, offering comfort, unity, and risks of being exploited; they also said that viewing nature, society, and thinking through a scientific worldview gradually leads humanity away from mysterious reliance.

These words sound clear in a classroom and roll off the tongue easily in a meeting room. Yet when you truly walk into parched loess ravines like Xihaihe, those words suddenly grow heavy.

Where do the "drawbacks" of religion lie? I pondered back and forth on the mountain road. No, it's not surnames, nor is it subtle immersion. For someone building the foundation of a modern nation, perhaps the risk of religion appears when it hardens into rigid identity labels replacing citizen status, or when it turns into some closed sectarian logic that obscures a broader social vision, thus clashing with societal diversity. Sometimes, individuals use the guise of religion for personal gain, turning pure belief into tradable goods, harming others' rights as well as state and social order. In those moments, laws must clearly draw boundaries without ambiguity.

Yet beneath the thick earth, I saw another side. Those illiterate elders, during famine years, relied on faith to hold the bottom line of not stealing, not robbing, and not selling out neighbors; those who never stepped outside the mountain ridges their whole lives raised diligent, frugal, and trustworthy kids through simple religious teachings. Their speech was aligned, yet they knew "hearts must be pure" and "hands must be clean." These morals do not conflict with our socialist core values.

The issue isn't whether one has faith, but how to understand faith and how to arrange its relationship with scholarship, science, and public interest. The problem isn't "blood transmission," either, but letting the next generation possess true critical thinking—learning a full set of modern knowledge and value principles while also soberly viewing family religious traditions without blind superstition or casual contempt.



VI

For many years, I gathered materials in ethnological fields, conducting interviews and writing notes. As I recorded, I doubted myself. I doubted whether my language was being led astray by certain methods, and whether I was looking at the kids in the mountains from a high pedestal.

I would never stand on high to critique the "drawbacks" of a certain religion. Under national law, all religions are equal, and before academic reflection, they are equally treated—neither painted as spotless sacred images nor simply demonized.

If we really want to talk about breaking the mold, I prefer using the phrase "breaking the impasse" to ask myself: how can we let the new generation practice independent thinking without abandoning family and emotional ties? How can we let religious systems gradually transition from "bloodline labels" to "spiritual resources where individuals can walk, choose, or keep a distance" while upholding national bottom lines?

Walking along the loess ridges, I often used a simple imagery to imagine this possibility: an ancient path with a yellow-mud hut school on one side and the school courtyard wall on the other. Every day, kids walk from home to school and back home again, their soles treading the exact same dusty road. One end of the road holds the entire tradition recited by parents; the other end holds the natural science, legal common sense, and historical facts taught by teachers.

After walking this path for a long time, a habit of "comparison" naturally grows inside a kid's heart. They might not immediately deny anything, nor blindly accept it, but gently and repeatedly ask a few questions inside: "Is this true?", "On what grounds?", "Is there another explanation?". Such critical skepticism might look restless to some eyes, but in my view, it is the unmistakable beginning of materialist dialectics taking root in a living soul.



VII

On a winter night, I once sat with a rural teacher on the steps outside a broken cave dwelling. The night wind was biting, and clouds covered the sky, leaving just a corner exposed like an imperfect eye. Opposite the cave stood a small mosque, its newly replaced tin roof reflecting a sliver of cold light.

That teacher was a native Hui Muslim whose parents and he himself attended elementary school chanting scriptures, keeping fasts, and walking through festive streets. Later, he studied further, walked a bit further, and became a village primary school substitute teacher. By day he taught textbook materials, by night he tutored kids with homework, and occasionally he attended meetings listening to superiors talk about education reform and compulsory student protection.

I asked him how he views the faith issues of the village kids. He fell silent for a long time, smoking a cheap cigarette while looking at the lonely mosque roof across the way, and finally spoke a few slow sentences: When kids are little, they don't understand anything, they just imitate; whatever they see, they copy. If you're afraid they'll get dragged away by bad things, blocking their ears isn't the fix. You need to show them more things, let them hear multiple voices, and teach them discernment. Teach them law, science, respect, and make them dare to ask "why." Just teaching them fear won't work.



These words weren't pretty, but they hit hard. Reflecting on them repeatedly in different settings later, I realized this anxiety is dialectical thinking born straight out of the loess. It's not simply shouting "bans" or letting things fend for themselves, but finding a calm, fine line between "restriction" and "guidance": banning illegal extremism while ensuring people don't skip out on the right paths, resembling flipped book pages or furrowed brows. Distant focal points blur under wisps of kitchen smoke below. At that moment, people easily slip into a delusion: under the yellow loess, all other voices seem buried away.

I’m well aware that on the other side of this country, things look different: chaotic cities, skyscrapers reflecting neon lights, kids in spacious classrooms reciting stories about scientists, and information flowing like water on every screen. Different lives, different rhythms, all unfolding under the same sky.

When we talk about religion, the marginalized, or the dialectical materialism needed to "break the cycle," we shouldn't just be rushing to judge any specific village or sect. For many families in this day and age, it’s not just "bloodline-transmitted" religion; it’s consumerism and the way parents get hooked on scrolling through short-video apps for hours. Kids are growing up learning to judge value based on the latest trends and prices, and these things are influencing them just as deeply, regardless of their age or what they actually want.

If we stay alert to the generational influence of religious traditions but completely ignore these new, pervasive forces that prevent any real "individual independence," then our materialist dialectics become biased and one-sided.



Walking along these loess hills, I know that the real change needed isn't about any specific faith, but about getting rid of the lazy habit of blaming everything on "bloodlines" or "human nature." Personal awakening doesn't come from shouting anti-religious slogans or giving kids some "rationality vaccine." It happens through the slow, steady process of education that chips away at these hillsides, just like the wind carving out the ravines. Inside a small mud-brick house, three generations sit on the kang (heated brick bed). The oldest one might still be reciting prayers as a lifelong habit, finding comfort in his sunset years; the middle generation has likely worked in big cities, seen the world, learned to protect their rights through the law, and knows to tell their kids, "You have the right to choose, but whatever you choose should help you grow"; the youngest generation is learning systematic science at school, listening to teachers talk about the constitutional right to freedom of belief, knowing the country doesn't encourage superstition but protects legal religious activities, and understanding that students should focus on their studies and healthy growth.

A family might be gathered around the same table, but they’re holding onto different fragments of the world. There’s bound to be friction, debate, misunderstanding, and generational gaps. But as long as there’s one shared understanding—that national law comes before any religious or family belief, and that any religious activity must stay within the legal red lines—then no matter how much they argue, it won't lead to anything dangerous.



In this context, religion isn't some "inescapable fate in your blood" anymore; it’s something out in the open, on the table, and permitted.

At the end of the day, the term "breaking the cycle" reminds me not to expect a one-size-fits-all solution for problems buried deep in the soil and bloodlines. The loess earth is stubborn; if you hit it hard, the surface crumbles and dust flies everywhere, but it won't be rebuilt according to your blueprint. Religion is the same way; you can't just force centuries of tradition to fall into line overnight.

What can actually change, little by little, is education, the environment, language, and that spark of wisdom in the hearts of the kids growing up in these ravines.

I keep coming back to that metaphor of the dirt road. Between home and school, the village and the nation, tradition and modernity—this road isn't wide, it isn't straight, and it’s always getting washed out by the rain. Kids walk this road every day, feeling the hardness of the stones under their feet and getting used to the different perspectives they encounter. Worldviews, school knowledge, historical memory, family stories, and religious language—all these things get tangled up in their lives. Materialist dialectics are only useful when a person learns to navigate this tangle, make choices through the contradictions, avoid blind obedience or shallow contempt, and keep from getting trapped in a one-dimensional mindset.

I don’t believe that bloodlines determine a person’s beliefs for life. I also don’t believe that simple regulations can suddenly liberate someone’s mind. I only believe in that kind of clarity—the kind forged in thick soil through years of hardship, the kind that respects history while constantly reflecting on it, and the kind that stays just a little skeptical of any "absolute truth."



Eleven.

At dusk in Xihai'gu, I was heading back on the old road near Liupan Mountain. The clouds on the horizon were stretched into a dark red line, soon to be swallowed by the night. Black goats moved along the side of the road, their hooves scratching for dry grass roots on the frozen slopes. In the distance, a faint light shone from a broken-down cave dwelling.

I know that under that light, there might be a kid doing homework, writing about the material world from his textbook; or there might be an elder quietly reciting a prayer passed down by his ancestors, adding a touch of peace to the moments after dinner.

This is what makes up a real, complex Northwest China. The shadow of religion, the light of science, the boundaries of law, the memories of ethnic groups, and the priorities of the nation are all here. Splitting them into "binary opposites" or slapping on labels of "bad" or "good" is unfair to this land and unfair to the people living on it.

The most I can do is record these shadows and lights, reminding myself: when we talk about an "independent perspective," we must never forget the feet walking on this loess soil or the ears that hear both the scratching of a pen and the sound of prayer. True freedom isn't an abstract slogan; it’s the courage and clarity that each individual life slowly grows under protection.

Night presses down, turning the loess into a blurry wash of ink. I pull up my collar and walk back along the old path. I know that some questions don't have answers yet—like what the future of religion will look like on this land, or how the new generation will find their footing between bloodlines and their own choices.

Maybe one day, when new schools light up more mountain ridges, when scientific and academic education seep into more mud-brick houses like clear water, and when generations of kids get used to treating every suggestion from home with inquiry and thought, the term "bloodline-transmitted" will lose its intensity and just become a footnote in history.

But I don’t know when that day will come or how it will arrive.

I only know that as long as I can still walk these roads, I will come back to these loess mountains again. I’ll go to those lights, listen to the echo of study sessions and prayers, and ask myself in the depths of my heart: On this thick soil, is it possible to weave our understanding of religion, our protection of human dignity, and our confidence in materialist dialectics into a net that holds up both the weight of tradition and the lightness of the future?

I’ll leave that question mark here, hanging in the wind of Xihai'gu, to be tested by the loess and the snow over time. view all

[Internet Repost]

We are taking a deep dive into how Takaful (mutual insurance) actually works within the modern world of Islamic finance. We are going to break it down objectively, looking at the commercial costs, the real-world coverage, and the core Shariah principles that forbid Gharar (excessive uncertainty) and Riba (interest/usury).

I’ve talked about the basics and the underlying issues of Takaful on my live streams. Even though most people don’t really deal with this, I wouldn’t choose Takaful insurance even if I were living in Malaysia. The bottom line is that it’s expensive and the coverage is weak. Most people in Malaysia end up choosing traditional insurance because, for the same price, you actually get better protection. To back this up, I’ve picked out three specific papers to analyze:

Muhammad Anwar, 'Comparative Study of Insurance and Takaful (Islamic Insurance)' (1994, Pakistan Development Review).

Atiquzzafar Khan, 'Islamic Insurance in Theory and Practice: A Critical Appraisal' (2013).

Abdulazeem Abozaid, 'A Critical Shariah Review of Takaful Structures Towards a Better Model' (MPRA Paper 93015, 2016).

These three papers systematically critique mainstream Takaful theories. I’ve summarized some of the authors' key points here. Of course, these scholars aren't saying Takaful is completely invalid—they offer some improvements—but to me, those suggestions feel like purely academic talk. From their perspective, it sounds like only a charity could ever fully live up to the original spirit of Takaful.

In the late 1970s, Takaful was launched as the Shariah-compliant alternative to traditional commercial insurance. Because conventional insurance involves Muʿāwada (exchange contracts) that often contain Gharar (uncertainty), Maysir (gambling/speculation), and Riba (unequal exchange of like assets), most Shariah boards flagged it as having major legal defects. The core solution for Takaful was to redefine premiums as Tabarruʿ (conditional donation). Classical jurisprudence considers donation contracts more flexible regarding uncertainty, meaning Gharar doesn't automatically void them. With this framework, the Accounting and Auditing Organization for Islamic Financial Institutions (AAOIFI) built the current model: participants donate to a risk fund; a joint-stock operator manages the fund for a fee; the fund assets belong to the participants, not the shareholders; underwriting surpluses go to the participants; and if there is a deficit, the operator can provide a Qard Hasan (interest-free benevolent loan) to cover it.

However, from the very beginning of its commercialization, Shariah scholars were already pushing back. In a 1992 report, the Council of Islamic Ideology of Pakistan (CIIP) even ruled that the commercial Takaful institutions existing at the time didn't fully comply with Shariah requirements. This triggered a debate that lasted from the 90s through the 2010s: does simply renaming contracts and filtering for Shariah-compliant investments really solve the fundamental legal issues inherent in commercial insurance?

I. Muhammad Anwar: Early critiques of commercial Takaful in the 90s and his proposed fixes.

Muhammad Anwar’s 1994 paper represents the reflective academic perspective of the 90s. He pointed out that while commercial Takaful avoids putting money into interest-bearing assets, the actual nature of the transactions hasn't changed—the Tabarruʿ (donation) is essentially just a legal fiction.

The core of a classical Tabarruʿ donation is that it should be selfless, not meant for a return. But in reality, people pay into Takaful specifically to get a payout if they face property loss, death, or sickness; it's not a selfless donation to a mutual pool. Meanwhile, the premiums are still calculated exactly like traditional insurance based on value, age, and risk levels, and the claim processes are near-carbon copies of standard insurance. The CIIP posed a dilemma: if the payment is a debt, the principal should be returned; if it’s a Mudaraba (profit-sharing) investment, you can’t use the profits of some participants to cover the losses of others. Reality Takaful sidesteps both classical contracts and just uses 'donation' as a mask.

Under these conditions, the three major Shariah prohibitions still show up in Takaful. First, there's Gharar (excessive uncertainty). Defenders claim the law of large numbers and actuarial science manage the risk, but critics point out that for the individual, the payout is still highly uncertain—will it happen? How much? When? A donation contract might handle some uncertainty, but not unlimited, massive Gharar. Family Takaful is even worse because it doesn't follow loss-compensation principles. Second, there’s the Maysir (gambling) incentive: participants pay a fixed fee and might get a huge payout or lose their money, which breeds moral hazards like lying on applications or fake claims. Third, there is the risk of Riba (unequal exchange of like assets). It's still essentially money-for-money: you get more back than you paid if you have a claim, or you lose the principal if you don't. Even though some scholars argue premiums aren't loans, Anwar believes there’s no consensus here.

Regarding operations, Anwar highlighted several flaws. Surplus distribution rules vary wildly; some Malaysian institutions only pay out to those who didn't file a claim, which the CIIP criticized as punishing those who already suffered a loss. For deficits, the Qard Hasan (interest-free loan) is used, which shifts the burden to shareholders rather than the members sharing the loss, turning a tool for individual charity into a permanent corporate safety net. Governance is also an issue: participants own the risk pool assets but have no voting rights. Shariah boards only check contracts, they don't solve the conflict of interest between shareholders and participants. Re-Takaful is also scarce, leading many firms to just use traditional reinsurance under the principle of Darura (necessity).

While Anwar acknowledged the validity of the CIIP’s critique (which suggested a state-run Waqf model), he also questioned it: state institutions are often inefficient, and just calling it a Waqf doesn't solve the fundamental Gharar problem. Eventually, the CIIP softened its stance, admitting that private institutions could participate if they met specific Shariah criteria.

Anwar didn't want to abolish Takaful; he proposed fixes. First, treat excess payouts as a Qard Hasan loan from the pool to the beneficiary, which should be paid back, with Zakat (obligatory charity) or the pool used only if the person is truly broke. This would remove the incentive to 'game' the system. Second, prioritize repairing or replacing damaged items instead of paying cash, to weaken the 'money-for-money' Riba suspicion. Interestingly, this was refuted in the same journal by Muhammad Hussain, who noted that Riba isn't defined by whether you pay in cash or goods—the fundamental issues of Gharar and gambling would still exist.

II. Atiquzzafar Khan: A critique of governance and the 'assets without power' issue for participants.

In his 2013 dissertation, Atiquzzafar Khan shifted the focus to corporate governance. Under the standard Wakalah-Mudaraba model, participants technically own the Participant Takaful Fund (PTF), but the operator is a commercial corporation. Participants don't own shares, have no voting power, and no say in how surpluses are handled. Shariah boards are limited to reviewing product contracts and investment lists, lacking the power to stop shareholders from prioritizing their own profits.

Khan focused on the Qard Hasan loan mechanism. When the fund runs a deficit, shareholders provide a 'benevolent' loan to be paid back by future participant surpluses. In reality, if the operator takes a huge cut of the surplus as a performance incentive, the loan never gets paid back, and the Qard Hasan effectively becomes a tool for shareholders to cover their commercial risks. He argued that only a pure, cooperative mutual model could solve these conflicts, but that’s nearly impossible under modern corporate law.

III. Abdulazeem Abozaid: Questioning the Tabarruʿ fiction and proposing an Ibaha (permissibility) alternative.

Abdulazeem Abozaid (2016) pushed the critique to a deeper level of contract law. He cited a legal maxim: judge a contract by its substance and the intention of the parties, not just the wording. A true Tabarruʿ (donation) requires three things: the intent to give without a return, it must be irrevocable, and the ownership of the item must fully transfer to the recipient.

Abozaid went through the standard Takaful structure step-by-step: participants pay to get coverage, not to donate; the business allows you to cancel the policy and get money back, which contradicts the 'irrevocability' of a donation; and the contract creates a two-way obligation. Because the participant gives and then receives a promise of compensation, it’s effectively a 'donation-for-donation' swap. This makes it a Muʿāwada contract, and the Gharar prohibition kicks back in. Also, the Takaful fund often isn't a separate legal entity, yet it’s treated as a party to the contract, which is a total legal fiction and a breeding ground for conflicts of interest.

Abozaid also criticized the 'Waqf' (endowment) Takaful model. Waqf property is supposed to be permanent and not consumed. But Takaful needs to use the money to pay out claims, so they treat each premium as a 'new' donation into the Waqf. It lands right back in the same trap: participants donate but expect a return, which violates the donation rules. Changing the name to Waqf doesn't solve the contradiction.

Abozaid also called out the messy reality of surplus distribution. While standards say the surplus belongs to participants, many firms take the lion's share as 'performance incentives' for management. Standards even allow operators to donate the surplus to charity without asking the participants, which ignores the participants' role as owners. As for the Qard Hasan loans, he provided three critiques: it binds loans to agency/Mudaraba contracts (which isn't encouraged), it's unfair to new participants who have to cover old deficits, and it doesn't get paid back when operators hoard the profits, making it look exactly like traditional insurance.

Since both the Tabarruʿ and Waqf paths have legal flaws, Abozaid looked at the classical Arab tradition of 'Nihd'—a custom where travelers would pool their food to eat together, with no transfer of ownership, and everyone keeping what remained. Even though there was uncertainty about how much each person would eat, early scholars accepted this as a valid form of mutual aid.

The core rules of the Ibaha (permissibility) model: participants pay into a pool that everyone has permission to use; ownership stays with the participants at all times; a person filing a claim is getting 'permission' to take from the pool, not receiving a 'donation'. The operator acts only as a Wakalah (agent) for a flat fee and is banned from taking the surplus. The Qard Hasan loan is abolished; if the pool runs out, the participants would have to contribute more or end the policy. Surpluses belong exclusively to the participants.

Abozaid admits that the Ibaha model is currently just a theoretical concept with no large-scale commercial footprint. The paper doesn't offer a practical roadmap for how participants would actually vote on major decisions or how to make this fit into modern insurance regulations. Even among Shariah scholars, there's disagreement on whether a historical custom like Ibaha can simply be moved into modern, large-scale financial risk management. view all

[Internet Repost]

This article offers an in-depth look at the evolution of Kosher food in modern society. We’ll break down the journey from home-based traditions to industrialized food certification, the cutthroat competition between commercial giants, and the historic debates surrounding issues like gelatin and animal stunning, providing a comparative perspective for understanding modern Halal certification.

While writing this, I noticed a book by an author from a sister faith that covers almost the exact same ground as my previous piece. You could practically swap out the group names, and the debates—whether it’s pig-derived gelatin, pre-slaughter stunning, or the sturgeon issue—are all essentially the same arguments found in the Halal world. Here is the lowdown on that book for any of you looking for a rational take on how these traditions are evolving.



Roger Horowitz’s book, 'Kosher USA: How Coke Became Kosher and Other Tales of Modern Food,' was published in 2016.

When historians write about the history of American food, why do they so often skip over Kosher? How did ancient Jewish dietary laws actually survive in a secular, industrialized society? It’s not just a simple food question; at its core, it’s about how ancient religious practices handle the demands of modernity. Most stories out there come from corporate PR, painting a neat picture where religious tradition smoothly integrates into the industrial machine and hits the supermarket shelves. As a historian, Horowitz argues that history isn't just a straight line to a happy ending, and much of the evidence supporting those narratives is actually rooted in commercial agendas.

In some cases, food companies can bake Kosher requirements right into their production lines; in others, these standards get pushed to the fringes, invisible to the average non-Jewish consumer. The author’s own family experience—with its mix of Orthodox, Conservative, and non-practicing members—helped him realize that the debate over 'what is actually Kosher' is a fundamental part of the Jewish tradition itself. Those arguments at the family dinner table are really a micro-version of larger socio-religious conflicts.

I. The Sturgeon Debate: A Millennial Tug-of-War Between Scripture, Commentary, and Custom

At a family dinner after Yom Kippur, the Conservative grandfather served sturgeon, but the Orthodox in-laws refused to sit down, as they didn't consider it Kosher. Behind this dinner table drama is a debate over religious law that has been going on for a thousand years.

According to the Book of Deuteronomy, for a sea creature to be Kosher, it must have both fins and scales that can be removed. Sturgeon have fins and hard, bony bumps on their skin, so the argument boils down to whether those bumps count as the 'scales' mentioned in the scripture.

There has long been a split in Jewish tradition. Maimonides argued that scales must be removable, though he allowed Jews in Turkey to eat small sturgeon. The Rema later tightened the standard, insisting that scales must be removable by hand or tool; because sturgeon’s bony plates are deeply embedded in the flesh and tearing them would ruin the meat, he concluded they aren't 'real' scales, which became the mainstream view among Ashkenazi Jews. However, Rabbi Ezekiel Landau of Prague issued a counter-ruling, arguing that if you soak the bony plates in lye, they can be removed, making sturgeon Kosher. This sparked a massive controversy, even leading to a scandal where later scholars allegedly faked a retraction from Landau.

The disagreement didn't fade with time and made its way into 20th-century America. While Orthodox Jews generally avoid sturgeon, the American Conservative Jewish movement officially ruled it Kosher in 1967. Horowitz uses this to point out that ancient texts don't automatically give you one clear, modern answer; regional customs (minhag) and later rabbinical interpretations continue to shape the practical law. When you drop these debates into a modern industrial society, the friction gets multiplied.

II. Kosher Certification for Coca-Cola: How Food Science Redefined Religious Oversight

Back in 1931, Rabbi Pardes of Chicago granted Kosher certification to Coca-Cola. But he only did a visual walk-through of the factory, knew nothing about food chemistry, and completely missed the issue of glycerin in the formula. At the time, industrial glycerin was mostly made from the bones and fat of non-Kosher animals. After Orthodox Rabbi Tobias Geffen of Atlanta received inquiries from rabbis across the country, he got permission to look at the secret formula and hired an independent chemist, who confirmed that Coke contained 0.09% glycerin.

This brings up the famous Jewish legal principle of 'bitul b’shishim' (nullification by a factor of sixty): if an impure substance is accidentally mixed in and makes up less than 1/60th of the total, its impure status is considered nullified. But Geffen made a strict ruling: that principle only applies to accidental contamination; glycerin was an intentionally added, functional ingredient, so even at such a tiny percentage, the nullification rule didn't apply. Therefore, the Coke of that era was not Kosher.

The solution came through ingredient substitution: Procter & Gamble began producing plant-based glycerin from cottonseed oil, and for Passover production, they replaced grain-based alcohol with alcohol fermented from molasses. In 1935, Geffen officially ruled that Coca-Cola was Kosher for Passover.

This chapter brings to light a key figure often glossed over by the Orthodox Union’s (OU) official narrative: Abraham Goldstein, a chemist and founder of OK-Labs (Organized Kashrus Laboratories). As a secular-trained chemist, Goldstein insisted that modern Kosher vetting couldn't just rely on rabbis visually touring a factory—you had to understand food chemistry and audit the entire production process. He started a publication called 'Kosher Food Guide' to answer thousands of consumer questions about processed foods. He harshly criticized Pardes, arguing that accepting corporate ad money for certification was a conflict of interest, especially when making religious rulings without knowing the chemistry.

Goldstein also got involved in the 'Junket' product controversy. Junket used rennet derived from the fourth stomach of non-Kosher calves. Pardes cited ancient methods, arguing that once the stomach tissue is dried, it doesn't transfer flavor, so it's Kosher. Goldstein countered that modern industry doesn't use those ancient drying methods; the extraction happens in a wet, industrial environment where flavor transfer definitely occurs, making Junket non-Kosher.

But Goldstein’s views were met with pushback from Orthodox rabbinical groups, who publicly declared him unreliable and tried to kill his publication. History is full of irony: the core principle Goldstein proposed—that Kosher vetting must involve chemistry and not just rely on a company’s written word—was eventually adopted by the major Orthodox organizations, even though his own contribution was erased from their history.

A new crisis hit in 1957 when Procter & Gamble updated their glycerin process to a continuous flow model, where plant-based and animal-based glycerin shared the same piping, creating a risk of cross-contamination. Even with the company’s written assurances, the risk of 'b'lios' (flavor transfer) remained, so P&G invested $30,000 to build a dedicated, physically isolated production line for plant-based glycerin.

The whole Coca-Cola saga created a lasting industry standard: modern Kosher certification can't just look at the ingredient list; you have to understand the entire chemical process and evaluate the risk of cross-contamination in the equipment, rather than just trusting the company's word.

III. The Jell-O Debate: 'Ponim Chadashos' (New Substance) and the Interfaith Divide

When an originally impure substance is completely transformed into something entirely new, does the original religious ban disappear? This concept is strikingly similar to the 'istiḥālah' (transformation of substance) debate in Islamic jurisprudence regarding pork-based gelatin.

The core ingredient of Jell-O is gelatin, and in the mid-20th century, most industrial gelatin was made from pigskin or bones from non-Kosher slaughtered livestock. A long-running debate broke out in the American Jewish community over whether chemical hydrolysis turned pork-derived gelatin into 'ponim chadashos' (a new substance), becoming a major ideological dividing line between Orthodox and Conservative Jewish movements.

The more lenient camp was led by the Lithuanian Rabbi Grodzinski. His logic: the biblical prohibition on bones is limited; the bones lose their edible value during chemical processing; and through strong acid, alkali, and high-temperature hydrolysis, the resulting gelatin is an entirely new substance compared to the original bone or hide, thus satisfying the 'ponim chadashos' standard. This view gained support among some American rabbis in the 1930s and 40s, and Jell-O even held Kosher certification for a time.

The strict camp, led by Goldstein, insisted on the principle 'kol ha-yotzei min ha-tamei tamei': that which comes from the impure is impure. They questioned whether industrial hydrolysis truly counted as the kind of fundamental transformation described in the scripture and the Talmud. Meanwhile, after WWII, the American industry shifted, making pigskin the primary ingredient in gelatin due to economic advantages, which only fueled the fire.

In 1951, General Foods got certification from two rabbis associated with the Agudath Israel group and heavily marketed Jell-O as Kosher. But an investigation later revealed the plant was using large amounts of pigskin, and the certification was pulled. Since then, the mainstream Orthodox position in America has solidified: commercial gelatin made via chemical hydrolysis does not qualify for 'ponim chadashos,' and the source must be from animals that were slaughtered according to Kosher rules. Therefore, standard Jell-O is not Kosher.

The Conservative movement went the other way. In 1969, Rabbi Isaac Klein issued a formal ruling arguing that chemical hydrolysis does achieve 'ponim chadashos,' accepting the Kosher status of pig-derived gelatin and endorsing Jell-O. Klein admitted that, emotionally, it was hard to accept a product from a pig, but he maintained that this was just an emotional factor, not a barrier under religious law.

From that point on, a box of Jell-O became a litmus test for Jewish identity in America: whether or not you ate it marked you as either Orthodox or Conservative. The business world didn't wait for a religious consensus; General Foods just found a few independent rabbis to certify them so they could keep the 'K' symbol on their boxes. But the market spoke: many Orthodox consumers simply refused to buy products with non-Kosher gelatin. Dannon yogurt, for example, saw sales drop after adding gelatin, eventually removing it to regain certification from the OU (Orthodox Union).

Horowitz points out that this debate exposed the inner dilemma of ancient religion facing modern chemical engineering: the scriptures and ancient rabbinical texts never saw modern, large-scale chemical hydrolysis coming. The crux of the debate wasn't just interpreting scripture; it was a factual judgment: did industrial processing actually create a 'new' substance? Religious rulings became highly dependent on understanding real-world industrial production.

IV. Who Has the Right to Judge Kosher: The Power Games of the Certification Industry

In the early days, America had no unified Kosher certification system. Consumers mostly relied on two things: reading ingredient labels or trusting the personal judgment of a local rabbi. The 1938 Federal Food, Drug, and Cosmetic Act made ingredient labeling mandatory, but labels only show what's added, not invisible cross-contamination or hidden processing aids. Relying on the label wasn't enough, which made on-site supervision (a 'mashgiach,' or Kosher supervisor) essential.

The OK-Labs founded by Goldstein was a pioneer in commercial contract-based Kosher certification, but his deep involvement in religious rulings as a layman earned him the hostility of Orthodox rabbinical groups. The Orthodox Union (OU) also went through a long internal power struggle: the lay management handled the business side, while the rabbinical board held the final say on religious law. Early on, the OU was terrified of another 'Goldstein incident' and was wary of lay interference. After several rounds of negotiation, the OU set up a joint Kosher division, reaching a compromise: rabbis hold the final authority on Kosher status, while laypeople handle the business side.

The OU registered the Circle-U symbol as a trademark, using secular trademark law to turn religious rulings into commercially enforceable labels. But a new problem arose: there were tons of independent rabbis out there giving out 'K' symbols, leading to 'rabbi shopping,' where companies would seek out individual rabbis willing to certify their specific product—Jell-O being a classic example.

This chapter reveals the double-edged sword of the modern Kosher industry: institutionalized certification solved the confusion of scattered local rulings, but created new conflicts. Corporate interests, rabbinical authority, food science expertise, and consumer demands—these four forces are constantly pulling against each other, and the issues of conflicts of interest and certification shopping have never been fully resolved.

V. The Achievements and Boundaries of Industrialized Kosher

For many companies, the Kosher mark isn't just about the Jewish market; Muslims and vegetarians often buy Kosher products too, providing a nice bonus. Companies are willing to spend the money to retrofit production lines and add separation equipment just to get that Kosher stamp.

But this fusion has its limits. Companies usually only want to do the bare minimum to get certified; as soon as the market shifts, they'll pull the special equipment. In a globalized supply chain, additives like spices, enzymes, emulsifiers, glycerin, and gelatin come from all over the world. Certification agencies have to track the entire supply chain, not just the factory where the final product is made. And since standards vary between agencies, it just encourages companies to 'shop around' for the easiest certification.

Overall, Kosher and industrial systems have integrated most successfully in beverages, snacks, and dairy. But in areas like meat and wine, the unique legal requirements create structural conflicts that are really hard to fit into a standard industrial assembly line.

VI. Wine, Meat, and Religious Slaughter

From the crushing of the grapes to the final bottling, every step of the winemaking process must be handled by observant Jews; if a non-observant person touches the wine, it loses its Kosher status.

American wine production is highly automated, and most assembly line workers aren't observant Jews, so meeting the religious requirements is incredibly expensive. Manischewitz spent years negotiating with rabbis to see how much machine automation could replace human labor, and rabbis are deeply split on this. Unlike soft drinks, which don't have the special restrictions of 'yen nesekh' (wine touched by non-Jews), wine carries the baggage of strict ancient prohibitions against idolatry, making it a weak link in the wave of Kosher industrialization.

Meat is the core of the Kosher system, and it’s also the area with the most chaos. Harry Kassel was a well-known Kosher meat dealer in the 20th century. Kosher meat requires two main conditions: the animal must be of a permitted species, and it must undergo 'shechita' (Jewish religious slaughter). After the slaughter, the fat and blood vessels must be removed, and the lungs must be checked for damage (treifah). If there are any adhesions or injuries, the whole animal is discarded. A huge number of animals slaughtered don't end up passing the test.

This creates a sharp economic conflict: large slaughterhouses want to maximize efficiency, but Kosher slaughter and the subsequent inspection process drive up costs and lead to massive waste. Throughout the 20th century, fraud was common in the American market: the slaughter was done in name only, skipping critical inspections or selling non-Kosher meat as Kosher, and scandals about 'mashgiachim' (supervisors) being bribed by businesses were endless. Kassel fought hard to maintain a high-standard supply chain, but he was under constant commercial pressure.

Shechita (Jewish religious slaughter) involves using a razor-sharp knife to cut the trachea and esophagus, and the animal is not stunned before slaughter. The Jewish community argues from a theological standpoint that this method minimizes animal suffering; animal rights groups, however, have long criticized it as cruel and pushed for laws to mandate pre-slaughter stunning, while the Jewish community defends it as a matter of religious freedom. In reality, on high-speed industrial lines, animals still endure significant stress even with shechita, and it’s nearly impossible for a supervisor to properly oversee the process on a fast-moving production line.

In the past, debates over Kosher were all internal, based on scripture and commentary. But in the late 20th century, secular animal welfare ethics emerged as an external force, posing a whole new challenge to traditional religious slaughter—an issue the ancient legal texts never saw coming. view all

[Internet Repost]

We have documented 7 classic Chinese-style mosque complexes in the Xunhua Salar Autonomous County of Qinghai through a collection of 220 high-definition, real-life photos. From the flying eaves and upturned corners of the prayer halls to the exquisite brick and wood carvings, this project captures the architectural treasures of the Salar people in the Hehuang Valley.

Quick note: This article is about 5,000 words long and includes 220 photos.

All text and images are original; copyright infringement will be prosecuted.

The origins of the Salar people can be traced back to the Salur tribe of the Oghuz Turkic tribal alliance in Central Asia. The Salur tribe is listed among the descendants of the twenty-four Oghuz branches in the Jami' al-tawarikh (Compendium of Chronicles). By the 11th century, there was still a branch of the Turkmens known as 'Salar,' which is the direct ancestral lineage of the Salar people. The ancestors of the Salar began moving eastward around the Yuan Dynasty, with some theories suggesting they traveled with the Mongol expeditionary forces in 1225. The mainstream view on their starting point is Sarakhs in modern-day Iran; the Tejen River (Hari Rud) flowing through this area originates from the Hindu Kush mountains in Afghanistan and eventually vanishes into the heart of the Karakum Desert in Turkmenistan.





▲ Autumn in Xunhua

Folk narratives turned the Salar migration into the legend of the Camel Spring: Brothers Galeman and Aheman led their people eastward, pulling a white camel carrying the soil, water, and a copy of the Quran from their homeland. When they reached Jiezi, the white camel transformed into stone and lay down by a spring. Seeing that the water and soil were similar to their home, they settled down. Over time, they lived and intermarried with the surrounding Han, Tibetan, Hui, and Mongol peoples, forming a new ethnic community by the Ming Dynasty.

During this process, 'Agni' (derived from the Turkic words for 'older brother' and 'younger brother'), based on patrilineal blood ties, became the basic organizational unit of grassroots society, playing a crucial role in maintaining social internal relations among the Salar.







▲ The Salar People







▲ Salar Prayer (Dua)

Salar history took a profound turn during the Qing Dynasty: In the eighth year of the Yongzheng reign, the Qing court, seeking to bring them under 'royal influence,' granted the name 'Xunhua' and established the Xunhua Sub-prefecture. Following this, the region experienced major events like the anti-Qing uprising in the 46th year of the Qianlong reign, the Shaanxi-Gansu Hui uprising during the Tongzhi reign, and the 'Hehuang Incident' during the Guangxi reign. Salar grassroots society continued to evolve under the development of the Tusi (local chieftain) system, the Gazui (religious leader) system, and the feudal landlord system. Today, the Salar people number about 100,000, mainly living in the Yellow River valley across Xunhua, Hualong, and Jishishan counties, speaking the Salar language, which belongs to the Turkic language family.



▲ Jiezi Grand Mosque in Xunhua County







▲ A glimpse of Qingshuihe Township in the Yellow River Valley

Salar homes are primarily unique 'fence-style buildings' (libaolou). They use a post-and-lintel timber frame structure made of pine, while the walls are built with an internal lattice of saplings and shrub branches rather than mud bricks or masonry. Both sides are plastered with mud, leaving a hollow space in the middle. This design saves material, reduces weight, and provides ventilation and insulation, making the homes warm in winter and cool in summer. Ornate carvings are often found on the doors, windows, and beams. These houses are typically two stories: the upper floor serves as bedrooms and guest rooms, while the ground floor is used for storage and livestock pens. The layout is mostly a three-sided courtyard, with the main room, entrance, and side rooms arranged to suit the terrain.



▲ Salar traditional home in Mengda Dazhuang





▲ Salar traditional home in Tashapo Village



▲ Salar traditional clothing







▲ Salar household items

Salar mosques are characterized by expansive internal wooden prayer halls and helmet-shaped minarets. Under the Chinese-style building shell, they retain the function of climbing to call for prayer, which echoes Central Asian architectural traditions. They integrate local Hehuang construction techniques; the helmet-shaped minarets often feature layered beam frames—such as the well-style, lifting-beam, and curved-shed styles—topped with intricate, overlapping roofs that are both structured and visually distinct.

01

Hongshuiquan Mosque

Seventh batch of Major Historical and Cultural Sites Protected at the National Level

Hongshuiquan Mosque is located in Hongshuiquan Village, Hongshuiquan Hui Ethnic Township, Ping'an District, hidden deep in the mountains south of the Huangshui Valley. It was first built in the second year of the Ming Yongle reign. Since then, it has undergone five renovations and expansions, reaching its current complete layout during the Qianlong period of the Qing Dynasty. The Qianlong-era expansion took 13 years, funded by local Muslims, with hundreds of Han, Tibetan, and Hui craftsmen from places like Shanxi participating, eventually setting the standards seen today.



▲ Hongshuiquan Village



▲ Hongshuiquan Mosque

The Hongshuiquan Mosque faces west towards the east (Islamic architecture requires the Qibla wall and Mihrab to face Mecca, so the complex is oriented away from Mecca), with the entrance facing south, consisting of two courtyards. The imitation wood blue-brick screen wall is 10 meters long and 6 meters high, featuring five-step dougong (traditional interlocking brackets) under the eaves and an imitation hip-and-gable roof with ridge beasts. In the center of the screen wall, there is a diamond-shaped frame containing brick carvings of 'Kylin and Phoenix bringing prosperity.' The four corners feature carvings of pumpkins, Buddha's hand citrus, pomegranates, and longevity peaches. The wall is based on a hexagonal embroidered flower pattern, with 255 unique flower patterns carved into the center of each, featuring peonies, lotus flowers, pomegranates, Buddha's hand, and gourds, interspersed with lions, bats, and the character for 'Longevity' (Shou). Locals call this the 'Hundred Flower Picture' or 'Hundred Steamed Bun Picture,' as it is said the craftsmen were inspired by the floral patterns local women steamed into their bread. The top of the screen wall features a Taiji diagram, the base is decorated with lotus pedestals, and both sides feature carvings of 'lions playing with embroidered balls' and 'senior and junior lions.'

The structure of the main gate is astonishing; it lacks a main beam, with the top constructed by stacking short wooden pieces in a crisscross pattern. The enormous load of the roof is dispersed through layers of dougong brackets, a technique folk-named 'two ghosts carrying the burden.' The brick carvings on the screen walls on both sides of the gate are equally sophisticated: one side depicts 'mice stealing grapes,' implying many children and much happiness; the other depicts a 'Kylin with a pine tree,' symbolizing a lucky creature guarding wealth and a Kylin bestowing children.

























▲ Hongshuiquan Mosque main gate

Passing through the main gate, the minaret comes into view. This is a triple-eaved, hexagonal, pyramid-roof pavilion—distinct from the more common octagonal shapes in Buddhist or Taoist architecture. It stands about 20 meters high, with stacked eaves and soaring wings, narrowing layer by layer as it rises. It features airy corridors and lattice windows, giving it a towering, elegant, and expansive appearance. The dougong on each level are different, becoming more intricate as they reach the top. The interior is supported by two massive 'heaven-reaching pillars' that extend to the top to hold the helmet-shaped roof, with 12 outer wooden pillars; the overall structure is known as 'Erlang carrying the mountain with twelve cows.' The ground-floor brick carvings depict 'cats leaping and butterflies dancing' and 'rabbits guarding Chinese cabbage.' Since cats and butterflies sound like the word for 'old age' (maodie) and cabbage sounds like 'hundred wealth' (baicai), these designs blend secular wishes with spiritual belief.















































▲ Hongshuiquan Mosque minaret

To the west of the minaret lies the core building of the mosque: the prayer hall. It consists of a front hall and a rear kiln hall, with roofs connected in a series of rising and falling heights, creating a rhythmic, layered appearance in the limited courtyard space. The front hall is five rooms wide and seven rooms deep, with a T-shaped plan, a single-eave hip-and-gable roof, and a treasure roof on the main ridge. The ridge features clearly layered brick carvings of flowers. The front porch column heads use corbels to support the beam frames, while the wooden lintels are carved with 'two dragons playing with a pearl,' 'dragons and phoenixes,' and 'dragons and tigers.' The screen walls on both sides of the front hall feature rich and lively brick carvings of 'peacocks playing with peonies,' 'mandarin ducks playing in the water,' 'pomegranates with many seeds,' and various flowers.



























▲ Hongshuiquan Mosque prayer hall

The interior of the prayer hall is unpainted and plain, famous for its exquisite wooden structure, which represents the climax of the mosque's decorative art. The kiln hall features a double-eave hip-and-gable roof. The upper part is a 'heavenly palace pavilion,' with balcony railings, partitioned doors, and dougong carved in layers. The ceiling in the center is an octagonal caisson (sunken panel), which recedes inward in layers, looking like a giant open umbrella—thus it is called the 'Sky-Dropped Umbrella.' The screen doors in the lower part of the kiln hall are carved with mountains, flowers, and pavilions, and the door skirt panels are engraved with the character for 'Longevity' (Shou) in different fonts. The Mihrab is shaped like a vase with carved flowers at the mouth, and the flower petals are decorated with the Eight Auspicious Symbols of Tibetan Buddhism.







▲ Hongshuiquan Mosque kiln hall















▲ Hongshuiquan Mosque prayer hall interior











▲ Hongshuiquan Mosque kiln hall interior



▲ Hongshuiquan Mosque Mihrab











▲ Hongshuiquan Mosque kiln hall's 'heavenly palace pavilion' and its caisson ceiling

Outside the prayer hall, the mosque still has auxiliary buildings like study rooms, which, along with the screen wall, main gate, and minaret, form a main-secondary complex that conforms to the mountain terrain. The decorative elements throughout the mosque are perfectly placed, blending cultures from various ethnic groups. Animal figures like dragons, phoenixes, Kylins, and lions, as well as the Taiji diagram, the Eight Immortals, the four arts (qin, chess, calligraphy, painting), plum blossoms, orchids, bamboo, chrysanthemums, and the Eight Auspicious Symbols of Tibetan Buddhism, all appear in abundance.

02

Ahetan Mosque

Seventh Batch of Major Historical and Cultural Sites Protected at the National Level

The Ahetan Mosque is tucked away in Ahetan Village, Gendu Town, Hualong County, right on the north bank of the Yellow River. Originally built in the third year of the Zhiyuan era of the Yuan Dynasty (1322), it was constructed by the ancestors of the Salar people when they migrated from the south bank of the river. It was expanded during the Wanli era of the Ming Dynasty and repaired again in the forty-fifth year of the Qianlong era of the Qing Dynasty, yet it has preserved its original Yuan and Ming architectural layout and style. Facing east, the mosque follows a courtyard layout consisting of a screen wall, a main gate, a minaret (call-to-prayer tower), the main prayer hall, and study rooms, all seamlessly integrated in a balanced design.



Ahetan Mosque

The main gate faces the screen wall and is a brick-and-wood structure with three bays, four pillars, and three gabled roofs. It features elaborate nine-step, four-curve dougong (traditional interlocking wooden brackets) in a 'pin' shape, with the Five Pillars of Islam—Shahada (faith), Salah (prayer), Zakat (charity), Sawm (fasting), and Hajj (pilgrimage)—carved onto the lintel.





Ahetan Mosque Main Gate

The minaret is a three-story, hexagonal, pavilion-style tower about nine meters high. The base is built of brick while the upper levels are wood. It features swooping eaves, dragon and tiger-head roof tiles, and a distinctive hexagonal helmet-shaped roof.















Ahetan Mosque Minaret

The main prayer hall faces east and is massive in scale, with the front hall and the mihrab (prayer niche) chamber connected. It has a single-eave, hip-and-gable roof covered in grey tiles. The main and side roof ridges feature intricate and beautiful brick carvings of flowers. The exterior walls under the eaves are also stacked with grey bricks. Inside, the walls are left unpainted and plain, while numerous pointed arch windows make the space feel bright and airy.









Ahetan Mosque Main Prayer Hall













Ahetan Mosque Interior





Ahetan Mosque Mihrab Chamber Interior

03

Jiezi Gongbei

Seventh Batch of Major Historical and Cultural Sites Protected at the National Level

The Jiezi Gongbei is located in Jiezi Town, Xunhua County, within a Sufi Daotang (monastery). It is a vital sacred site for the Qadiriyya (Arabic for 'the capable ones') order—one of the four major Sufi orders in China—and serves as the birthplace of its 'Four Gate' branch. It houses the tomb of Han Chengxiang (known by his religious name, Musa), the founder of the Four Gate Qadiriyya. (The term 'Gongbei' is a transliteration of the Persian 'Gonbad' or Turkic 'Kumbet', meaning tomb or dome).







Jiezi Daotang

Han Chengxiang traveled twice to the Daotang in Yarkant (Shache, Xinjiang) in 1858 and 1883 to seek guidance from masters. During his time in Yarkant, he accompanied the Khwaja (Arabic for a respected elder) of the Daotang on Hajj to Mecca. After studying the theories of the four major Sufi orders, he was sent back to his hometown in 1877 to spread the teachings. He returned to Xunhua again in 1889 by his master's order, where he continued to spread the Four Gate Qadiriyya until his passing in the twenty-sixth year of the Guangxu era (1900). He was originally buried in the public cemetery next to the Great Mosque of Jiezi, moved to its current location in 1950, and saw the Gongbei rebuilt in 1984 and again in 1998.

The Jiezi Gongbei is an eight-sided, three-story pavilion-style structure about 25 meters tall. It is a mix of brick and wood. The base is built of grey bricks carved with suns, waves, pine trees, and various flowers. The second and third stories feature relief carvings of dougong under the flat tie-beams, with additional dougong at the pillar heads. The hanging flower-shaped pillars under the corner beams support the layered roof, which is topped with a treasure vase and a crescent moon and star.



















Jiezi Gongbei

The Jiezi Gongbei, along with the adjacent mosque, meditation rooms, and lecture halls, forms a complete architectural complex. The screen wall in the courtyard, which has existed since the initial construction in 1953, defines the entrance and shields the inner courtyard with its beautiful and detailed brick carvings.





Jiezi Gongbei and Courtyard Screen Wall

04

Purihouxixi Tomb Complex

Unclassified

The Purihouxixi Tomb Complex is located in Jiezi Town, Xunhua County, right next to the Jiezi Great Mosque. It consists of six tombs of varying sizes. The original sites of the tombs of the Salar founding ancestors, Galeman and Aheman, are nearby. 'Purihouxixi' is not a name but is said to be a respectful title for officials in Samarkand. The six people buried here were Samarkand officials and their attendants. Legend says the Samarkand government sent them to check on their kin who had migrated east; upon arriving in Jiezi and seeing the fertile land and peaceful life, they decided to stay.







Purihouxixi Tomb Complex

05

Qingshui Hedong Mosque

Seventh Batch of Major Historical and Cultural Sites Protected at the National Level

The Qingshui Hedong Mosque is situated on the south bank of the Yellow River in Qingshui Township, Xunhua County. First built in the first year of the Hongxi era of the Ming Dynasty (1425), it is the Haiyi Mosque (head mosque) of the eight Salar districts. Despite various renovations over the centuries, it maintains its Ming Dynasty scale and style. It is a single-courtyard complex arranged along a central axis containing a screen wall, the main gate, and the prayer hall, with study rooms to the north and the minaret to the south, creating a compact and orderly layout.

The mosque's main gate faces the screen wall and is a three-bay, four-pillar, three-story brick-and-wood structure with a gabled roof and five-step dougong. The minaret on the south side is a three-story, hexagonal, pavilion-style tower 17 meters high. It features a brick base, a wooden upper structure, and a hexagonal helmet-shaped roof. Inside, six wooden pillars extend to the top, leaning inward. The dougong are complex and ornate, and the railings and hanging pillars are delicately carved. Climbing to the top offers a stunning view of the Yellow River and the distant Jishi Mountains.











Qingshui Hedong Mosque Minaret



















Qingshui Hedong Mosque Minaret Interior

The prayer hall is massive, with the front hall and the mihrab chamber connected. The front hall has a single-eave, hip-and-gable roof and measures five bays in both width and depth. Under the eaves, you'll find wooden carved lintels and sparrow braces (bracket supports). Between the eaves pillars are wooden partitions, with brick-carved screen walls on both sides. Inside, the hall is unpainted and kept simple, supported by 42 wooden pillars that give it a grand, spacious feel. The mihrab chamber is separated from the front hall by exquisite wooden folding screens featuring intricate openwork carvings of canopies, dougong, and hanging pillars, all drawing the eye naturally toward the mihrab on the center of the Qibla wall.







Qingshui Hedong Mosque Main Prayer Hall













Qingshui Hedong Mosque Main Prayer Hall Interior

The wooden carvings on the Qibla wall of the mihrab chamber are particularly exquisite. The wall is composed of many rectangular wooden panels carved with Arabic calligraphy, flames, scrolls, and vase-and-flower patterns. The craftsmanship is incredibly precise and delicate. The mihrab is framed by a double-flame pointed arch with openwork carvings of tangled flowers, and the interior is filled with floral patterns that cover every corner, even faintly revealing outlines of traditional Chinese instruments like the qin (zither) and pipa (lute).



















Qingshui Hedong Mosque Mihrab Chamber Interior



Qingshui Hedong Mosque Mihrab

06

Mengda Dazhuang Mosque

A Seventh-Batch Major Historical and Cultural Site Protected at the National Level

The Mengda Dazhuang Mosque is located in Dazhuang Village, Mengda Township, Xunhua County. Nestled right by the Yellow River with mountains in the background, it’s the head mosque of the Mengda Gong (a traditional local Salar administrative unit) and stands as the most exquisite example of Salar architecture today. Its exact founding date is debated, but a 1984 renovation uncovered an inscription on the southern wall of the main prayer hall dating back to the Tianqi era of the Ming Dynasty, suggesting it was built during that period. While it saw multiple expansions during the Qing Dynasty, its core structure and architectural style have stayed true to their original Ming Dynasty roots.

The mosque doesn't have a single front gate; instead, it features a central minaret with symmetrical triangular archway gates on the north and south sides. This arrangement gives the eastern facade a horizontal, "mountain-shaped" (shan-zi-xing) silhouette, with the two side gates also forming smaller mountain-shaped profiles, creating a layered and harmonious look. The minaret is a three-story, hexagonal pavilion with a pointed roof. The base is brick, while the upper levels are timber. The roof is topped with an ornate, multi-layered hexagonal helmet design, supported by complex and gorgeous double-tiered dougong (traditional interlocking wooden brackets).





Mengda Dazhuang Mosque Minaret

The prayer hall has a T-shaped floor plan, featuring a dynamic exterior profile and a deep, multi-layered interior space that feels much larger than it looks from the outside. The front hall is five bays wide and five bays deep, utilizing a timber-frame construction and the jian-zhu (pillar reduction) technique, with a juanpeng (cradle-vaulted) roof for the front porch. The inner prayer niche area is three bays wide and three bays deep, featuring a tai-liang (raised beam) frame and decorative five-step dougong brackets between the pillars.















Mengda Dazhuang Mosque Prayer Hall

The interior of the prayer hall is incredibly ornate and stunning. The beams and brackets are decorated with official-style xuanzi (swirling) paintings, while the main pillars are painted in blue, yellow, red, and green with intricate golden-edged floral designs. The timber framing, brackets, and architraves feature complex patterns of peonies, chrysanthemums, passion flowers, and cloud motifs. You can even spot honeycomb patterns on the spacer boards, which are influenced by Tibetan art, while the walls are filled with large-scale floral murals, seashell patterns, and beautiful Arabic calligraphy.

The mihrab (niche indicating the direction of Mecca) is painted in a vibrant vermilion, accented with stone blue, dark green, and gold. It features Arabic calligraphy, circular scripture seals on the sides and the lintel, and gold-leaf floral patterns along the arch. The center of the niche holds a circular scripture emblem, with radiating colorful bands reminiscent of Mamluk-era design, though the style is also clearly influenced by the "precious light" motifs found in Tibetan Buddhism. The base features traditional patterns like peonies and swastikas, perfectly blending local Hehuang culture with Han and Tibetan artistic elements.













































Mengda Dazhuang Mosque Interior













Mengda Dazhuang Mosque Interior of the Prayer Niche







Mengda Dazhuang Mosque Mihrab

North and south of the main prayer hall are several rooms with front porches, serving as study rooms, ritual washing facilities, and kitchens, creating a classic courtyard layout. Tucked away to the west is a separate gongbei (tomb of a Sufi saint), which sits slightly apart from the main complex.



Mengda Dazhuang Mosque Gongbei

07

Tashapo Mosque

A Seventh-Batch Major Historical and Cultural Site Protected at the National Level

Tashapo Mosque is located in Tashapo Village, Mengda Township, Xunhua County. "Tashapo" means "a place to escape danger" in Tibetan. The village was built into the mountains, creating a layout where everyone lives clustered around the mosque. After the Salar people settled in Xunhua, some moved further east from areas like Jiezi and Mengda to live here. The mosque dates back to the 15th year of the Chenghua era in the Ming Dynasty. An inscription on the brickwork north of the minaret marks a major renovation or expansion around 1755, during the 20th year of the Qianlong Emperor’s reign.

Facing the entrance, the mosque features a brick-and-timber archway gate with three bays, four pillars, and three levels of roof, topped with a hip roof and eleven-step dougong brackets. Inside, it connects to a back porch with a cradle-vaulted roof, flanked by brick walls intricately carved with trees, flowers, and dragon-phoenix motifs.



Tashapo Mosque Front Gate

The minaret is an 18-meter-tall, three-story, hexagonal pavilion with a pointed roof. The base is made of brick, featuring detailed carvings of flowers and clouds. The second and third floors are timber-built with double-layered railings. Inside the third floor, there is a beautiful zaojing (caisson ceiling). The structure is wider at the top than the bottom, allowing rainwater to fall directly to the ground from the third-story eaves—a unique "top-heavy" design that is one of a kind among minarets in the Hehuang region.















Tashapo Mosque Minaret

The prayer hall is T-shaped. The front hall is five bays wide and five bays deep with a single-eave hip-and-gable roof. The main and secondary bays feature doors with intricate three-interlaced-six-petal lattice patterns. Under the eaves, you’ll find seven-step dougong brackets, while the architraves are decorated with floral carvings. The massive beams are supported by qima queti (horse-riding braces) carved with cloud and floral patterns, and the front porch features a cradle-vaulted roof. The prayer niche area is three bays wide and three bays deep. Inside, the space is divided by delicate wooden lattice screens, and the mihrab is covered in complex, deeply carved floral relief. The End

















Tashapo Mosque Prayer Hall



Tashapo Mosque Interior and its Mihrab view all

[Internet Repost]

This article provides a comprehensive breakdown of the core principles of halal diets as found in Islamic scripture, and how these are interpreted across the four major schools of jurisprudence. We’ll also dig into how modern industrial slaughter, food additives, and global cold-chain logistics are shaking up traditional dietary ethics.

Halal dietary guidelines aren't just a rigid, set-in-stone list of laws. The Quran laid the foundation, but over time, different legal schools built on those principles by incorporating Hadith (recorded sayings and actions of the Prophet), local customs, and the realities of their environments. Now, in the modern age, industrial food production, global trade, and the certification industry are creating a whole new set of unprecedented challenges for this ancient legal framework.



Everything in this piece is distilled from the book mentioned above, which covers the history of halal food. The book dives into how people consumed halal food in the past and how the modern halal certification industry has evolved—two topics I'm really interested in. The author touches on questions I've covered in my own videos and articles, proving that there's nothing new under the sun and there will always be people who get it. I’m going to skip the basic concepts everyone already knows and share the parts I think are actually worth your time.

The ban on alcohol in the Quran is a perfect example of the logic behind Islamic legislation. The revelations followed a gradual process: in the Meccan period, the Quran mentioned that grapes and dates could produce intoxicating drinks, viewing them as a gift from Allah, and didn't forbid them; even the descriptions of Paradise mentioned wine. Early on in Medina, the scriptures noted that while alcohol had some benefits, its sins outweighed them. Later, it was decreed that believers shouldn't participate in dua (prayer) while intoxicated, but a total ban still wasn't issued. It wasn't until the later Medinan period that wine, gambling, and pagan sacrifices were grouped together as 'the filth of Satan,' and believers were ordered to stay away from them completely. The tradition of exegesis uses the principle of naskh (abrogation), where later verses supersede earlier ones, making verses 90-91 of Surah 5 the final word on alcohol.

Another highly debated verse is Surah 5:5, which states: 'Today, all wholesome foods have been made lawful for you. The food of the People of the Book is lawful for you, and your food is lawful for them.' From the medieval era to today, scholars have argued over how to interpret this, which directly impacts the real-world question of whether or not you can eat meat slaughtered by the People of the Book (Jews and Christians). Throughout all these dietary rules, there is one core spirit: there is no intent to make things difficult for believers; these rules aren't meant to be an unnecessary burden on their lives.

When you look at this historically, meat was a luxury item in pre-modern societies, and ordinary people didn't really have to deal with the question of whether meat was 'halal' very often—something modern people tend to forget. In the 7th-century Arabian Peninsula, resources were scarce. A normal person's diet mostly consisted of dates, dairy products, and barley bread; they were lucky to eat meat once a month. Camels were valuable assets for transport and wouldn't be slaughtered unless it was a matter of survival. Beef was also rare, and lamb was the most accessible meat. Many people lived almost like vegetarians. Hadith records show that Ali, the fourth Caliph, rarely ate meat in a year, and Umar II advised people not to be greedy for meat or get addicted to it. Even the Prophet’s favorite dish, Tharid (a broth-soaked bread dish), was usually reserved for holidays or special guests.

By the time of the great empires—the Mamluks, Ottomans, and Mughals—meat consumption became strictly divided by social class. Meat went to the capital first, while provinces got the leftovers. High-ranking nobles and officials got first dibs, followed by average citizens, and slaves came last. Men also usually got priority over women. Ottoman law treated bread as a essential necessity the state had to provide, but meat wasn't part of that state guarantee; most commoners only ate meat on holidays.

Today, we just assume a believer needs to constantly check if their food is halal, but in the pre-modern world, halal meat was mostly a concern for the wealthy. It wasn't until modern industrialization made meat cheap and widely available that the general public had to deal with halal compliance so frequently.

When it comes to wild animals like rabbits, lizards, foxes, hyenas, horses, or hedgehogs, different legal schools have vastly different takes. These differences usually come down to two things: first, they rely on different versions of the Hadith, and second, the hunting and eating habits of the regions where the schools originated. The Maliki school, which emerged in the resource-poor Hijaz region, is the most lenient, generally allowing the consumption of rabbits, lizards, and hyenas—common prey in that area. The Shafi'i and Hanbali schools are somewhere in the middle, allowing some animals but calling others makruh (disliked). The Hanafi school is much stricter, labeling many wild animals as forbidden, putting it closer to the Shia Jafari school. The Jafari school is the strictest of all, classifying rabbits, lizards, and hyenas as haram (forbidden).

The debate over horse meat and lizards is pretty representative. The Quran mentions horses, mules, and donkeys were created for riding and adornment, which leads some scholars to say horse meat is off-limits. Others argue that since the Quran doesn't explicitly ban it, it's fine to eat. For lizards, the Malikis lean on Medinan Hadith to permit them, while the Hanafis and Shia lean on Kufan traditions to ban them. At its heart, it’s just a difference in regional Hadith versions. It’s worth noting that many of these animal bans aren't in the Quran, but come from the Hadith. In the classical era, these conflicting rulings were just seen as reasonable academic differences, not heresy.

Seafood is where dietary law really hits the most friction. Surah 5:96 states: 'The catch of the sea and its food are lawful for you.' But this short verse led to all kinds of different interpretations. All schools only agree on two things: fish with scales are allowed, and fish don't need the ritual slaughter required for land animals. Other than that, almost all seafood is controversial. The Malikis are the most open, allowing sharks, whales, shrimp, crab, squid, shellfish, sea turtles, and crocodiles. The Shafi'is accept sharks, whales, and cephalopods, but are skeptical about crabs and turtles. The Hanbalis are in the middle. The Hanafis only recognize 'fish' in the narrow sense, banning marine mammals, crustaceans, and mollusks. The Shia Jafari school only allows fish with scales, though they make an exception for shrimp, treating it like the 'locusts of the sea,' while everything else is haram.

Real history shows how legal rulings are influenced by economics. In Iran, sturgeon technically didn't have the typical scales required by Shia tradition, so they should have been banned. But after the 1979 Iranian Revolution, caviar became a massive export pillar for the country. In 1983, Khomeini issued a fatwa explaining that the hard bony plates of the sturgeon counted as the 'scales' mentioned in the scripture, making caviar legal. This proves that economic reality drives the reinterpretation of ancient texts, and that’s nothing new.

Take Egypt’s traditional fermented fish, Fesikh. The ingredients themselves (scaled fish) are halal, but if the open-air fermentation process goes wrong, it can easily lead to food poisoning. Local Muftis used the legal framework of tayyibat (wholesome/good) and khabā’ith (vile/harmful): even if the original ingredient is lawful, if the final product causes harm to the human body, it's considered 'vile' and should be declared haram. Indonesia follows the Shafi'i school, so their whale and shark fishing industries are backed by legal fatwas. The Ottoman Empire officially followed the Hanafi school, which theoretically banned lobster and oysters, but you'd find them on menus for diplomatic banquets in the 19th century—showing the gap between official legal codes and social reality. Even for fish that die naturally in the sea, schools argue: Malikis and Shafi'is say it's fine if it hasn't rotted, while Hanafis and Shia equate it to carrion, insisting fish must be caught alive.

Ritual slaughter rules have also seen major shifts between the medieval and modern eras. In the medieval period, the Sunni mainstream accepted meat slaughtered by the 'People of the Book,' provided they didn't invoke the name of a false god. During the Mamluk and Ottoman eras, Muslims would often buy meat from Jewish butchers; in Istanbul, there were over a dozen Jewish slaughterhouses well into the 18th and 19th centuries. The Shia took a more restrictive path: early on, they accepted meat from the People of the Book, but started shifting in the 9th and 10th centuries and completely rejected it by the 11th. The reason wasn't about the slaughtering process itself, but the belief that the People of the Book held erroneous faiths and were inherently 'unclean,' thus unqualified to invoke the name of Allah during slaughter.

Surprisingly, most modern Sunnis have shifted to that strict medieval Shia stance. It’s not because the Quran changed, but because social reality changed the logic of legal interpretation. Meat consumption has become mass-market, which has fueled anxiety about purity; global trade means consumers can’t supervise slaughtering on-site, which increases doubt; the religious purification movements of the late 20th century reinforced group boundaries; and the business of halal certification encourages agencies to adopt stricter standards to prove they are the 'most' authentic.

Entering the industrial age, electrical stunning before slaughter and automated poultry slaughter lines have become the two big new battlegrounds. Classical texts don't have the answers, so jurists have to use old legal tools to deal with modern problems.

So-called 'stunning'—using electricity, bolts, or gas to knock an animal unconscious before cutting its throat—is standard practice in Western slaughterhouses. It’s often forced by animal welfare laws and gets caught up in complex debates over immigration, religious exemptions, and animal rights. Historically, Nazi Germany used animal protection laws to ban Jewish ritual slaughter, using animal ethics as a cover for antisemitism. After WWII, Europe generally mandated stunning while allowing religious exemptions, but implementation varies: Norway, Sweden, Switzerland, and Iceland offer zero exemptions, while the UK, France, and Spain do. EU regulations confirm the right to an exemption but let member states set their own limits. Even scientists don't have a consensus on whether stunning actually reduces animal suffering, so both sides of the debate just cherry-pick the research that supports them.

Jurists fall into three camps: One, represented by Al-Qaradawi, accepts stunning without limit, relying on the 'food of the People of the Book' verse. Critics, however, point out that many workers in imported meat production aren't actually practicing members of those faiths, which creates doubt (shubha). The mainstream compromise only accepts 'reversible' stunning, where the animal is unconscious but still shows vital signs—meaning it's still alive when the throat is cut. If stunning causes death, it's treated as carrion and is haram. Piercing bolt guns, gas, or total-heart-stop electrical shocks are banned; non-piercing bolt guns and head-only electric shocks are allowed. Water-bath stunning for poultry is still debated. Institutions like Al-Azhar and Iran’s Khamenei hold this view. The third group rejects stunning entirely, led by Pakistan's Taqi Usmani and Iraq's Sistani, fearing that in an industrial setting, you can't guarantee the animal hasn't already died, or that residual blood makes it haram, and that some stunning methods are painful in themselves. This view is gaining popularity; the number of non-stunned halal slaughterhouses in the UK is rising every year.

Cattle and sheep slaughter mostly still involve manual knives, so the conflict is focused on automated poultry lines. Birds are hung on conveyor belts and a high-speed blade cuts their necks, often paired with water-bath stunning. The core legal puzzle is: can a machine count as the 'slaughterer'? If you say 'In the name of Allah' (tasmiyya) once when turning the machine on, does that cover thousands of birds? The industrial problem is that some birds die from the electric shock, and blades miss some; if a live bird isn't slaughtered and enters the scalding tank, it becomes carrion.

A small minority of views use the 'People of the Book' verse to accept mechanical poultry slaughter wholesale. The middle-grounders set multiple constraints: an operator must say the name of Allah when starting the machine, and manual inspection is required to remove dead birds. The conservatives are dead set against it: they argue that in the old days, one invocation covered a continuous manual slaughter, whereas an assembly line is thousands of independent cuts, so a single activation isn't enough. Plus, machines don't have a soul, and a recording of an invocation is invalid; a human must say the name at the exact moment each animal is slaughtered. Commercially, Brazilian chicken exporters to the Middle East will explicitly label their products as 'hand-slaughtered' to satisfy conservative markets.

There's a sharp contrast between ancient and modern views: ancient Hadith taught not to be overly critical of the butcher—if a believer accidentally forgot to say the name, the meat was still okay. The legal spirit was not to add burdens to the believers. But the global, long-distance supply chain has birthed modern skepticism; the principle of 'doubt' is magnified, and people would rather be overly strict than take a risk. The change in material conditions has reshaped legal priorities.

Beyond alcohol, things like opium, cannabis, coffee, and tobacco were all introduced later, so there is no mention of them in the Quran or reliable Hadith. Jurists use analogical reasoning, the principle of 'public interest,' and the five goals of Islamic law to make rulings, and these views change as social knowledge and science evolve.

Regarding alcohol, the Hanafi school early on had a unique take: they argued only wine made from grapes or dates was 'khamr' (the prohibited alcohol), and fermented grain drinks were fine as long as you didn't get drunk. This view was later heavily criticized and faded away. The modern consensus is that anything that can intoxicate is banned, regardless of the source. Brewing, buying, selling, or gifting alcohol is prohibited, and alcohol holds no legal status as property. The Quran doesn't set a physical punishment for drinking, so the severity of penalties varies by region.

Even though legal texts explicitly forbid alcohol, it has historically existed in society. In Andalusia, there was relative tolerance for non-grape fermented drinks, and poetry often used alcohol as a theme. Mamluk Egypt had taverns everywhere until the 13th century, after which conservative pressure tried to suppress them but couldn't eradicate them. Ottoman rulers would often issue anti-alcohol edicts during disasters to appear pious, but those bans were fleeting. Many Sultans who banned alcohol drank it themselves, and the elite class drank regularly; the state even taxed fermented drinks and set up official distilleries. The Safavid and Mughal empires faced the same contradiction: rulers would ban alcohol while their own courts drank. Prohibition was often more of a periodic political performance than a real attempt to change society. Today, alcohol policies range from total bans and non-Muslim-only sales to complete openness.

Coffee arrived in the Middle East in the 15th-16th centuries and caused a huge debate. Some scholars thought coffee changed your mental state and, by analogy to alcohol, was 'disliked' or even illegal, and coffee shops were seen as breeding grounds for rumors and sedition. The other side argued coffee didn't cause drunkenness and should be allowed. Governments closed coffee shops, but the consumer demand was unstoppable, and by the 17th-18th centuries, coffee was widely accepted.

Tobacco arrived in the Middle East at the end of the 16th century and became a classic modern legal puzzle. Early on, the spectrum was wide: some thought it smelled bad, wasted money, and hurt the body, making it 'vile.' Others countered that the Quran didn't forbid it, and you can't just declare something forbidden without a clear reason, only avoiding it if it specifically hurts an individual. Now that modern medicine has proven the health risks, mainstream scholars label smoking as makruh (disliked), and some authorities classify it as haram, though opinions still differ.

An interesting social phenomenon: both the WHO and tobacco companies have actively engaged in religious debates. The WHO collects and spreads anti-smoking fatwas, wrapping public health issues in religious morality; tobacco companies find scholars who hold the opposite view to issue counter-fatwas. What used to be an internal religious discussion has been weaponized by external organizations and commercial capital. Despite religious criticism, the smoking rate for men in many countries remains high—a gap between religious mandates and social reality.

Overall, 'halal-haram' isn't a fixed list. When faced with new things not mentioned in the scriptures, jurists use classical tools and combine them with modern realities to reach new conclusions. Researching halal diets requires distinguishing between the ideal of legal texts and actual social practice; many things might be officially banned but still widely practiced. At the same time, modern external forces actively participate in the production of these rulings. A lot of social issues fall into the 'makruh' gray area, but popular discourse often simplifies everything into a black-and-white binary.

In the contemporary era of globalization, 'halal' has gone from individual religious guidelines to a massive global business. On the market, official government halal agencies coexist with private commercial ones. Private agencies live on service fees from companies, which creates an inherent conflict of interest: to win market share, some agencies lower standards, while others use the strictest possible standards as a marketing point.

Global trade leads to many practical dilemmas: halal certificates issued by different countries often don't recognize each other, creating trade barriers; common consumers can't tell which certification is real, leading to rampant fake labeling; and the multi-layered outsourcing of international supply chains makes it nearly impossible for certification agencies to check the whole chain, leaving them to rely on companies' self-declarations and creating compliance loopholes.

There are several eternal tensions within this business system. First, the conflict between religious ideals and commercial profit: companies want to cut costs and avoid changing production lines, while religious audits demand full checking of ingredients, slaughter, and additives, which drives up costs. When one line is shared between halal and non-halal products, cleaning and isolation become huge issues. Second, the conflict between national trade interests and pure religious demands: when states set standards, things like foreign trade, jobs, and economic reality are factored in—the Iranian caviar case is the perfect example. Third, the risk of consumerism: the halal label has become a consumption symbol. With the rise of halal makeup, luxury goods, and travel, critics argue that just buying 'halal' products is a poor substitute for internal religious virtue.

Compared to pre-modern times, the shift is profound: ancient society relied on 'acquaintance networks' and community reputation, and market inspectors only looked for fraud; there were no standardized 'halal stickers.' Modern urbanization and long-distance supply chains have destroyed that trust, transferring it to a third-party certificate printed on packaging—the label itself has become a product.

Looking globally, there is no one single international halal standard. The Malaysian MS1500, the Gulf Cooperation Council’s GSO2055, and the OIC/SMIIC-1 are the three main official documents. Standards aren't just technical specs for factories; they are trade tools that carry national industrial interests and 'soft power' competition.

Standardization itself involves trade-offs: classical law accepts school diversity, but industrial standards must have definitive, actionable steps. Setting a standard means choosing one legal view over others, which makes it impossible to please everyone. The OIC/SMIIC-1, as a coordination template, purposefully uses vague language in key controversial clauses to handle the vast differences between member states, which means it doesn't actually get rid of trade barriers.

Multiple certifications increase the burden on businesses, making it hard for small companies to survive; some countries use their own standards as market entry barriers. Malaysia wants to be the global halal hub and push MS1500; Gulf states use their massive import market to push GSO2055. It's a fight for who has the power to define the rules. At the same time, paper standards aren't the same as real-world results: budget and auditor capability create execution gaps; and many private agencies don't follow official standards, further fragmenting the market.

The era of processed food brings new legal challenges. Scientific lab tests and DNA analysis can identify ingredients, but science can only check components, not their 'halal-ness'—that still requires legal interpretation. Two classical tools are used here: First is istihāl (transformation), where an illegal substance undergoes such a complete chemical change that it becomes legal—but there’s no consensus on what 'complete' means. Second is istihlāk (dilution/dissolution), where a small amount of illegal ingredients is 'absorbed' by a large amount of legal ones—but there’s no standard threshold for this in modern industry.

Gelatin is the prime example. Industrial gelatin can come from pork bones and skin, or from halal-slaughtered cows/sheep. Lenient views say that high-heat hydrolysis causes a chemical transformation, so pork gelatin is okay. Middle-ground views prioritize animal source, only allowing pork gelatin in extreme necessity. Most mainstream agencies today hold a strict view: no matter how much it's processed, if the source is pig, it’s haram. Food companies have largely switched to carrageenan or pectin (plant alternatives) to avoid the drama.

At the same time, some thinkers are digging back into the Quranic concept of tayyib (wholesome/pure) to criticize mainstream commercial halal certification. Mainstream certification only focuses on checking for forbidden ingredients and slaughter methods, ignoring animal rearing, labor treatment, and environmental pollution. An alternative ethical view is emerging: even if a product meets the 'halal' checklist, if factory farming makes animals suffer or ignores labor rights, it doesn't meet the 'tayyib' requirement of being wholesome.

This movement has two paths: one is adding 'animal welfare' or 'organic' labels on top of existing halal certifications; the other is more radical and rejects commercial certification entirely, choosing to connect directly with small farmers and local communities. However, this movement is still non-mainstream and hasn't been adopted by any national standards, and it faces the reality that high-end, ethical products are expensive and unaffordable for the average person. view all

[Internet Repost]

This collection of 19 photos documents the Qing Dynasty ancestral cemetery located at the Sanfu Villa in Mapoling, Yuzhong County, Lanzhou, Gansu. We’re tracing the early life and missionary travels of Ma Mingxin, along with his family's relocation to Yuzhong, to showcase this hidden piece of history tucked away in the loess hills of Northwest China.

The Baba Taiye cemetery at Mapoling Sanfu Villa is the final resting place for the family of Ma Mingxin, the founder of the Jahriyya (one of the four major Sufi menhuan, or orders, in China). Ma Mingxin lived here for a time before moving on, but his relatives—traditionally believed to include his uncle—were buried here. On the anniversary of Ma Mingxin’s death, followers of the Jahriyya tradition visit Lanzhou to honor his legacy, followed by a pilgrimage to this site in Yuzhong to offer their dua (supplication/prayer).



Biography of the Founder



The founder of the Jahriyya, Ma Mingxin (also known as Ma Mingxin; honored by his followers as Daozu Taiye or 'Grand Master of the Path'), was a Hui Muslim whose name in Arabic was Ibrahim, with the honorific title 'Wigaya-tullahi' (Protector of Allah's Path). After his death, he was revered as a 'Shahid' (martyr who sacrifices for the sake of Allah). Ma Mingxin was originally from Jiezhou, Gansu (present-day Longnan), but his family moved to Longxi due to famine, and later to Mapoling in Yuzhong County. Born posthumously on the first day of the first lunar month in 1718 (the 57th year of the Kangxi Emperor’s reign), he grew up in poverty and moved with his mother and uncle to the Great West Gate of Linxia. He was bright from a young age, began studying scripture at seven, and at twelve, followed his uncle’s instructions to travel on foot to Yunnan, then by sea to Mecca for the Hajj. During the sea voyage, a storm hit, his uncle went missing, and Ma Mingxin was rescued by local residents. He eventually joined a local community to study at a Yemeni mosque and completed his pilgrimage. He returned to China at age 23 in 1740 (the 5th year of the Qianlong Emperor’s reign), bringing back the Quran, the 'Mandanyeha' (poetry praising the Prophet Muhammad), and the 'Muhammans' (a biography of the Prophet), marking the beginning of the Jahriyya teachings in China. He first spread his teachings among the Salar people in Linxia, Gansu, and Xunhua, Baihuagong, and Qingshuigong in Qinghai, where he gained a significant following. Later, due to conflicts and exclusion from the Malaychi Huasi menhuan in Linxia, Ma Mingxin was forced to leave the Salar region in 1762 (the 27th year of Qianlong) to teach in Guanchuan, Dingxi, where his following grew rapidly. He traveled further to Lanzhou, Pingliang, and Jinjipu in Ningxia, which eventually sparked sectarian tensions and fights. The Qing government intervened, secretly arrested Ma Mingxin, and the resulting unrest led to further bloodshed. In 1781 (the 46th year of Qianlong), Ma Mingxin was executed at the city gate of Lanzhou at the age of 63.



Core Philosophy



Legend has it that Ma Mingxin went on the Hajj 11 times, bringing back the Jahriyya Sufi order, which had already spread through seven generations in Central Asia. The Jahriyya is a strictly religious organization and not a 'politico-religious' political body as some rumors suggest. From the start, the Jahriyya had a clear focus: to reform the shortcomings in the development of Islam in China and to promote Sufi values. In truth, all branches of Islam in China are purely religious organizations. The tendency of some to label religious groups as political stems from a misunderstanding of Chinese Islam and these specific sects. Blindly assigning false motives to these groups is not the behavior of serious, objective scholars. view all

[Internet Repost]

Check out these 8 high-value, local-favorite Halal spots frequently visited by the Hui Muslim community in Beijing, including Changying Xiaomao Restaurant, Dongbei Halal Tieguodun, Jinglaishun Huaxia Restaurant, and Baizuan Meishi. You can enjoy massive, hearty, traditional Halal home-cooked meals for under 100 RMB per person.

Beijing Halal Restaurant Guide

Changying Xiaomao Restaurant

Xinyuezhai

Hushu Dongbei Halal Tieguodun (Iron Pot Stew)

Halal Jinglaishun Beijing Huaxia Restaurant

Wanwan Moon

Xiaolou Restaurant

Fenglaishun Restaurant

Halal Baizuan Meishi (White Diamond Food)

Note: Every spot has specific must-try dishes, please see the article for details.

Beijing has a large Hui Muslim population and tons of Halal spots. Some are right on the main roads with fancy decor, while others are tucked deep into the hutongs (traditional narrow alleyways), only found if a local shows you the way. The eight spots we’re talking about today are all the latter—they don’t care about fancy vibes or service; they’re all about that home-cooked flavor, great value, and filling you up. Some of these places have been open for decades; their menus are so worn you can barely read them, and the regulars are mostly neighbors who've been coming for years. Not every single dish might be a masterpiece, but they’re solid, reliable comfort food. (And yes, we’ve got some spots in Tongzhou this time!)









01



SUMMER

Changying Xiaomao Restaurant (Changying Middle Road Branch)

Address: 401 Ground Floor Shop, Wanxiang Xintian, Changying Middle Road, Chaoyang District

Hours: 10:00 AM – 2:00 PM

4:30 PM – 11:00 PM

Average cost: 65 RMB

The street right by the Changying mosque is packed with restaurants one after another. Xiaomao Restaurant is tucked away next to the northwest gate of the Wanxiang Xintian Phase 4 complex. The storefront is small, the interior has just a few tables, the walls look a bit hectic, and they use disposable tableware. Their signature beef and lamb skewers are grilled until they’re sizzling, and the chaobing (stir-fried pancake strips) comes out piping hot with plenty of that essential wok hei (charred, smoky flavor from high-heat cooking). The spicy pork tenderloin is also a win. It’s a great deal at around 60 to 70 RMB per person, but definitely don't come if you're looking for a fancy atmosphere.

02



SUMMER

Xinyuezhai (Douban Hutong Branch)

Address: Next to the mosque, 4 Douban Hutong, Mennei, Dongcheng District

Hours: 5:30 AM – 9:30 PM

Average cost: 30 RMB

Xinyuezhai is in Douban Hutong inside Chaoyangmen, right next to the mosque. In the mornings, their tangyoubing (deep-fried sugar-coated pancakes) are perfectly crispy, and the steamed buns are packed with filling—it's a go-to spot for local office workers. At lunch, they serve jingdong roubing (Beijing-style meat pies), and their lamb stew with noodles is super authentic. The tietuo yangrou (iron-seared lamb) is made in the style of Shandong cuisine; the lamb is tender, the fried egg is savory, and the flavor leans a bit salty. The sweet and sour tenderloin is made with beef, though it can be a little tough, and they go heavy on the vinegar, giving it a sharp, acidic punch. It’s cheap, tastes like home, and has that classic old-school vibe.

03



SUMMER

Hushu Dongbei Halal Tieguodun (Xuanwumen Branch)

Address: 25 Xuanwumen Outer Street, Xicheng District

Hours: 11:00 AM – 11:30 PM

Average cost: 65 RMB

Halal-style Northeastern Chinese food is pretty rare in Beijing. This spot is right on Xuanwumen Outer Street, and their beef guobaorou (sweet and sour crispy beef) is the star—the crust is crispy, the beef inside isn't too thin, and the sweet-and-sour sauce is spot on. The tieguodun (iron pot stew) bubbles away at the table, the dalapi (wide, slippery starch noodles) are refreshing, and the Beile roast meat smells amazing the moment it hits the table. I hear the owner is also from an ethnic minority group; the portions are generous, and it usually costs around 60 RMB per person. On my first visit, they even gave us complimentary frozen pears—icy and refreshing, perfect for cutting through the richness of the meal. It gets busy during meal times, so expect a wait if you show up late.

04



SUMMER

Jinglaishun (Beijing Huaxia Restaurant)

Address: 93 Chezhan Road, Zhongcang Subdistrict, Tongzhou District

Hours: 6:00 AM – 2:00 PM

5:00 PM – 9:30 PM

Average cost: 66 RMB

Jinglaishun on Chezhan Road in Tongzhou has been open for about thirty years. They are open from 5:30 AM to 9:30 PM, serving breakfast items like doufunao (savory tofu pudding) and baozi (steamed buns). The beef stew is melt-in-your-mouth tender, and their egg and chive guotie (pan-fried dumplings) are seasonal and fresh. They also serve classics like scallion-fried lamb and zhajiangmian (noodles with soybean paste). It looks like you can order the meat for the shao-bing jiarou (baked flatbread with meat) by weight, so you can add as much as you want. It costs about 50 to 60 RMB per person. It’s a classic, old-school spot, so don't expect fancy decor.

05



SUMMER

Wanwan Yueliang (Crescent Moon)

Address: 16 Dongsi Liutiao, Dongcheng District

Business Hours: 11:00 AM – 11:00 PM

Average cost: 74 RMB

Wanwan Yueliang is tucked away in the Dongsi Liutiao hutong. It’s not a huge place, but you'll spot it by the green sign with a crescent moon logo. They’ve been around for over twenty years, and the owners and staff are all Uyghur. They serve staples like dapanji (big plate chicken) and shouzhua fan (hand-grabbed rice/pilaf). The Xinjiang-style liangpi (cold skin noodles) are served without sesame paste, making them light and refreshing. Their huangmian kaorou (yellow noodles with grilled meat), ganbian chaomian (dry-fried noodles), and stir-fried rice noodles taste like authentic home cooking—not too salty or greasy. It costs about 80 RMB per person. Just a heads-up: the service can be slow, so don't come if you're in a hurry.

06



SUMMER

Xiaolou Restaurant (Halal)

Address: Hualian Shopping Mall, 12 Nandajie, Tongzhou District

Business Hours: 9:00 AM – 2:00 PM

17:00 PM – 9:00 PM

Average cost: 90 RMB

The sixth spot is Xiaolou Restaurant on Nandajie in Tongzhou. Their signature dish is the braised catfish, which is crispy on the outside and soft on the inside. The culiu muxu (vinegar-glazed stir-fried eggs with wood ear mushrooms and meat) has a delicate tangy flavor and the sauce consistency is perfect for over rice. They also serve beef pies and braised meat strips. The Xiaolou juanguo (a traditional snack made of yams and jujubes) has a great mix of yam and date flavors; you can even buy it to-go and fry it at home. It’s a well-known local institution in Tongzhou, but don't expect much in terms of service or environment.

07



SUMMER

Fenglaishun Restaurant

Address: 31 Nandajie, Tongzhou District

Business Hours: 10:00 AM – 2:30 PM

17:00 PM – 9:30 PM

Average cost: 71 RMB

The seventh place, Fenglaishun, is also on Nandajie in Tongzhou, not far from Xiaolou. Their fried gezhi (crispy mung bean batter sheets) are crunchy, the braised eggplant is soft and flavorful, the ding-ding roubing (meat-filled pastry pouches) are juicy, and the jiaoliu wanzi (crispy-fried meatballs in glaze) are crunchy on the outside and tender on the inside. They don't have as many varieties as Xiaolou, but every dish they make is solid. It costs about 50 RMB per person, which is a great deal. It’s just a standard neighborhood eatery, but it's a great choice if you're looking for affordable, good food.

08



SUMMER

Baizuan Meishi (White Diamond Food)

Address: Luying Street, Chaoyang District

Business Hours: 9:00 AM – 10:30 PM

Average cost: 67 RMB

This place is super famous among our Xinjiang friends in the community; I’ve been going there for years and often bring friends along. The pilaf is legit—the rice grains are shiny and oily, the carrots are soft and sweet, and the lamb is stewed perfectly tender. The lamb shank pilaf is especially great; they put a whole shank on top of the rice. It's a huge portion and incredibly satisfying. That said, it often sells out early, so get there fast if you want some. The stir-fried noodles and mixed noodles are also authentic Xinjiang-style, with chewy noodles and generous portions of sides. It’s a simple, no-frills shop; in the summer, they put tables outside. The staff gets really busy, so you have to be a bit proactive. It costs about 70 RMB per person and the portions are huge. It gets crowded at peak hours, so expect a wait if you come at a busy time.

Summary

These eight restaurants don't rely on flashy marketing—they run on their reputation among the locals. Most of the settings are basic and the service isn't fancy, but the food comes out hot, fresh, and fairly priced. Don't come here if you're looking for fine dining or a quiet atmosphere. But if you’re hungry and just want a good meal, definitely give these a try. You might just find a taste of the past in one of these bites.

Of course, everyone has different taste preferences, so my opinions are just for reference. Please choose your spots wisely! view all

[Internet Repost]

I’ve personally tested and compiled this 2026 edition of the ultimate guide to the best halal restaurants across Beijing. It’s categorized by districts like Dongcheng, Xicheng, Chaoyang, Haidian, Fengtai, and Tongzhou, covering everything from classic Beijing-style halal stir-fry and zhizi kaorou (barbecue grilled on a solid iron grate) to copper pot hot pot and famous northwestern flavors found in the city.

I’ve updated this list since my 2024 version, and honestly, it’s wild how many spots have closed down in just two years. Looking at the patterns, more places in the outer suburbs have shut their doors, while spots in the city center—where the rent is way higher—have actually been more stable. I only included places I’ve personally eaten at; if it’s not on here, I haven’t tried it. Feel free to drop a comment with your own recs and I'll keep updating this list.

I didn't include the specific addresses because you can just copy and paste the restaurant names into Baidu Maps, Amap, or Dazhong Dianping to grab the exact location and contact info.

No.

District

Restaurant Name

1 Xicheng District: Mabei'er Xiaoguan

2

Yelushahan Silk Road Cuisine

3

Jiangweiyuan Aisha Cuisine

4

Heji Beef Noodles & Handcrafted Burgers

5

Shengbaozhai Niujie Alley Noodle Shop (Linyi, Shandong style)

6

Xingyuelou: 18-Year-Old Hot Pot Shop

7

Tianqiao Laojin Hot Pot (Niujie Branch)

8

Jianbing Tianxia (Jianbing/savory crepe snacks)

9

Dexiangshun Halal Small Eatery

10

Mr. Jiu Halal Restaurant (Beijing-style snacks)

11

Dalübao Roasted Lamb Leg

12

Youmu Qiyuan Flagship Store (Hulunbuir style)

13

Daquan Feizai Braised Beef Noodles

14

Heiyaochang Tangyoubing (fried dough with brown sugar)

15

Ritan Hot Pot

16

Lianying Shaomai (steamed dumplings)

17

Kashgar Knight Flavors

18

Tongye Laobeijing Zhizi Kaorou (Traditional Beijing-style iron griddle BBQ)

19

Uncle Hao Tieguodun (Iron pot stew)

20

Silu Yilan Beef Noodles & Malatang (Spicy numb hot pot skewers)

21

Haolaiwu Gansu Malatang (Spicy numb hot pot skewers)

22

Yilan Liyuan Handcrafted Burgers

23

Xunji Gulou Courtyard

24

Helanshan Ningxia Restaurant & Revolving Hot Pot

25

Jiaqing Xiaoyuan (Beijing-style BBQ)

26

Fenyuanyuan (Hunan-style rice noodles)

27

Chaishi Fuhai Halal Cuisine

28

Sala Hua Western Region Cuisine

29

Zhangji Spiced Beef

30

Xi'an Jasan Guantangbao (Soup-filled steamed buns)

31

Baoyuelou Fragrant Concubine's Family Banquet

32

Xinjiang Kashgar Maimaiti Restaurant

33

Roubing Wan (Meat pie specialist)

34

Kaorou Liu Zhizi Kaorou (Traditional Beijing-style iron griddle BBQ)

35

Houweiju Zhizi Kaorou (Traditional Beijing-style iron griddle BBQ)

36

Jingchaowei Beef Hot Pot (Chaoshan-style)

37

Diyi Shuan (Beijing-style hot pot)

38

Desanyuan Zhizi Kaorou (traditional iron-plate grilled meat)

39

Laochengyi Yangxiezi (spicy lamb spine hot pot)

40

Dashuntang Shifu (Traditional Beijing Cuisine)

41

Tiankelai Restaurant (Traditional Beijing Cuisine)

42

Shandong Shada Whole Grain Jianbing (savory Chinese crepes)

43

Muyixuan Yangxiezi (spicy lamb spine hot pot)

44

Hongji Halal Snack Shop

45

Kaorouji (historic grilled meat restaurant)

46

Hongyuan Nanmen Shuanrou (Beijing-style hot pot)

47

Baiji Siji Shuanrou (Beijing-style hot pot)

48

Manhengji Shuanrou (Beijing-style hot pot)

49

Hongshenghao Charcoal Grilled Lamb Leg

50

Nailao Wei (traditional Beijing dairy snacks)

51

Mudelou (Traditional Beijing Cuisine)

52

Tulufan Restaurant

53

Ziguangyuan

54

Hongbinlou (Traditional Beijing Cuisine)

55

Xibu Mahua

56

Xinjiang Fanzhuang (Urumqi Government Liaison Office Restaurant)

57

Bingtuan Shifu (Xinjiang style cuisine)

58

59

60

61

62

63

64

65

66

Fangzhongshan Hulatang (spicy peppery soup)

Sanwanghu Light Meals & Coffee (Niujie Branch)

Guxiangzhai Tianjin Baobing (shaved ice)

Mashi Muxiangyuan (Northeastern Chinese cuisine)

Bage Guotie (pot-stickers)

JM cafe & bakery

Niuniu Bread & Coffee

Diji Mending Roubing (nail-shaped beef pancakes)

Lahore Indo-Pak Restaurant

67

Gulou Chimi Hot Dog & Burger (Dongcheng District)

68

Gulou Chimi Roukenrou (meat-on-meat specialty)

69

Yoohee Cafe

70

Muwenxuan Yunnan-style Hot Pot

71

Mufu Lanzhou Beef Noodles

72

Wanhe Feiniu (fatty beef hot pot)

73

Yaliji Restaurant (Temple of Heaven Branch)

74

Mulu

75

Zhang Xiucai Chuan-chuan (skewer hot pot)

76

Love Curry Indian Cuisine

77

Liji Baishui Yangtou (boiled lamb head meat)

78

Lianshou Signature BBQ Skewers

79

Feitian Building Gansu Provincial Office in Beijing

80

Ningxia Mansion

81

Yindu Restaurant (Yinchuan Provincial Office in Beijing)

82

Jinfang Snacks

83

Youyishun

84

Xilaishun

85

Wanwan Yueliang (Crescent Moon) Xinjiang Restaurant

86

Qianyuan Hotel Buffet Restaurant

87

Heiji Shuangheshun Restaurant

88

Suzhou Hui Muslim Restaurant

89

Xinyuezhai

90

Yuezhen Yayuan

91

Baikui Laohao Restaurant

92

Saduli Indian Restaurant

93

94

Sailankun Xinjiang Cuisine

Subuha Electric Grilled Skewers

95

Zhuage Fanfan (Grab-a-Rice) in Chaoyang District

96

Tribe Garden (Ghanaian Cuisine)

97

Uncle Wu’s Tianjin Halal Bistro

98

Shaikh Classic Lanzhou Beef Noodles

99

Turkish Cafe

100

Shusheng Chuan-Chuan Hot Pot (Sichuan style)

101

Xihan Meatball Soup

102

Samosa China-Pakistan Friendship Restaurant

103

Azerbaijan National Pavilion - Maiden Tower Restaurant

104

Jingyu Contemporary Halal Cuisine

105

Xunji Qingnian Road Courtyard

106

BRBR Syrian Restaurant

107

024 Ocean String Music Western Restaurant

108

Chicken Tender Master (Hopson One Mall branch)

109

Annei Old Ma Shaomai (steamed dumplings) (Dongba branch)

110

Dastan Indian Restaurant

111

One Thousand and One Nights Arabic Restaurant

112

Jianglai Xinjiang Restaurant

113

Gulf Mandi Restaurant

114

Taiba Sharama Turkish Kebabs

115

Muhelan Ningxia Tanyang Shouzhua (hand-grabbed lamb)

116

Bayi Laoye Gongti Flagship Store

117

Halal Tongjuyuan Barbecue

118

Huiwei Gong Ningxia Tan-Yang Restaurant (specializing in high-quality Ningxia desert sheep)

119

Hotan Restaurant

120

Turkish Canakkale Restaurant

121

Manpengxuan (a fusion of Beijing-style cuisine)

122

Qingyanfang (traditional Beijing-style cuisine)

123

Bollywood Stories Indian Restaurant

124

Resuli Northwest Restaurant

125

Yak Meat Qinghai Lamian (hand-pulled noodles)

126

Bai Xiaobei Halal Dongbei (Northeast Chinese) BBQ

127

Fang Zhongshan Hulatang (spicy peppery soup)

128

La Medina Tunisian Arabic Restaurant

129

CODED Nigerian Restaurant

130

Sultan Turkish Restaurant

131

Zai Tianshan Xinjiang Super-Sized Laziji (spicy stir-fried chicken)

132

Niushi Japanese-Style Yakiniku (grilled meat)

133

Taihelou Roast Duck Restaurant

134

Lan Jiushiqi Snacks

135

Lahore Indian and Pakistani Restaurant

136

Jinjia Laosan Restaurant

137

Liangtaoxuan Hezhou Noodle House

138

Best Halal Food in Beijing: 2026 Guide to Authentic Muslim Restaurants and Top-Rated Spots Across the City

Chai Shi Fengwei Zhai

139

Rose City Mediterranean Restaurant

140

Xiting Xiuse Turkish Restaurant

141

Lianshou Signature BBQ Skewers

142

Xia Puna Xinjiang Restaurant

143

Nanmen Xiaoguan (South Gate Bistro)

144

Jinying Xinjiang Wanzi Tang (Xinjiang-style meatball soup)

145

Xinjiang Ali Restaurant

146

Halal Suhaha Yunnan-Guizhou-Sichuan Style Rice Noodles

147

Al Safir Arabic Restaurant

148

Huawei Roubing (Meat Pie)

149

Xifentang Xinjiang Rice Noodles

150

Musefeilin Xinjiang Restaurant

151

Yidai Yilu Xinjiang Cuisine

152

Ganges Legend Indian Restaurant

153

Hongyun Lou Huaiyang Cuisine

154

Jianghu Xinjiang Restaurant

155

Doner Turkish Coffee and Kebab

156

Dardanelles Turkish Restaurant

157

KAVKAZ Ruilin Restaurant 158

Djezzy (Algerian cuisine)

159

Raz Indian Music Restaurant

160

Alameen Arabic Restaurant

161

Khan Baba Pakistani Restaurant

162

Zitengxuan Restaurant

163

Hongbinlou Restaurant

164

Changying Brothers

165

Benjamin Indian and Afghan Restaurant

166

Qijia Qiqihar BBQ

167

Desert Rose Turkish Restaurant

168

Wali Shan Restaurant (Indonesian)

169

Zhang Chuan Ren Malatang (spicy numbing hotpot)

170

Gameizi Ningxia Tanyang (Ningxia grass-fed lamb)

171

Miaozai Kitchen (Halal cakes and pastries)

172

Ding's Gushi Ekuai (braised goose chunks)

173

174

175

176

177

178

179

180

181

182

183

184

185

186

187

188

189

190

191

192

Haiji Xiaohuo Halal New-Style Malatang (spicy numbing hot pot)

LIQA Turkish Restaurant

Yige Huangluobo Xinjiang Homestyle Cuisine

Cinnara Sri Lankan Restaurant

Bazaar Sweetheart Yili Shaved Ice

Eli Falafel Lebanese Cuisine

Yihexian Halal Dumplings

Changying Halal Roujiamo (meat burger/pita sandwich)

Xi'an Laolan Family Barbecue

Xiaoyu Barbecue and Fried Chicken

Hotan Barbecue

Huixiangyun Sichuan-Hunan Stir-fry (Hunan cuisine)

Zanjin Lanzhou Spicy Lamb Skewers

Shilixiang Claypot Rice Noodles

Silk Road Legend Master Ma's Milk and Egg Lauzao (sweet fermented rice soup)

Mayila Xinjiang BBQ House

Luiyuan Malatang and Mala Xiangguo (spicy dry pot)

Hulun Aile Halal Mongolian Cuisine

Sumac Lebanese Restaurant

Nazilan Xinjiang Restaurant

193 Haidian District Yiqinglan Rotating Hot Pot

194

Habibi Pakistani Buffet Restaurant

195

Saishang Mingyang Ningxia Famous Tanyang (special breed of sheep) Shouzhua Yangrou (hand-grabbed lamb)

196

Halal Danaodai Copper Pot Shuanrou (traditional Mongolian-style hot pot)

197

Xinjiang Building Pinyue Grand Bazaar Buffet Restaurant

198

AIIB Executive Restaurant

199

Aisileze 1982 Xinjiang Style Fried Rice Noodles

200

Junbang Hot Pot (Sichuan Style)

201

BRBR Syrian Restaurant

202

Saiyiruier Silk Road Cuisine

203

Uncle Oyster's Iron Pot Stew

204

Niububi Clear Oil Tripe Hot Pot

205

Samarkand Silk Road Cuisine

206

Xiangyicheng Old Beijing Copper Pot Shabu-Shabu and Zhizi Kaorou (traditional iron-plate BBQ)

207

Muhejia Revolving Mini Hot Pot

208

Zamzam Indian-Pakistani Cuisine

209

Azhen Flavor Rice Noodles

210

Jinmanlou Tianjin Cuisine

211

Maimaihong Knife-Cut Noodles (Henan Style)

212

Jiaoming Peppery and Numbing Bistro

213

Yilanlou

214

Axiya Restaurant

215

216

217

218

219

Yanlanlou

Ali Northwest BBQ and Roujiamo (meat burger)

Shunhexiang Harbin Halal Eatery

Best Halal Food in Beijing: 2026 Ultimate Guide to Authentic Muslim Restaurants and Traditional Hui Specialties

Xinjiang Aimaier BBQ

Yangji Qiqihar BBQ

220

Changping District Chengcheng Chongbin Shuipen Yangrou (lamb soup with shredded bread)

221

Jiangyu Qing Silk Road Cuisine

222

ASIAN FOOD Turkmenistan Restaurant

223

Xinjiang Saimimi Restaurant

224

Yangfang Shuanrou (traditional copper pot mutton hot pot)

225

Heqingzhai Yangxiezi (lamb spine hot pot)

226

Liangji Huimian (braised lamb noodle soup)

227

Ruizi Jiaozi (dumplings) and Shaomai (steamed dumplings) House

228

Xiguanshi Market Beizi (baked wheat cakes) Shop

229

Dacao yuan Halal Restaurant

230

Lao Yang Jia Restaurant

231

Limin Restaurant

232

Huayunlou Shaomai (steamed dumplings) Restaurant

233

Yuelangzhai Shuanrou (traditional copper pot mutton hot pot)

234 Daxing District Moyan Dunhuang Restaurant

235

Habibi Shawarma Arabic Restaurant

236

Wanfu Halal Tieguodun (iron pot braised stew)

237

Yangzhilian Fusion Restaurant

238

Choulixiang (stinky tofu snack) 239

Yilangé (Halal Restaurant)

240

Shangshui Dabin Juan Niurou (Scallion pancake rolls with beef)

241

Shiji Jiayuan BBQ and Marinated Meats

242

Xingjude Hot Pot, Baodu (quick-boiled tripe), and Dingmen Roubing (nail-shaped meat pies)

243

Zhenming Yihuazhai Restaurant

244

Ziyuan Xinjiang Cuisine

245

Niandai Hot Pot and BBQ (Cantonese-style hot pot)

246

Mengdameng Signature Roasted Lamb Leg

247

Maji Qibaozhai

248

Sichongzou Lanzhou Spicy Beef Noodles

249

Xiaoqing Restaurant

250

Xiaoma Halal Steamed Bun Shop

251

Rundexuan Halal Restaurant

252

Xueying Heshunzhai Hot Pot

253

Dianxinyuan Yunnan Restaurant

254

Chengji Shanxian Lamb Soup House

255

Hotan Xinjiang Rose Pilaf

256

257

Jingdong Meat Pie Shop

Baoding Beef Zhaobing (stewed beef over flatbread)

258 Shunyi District Ganges Impression Indian Restaurant

259

Sixiang Rice Noodles (Xinjiang style)

260

Fushouzhai Shuanrou (Hot Pot)

261

Shalima Indian-Pakistani-Bengali Restaurant

262

Victor`s Place Indian & Thai Restaurant

263

Anji Xiaochu (Japanese Cuisine)

264

Flame&Feast Pakistani Steakhouse

265

Tanyang Puzi (Tan Sheep Specialty Shop)

266

Fenghong Old Beijing Style Halal Roast Duck Restaurant

267 Fengtai District Pinyilan Baozi (Steamed Stuffed Buns) and Malatang (Spicy Hot Pot) (Qinghai Style)

268

Anajiang Xinjiang Cuisine and BBQ

269

Yili Talanchi Xinjiang Restaurant

270

Fangji Snack Shop

271

Qingzhen Liangde Chuandian (Halal Skewer Shop)

272

Wanping Liji Snacks

273

Qingzhen Aoji BBQ and Hot Pot

274

Decheng Li Halal Shaomai (Steamed Dumplings) Restaurant (Chengde Style)

275

Samarkand Silk Road Cuisine

276

Jinmen Zhenweizhai

277

Qingzhen Xiaochi (Halal Snacks)

278

Shangdu Hotel Yufu Shenchu (Zhengzhou Office in Beijing)

279

Tangwoju (Charcoal Pot Restaurant)

280

Ultimate 2026 Beijing Halal Dining Guide: Discover the best authentic Muslim-owned restaurants across Dongcheng, Xicheng, Chaoyang, and Haidian districts for a delicious culinary tour.

281

Laomenkuang Baodu Shuanrou (Traditional Beijing-style tripe and hot pot)

282

Harbin Baiyang Baozi (Steamed buns)

283

284

285

286

Hecheng Xiaoerjia Qiqihar Jiating Kaorou (Home-style Qiqihar barbecue)

Laoma Jia Yangtang Niurou Zhengjiao (Lamb soup and beef steamed dumplings)

Sailimai Niurou Lamian (Beef hand-pulled noodles)

Tianjin Fengwei Huangtang Lamian (Yellow-broth hand-pulled noodles)

287 Shijingshan Yuanyuan Xibei Minzu Fengwei (Authentic Northwest ethnic flavors)

288

Ximen Dafei Lanzhou Lazi Kaorou (Lanzhou-style spicy lamb skewers)

289

Qingmuxuan (Traditional Beijing Halal cuisine)

290

Yuanzhou Yinxiang Guyuan Weidao (Authentic tastes from Guyuan)

291 Tongzhou District Xinjiang Ganmianpi (Cold skin noodles) & Lingling Mifen (Rice noodles)

292

Huiwei Xiaoguan (Spicy dry pot and barbecue)

293

Dun Yishou Halal Tieguodun (Braised meat in a traditional iron pot)

294

Laosan Niurou Banmian (Beef flat noodles)

295

Majia Shaomai (Steamed dumplings)

296

Tonghaoge Seafood Barbecue

297

Zhangji Guotie (Pan-fried dumplings)

298

Yipin Shaomai Yangza Guan (Steamed dumplings and lamb offal soup house)

299

Xinbaowang (Halal burger house)

300

Masala Zhixiang Indian Restaurant

301

Hai Yi Wan Huimian (braised pulled noodles)

302

Haibin Roubing (meat-filled flatbread)

303

Xiaolou Restaurant

304

305

306

307

308

309

310

311

Jujingyuan Restaurant

Dashan Snacks

Ma Ji Northeast Halal Cuisine

Grand Canal Silk Road Flavors: Persian Halal BBQ

Mutong Renjia: Fangniuwa Braised Beef Feast and Beef Paomo (crumbled flatbread in beef soup)

Northeast Halal Charcoal Ground-Oven BBQ

Tongxinzhai Tengzhou Caijianbing (savory vegetable-filled pancake)

Wenzhutang Halal Restaurant

312

Fangshan District Mulaixuan Sturgeon Feast

313

Jishengke Burgers

314

Lao Xie Shaobing (baked sesame flatbread)

315

Yinsha Halal Restaurant (Xinjiang cuisine)

316

Lujinyuan (traditional Beijing cuisine)

317

Pangzi Old-School Quality Shuijianbao (pan-fried buns)

318

Doulashun (traditional Beijing cuisine)

319

Changzhuang Longshunzhai Shaobing: Local Specialty Snacks

320

Zhangji Dayangshu Restaurant

321

Dongge Shanyuan Halal Restaurant

322

Tongshunzhai Restaurant's famous niutouyan (braised beef head feast)

323

Jingzhenxuan (specializing in traditional Beijing-style cuisine)

324

Mentougou Tanyang Puzi (a specialty shop featuring lamb from northern and southern Xinjiang regions)

325

Xiannai Xiaozhen (Fresh Milk Town)

326

Miyun District Shanshui Tianyuan Folk Restaurant

327

Tanghe Halal Restaurant

328

Run'gesheng Restaurant

329

Haixinzhai

330

Guangjuzhai Meat Pie Shop

331

Niurou Zhaobing (beef and shredded pancake soup)

332

333

334

Xishunkui

Fuhua Zhengxing Folk Restaurant

Hexingzhai Restaurant

335 Huairou District Masala Pakistani Restaurant

336

Xingyuanzhai Ethnic Restaurant

337

Sudan Pakistani Restaurant

338

Xiangyu Halal Restaurant and Lodging

339

340

Ziguangyuan

Ya'er Liji Courtyard

341

Pinggu District Halal Silk Road Cuisine Lanzhou Old Ma Lamian (hand-pulled noodle) Restaurant

342 Yanqing District Halal Jintuoyuan Restaurant: Discover authentic Halal dining in Yanqing, Beijing, featuring top-rated local cuisine and traditional dishes. view all