Two Educational Gatherings in London
I travelled to East London with my family, accompanied by my daughter Maryam and her children Sufyān and Amīrah. In our hearts we carried the longing to reunite with loved ones, and the hope that this journey would yield knowledge, light, and remembrance. Our first stop was to visit my gentle daughter Sumayyah and her gracious husband, Abū al-Farḥān. No sooner had we arrived at their home than we were enveloped by warmth, greeted by joy, and the clamour of travel was soothed within us. I cannot forget those gazes that filled the eyes of the grandchildren—filled with innocence, with the longing of childhood, and with something of distant memories.
We then visited the Qurʾān College. It was as though a fragment of a bygone age had returned to us clothed in the present. Light poured from its walls; the Qurʾān echoed from the throats; the souls there inhaled the fragrance of īmān, as though in a garden from the gardens of Paradise. The moment I entered the celebration hall with Abū al-Farḥān at my side, I felt something slip into my heart—something that I can only describe as tranquillity settling into a soul long yearning for truth, and deeply desiring the noble word and the wise remembrance.
My amazement grew as those in charge of the college presented its activities, revealing how its influence had reached horizons I had never imagined. Their daʿwah had not stopped at Britain’s borders—it had travelled to America and Canada. There too, the echoes of this call resounded, and its light spread through Western homes that had begun to open their windows to the Qurʾān and awaken their children to the call of īmān.
Can it be true? That this is what a small college in a vast, clamorous city has achieved? Can it be true that this Islām, so often accused of rigidity and backwardness, is the very faith that captures hearts in the lands of modernity and reason? Surely in this there is a lesson for those who listen attentively with present hearts.
This institution was founded by two of my students—Ustādh Abū Ḥamzah Muʿīn al-Ḥaqq and his wife, Ustādhah Umm Ḥamzah Nasīmah. What a wondrous act of loyalty, and what a sincere offering! Since I have known them, they have never grown weary in their quest, nor slackened in their pursuit. Their long companionship with knowledge and unwavering commitment testifies to this. They carried their children on their shoulders, treading together the paths of the Ḥaramayn and the alleyways of the Maghrib, attending every lesson and recording every discussion. Now here they are, establishing a beacon of learning, passing on to their students what they themselves had preserved and internalised.
Abū Ḥamzah told me, and I appreciated his candour, that none of my lessons had escaped them—not even my Arabic, Persian, or Urdu verses. They had collected and organised them, making them a reference for those who wish learning to be a lived experience, not mere words to be uttered and forgotten. This, by my life, is the kind of knowledge that bears fruit, the kind of nurturing that yields results, and the kind of intention that brings barakah.
It is no surprise that they have expanded their efforts to reach deep into the Muslim family—tossed as it is by the waves of modernity and pulled by the currents of chaos. They have crafted from the Qurʾān and Sunnah a vessel of salvation, striving to instil the meanings of religion in the hearts of fathers and mothers, sons and daughters. In their programmes I saw something of wisdom, something of courage, and something of tenderness—a tenderness known only to those who truly understand people’s pain and their needs.
I delivered a speech to the gathering, speaking on the subject of Qurʾān memorisation. I sought to remove the fog of misunderstanding from the minds.
I said: Memorising the Qurʾān is not achieved by mere movement of the tongue, nor by constant repetition, nor by committing verses to memory and immersing oneself in their recitation, or in indulging the variety of its modes to entertain others. True memorisation is to lodge its meanings in your heart, to make its reflection your daily habit, and to pause at its narratives—not for amusement, but for admonition. For Allāh related to us the stories of the prophets not so we marvel at them, but so that we may see ourselves through them—measuring our weakness and strength, our obedience and defiance in the mirror of truth that does not lie. Let us read the Book of Allāh because it satisfies our minds and hearts, inspires us with guidance, and awakens in us the meanings embedded in its words. Let us draw from its abundance our own, from its wealth our own provision, and from its strength our own fortitude.
After that, I visited al-Misk Institute, established as a foundation for nurturing young minds in righteous Islamic upbringing and in the Arabic language. But it did not stop at grammar and morphology—it ascended to literature, celebrated eloquence, and opened the students’ eyes to their history. It was founded by my distinguished student, the literary craftsman of Arabic, Ustādh Suhayl Aḥmad, whom I used to observe deeply engrossed in our lessons, his features marked by unrelenting yearning. Around him were Shaykh Muḥyī al-Dīn and Shaykh Saʿīd Aḥmad—men who spoke little, but whose silence was more eloquent than speech.
There I gave another address, speaking about education as it ought to be understood—not as a mere stuffing of the mind, but as the construction of the self, the nourishment of the soul, and the companion of one’s spirit through its long night. I explained what a student ought to master: language, understanding, and method—unbroken, undivided, and deriving its light only from fitrah, revelation, and reason combined. I advised them to aspire to the loftiest of goals. For minor people are content with minor virtues, and great people strive for great virtues. The successful one is he who lives at risk, steers his vessel beyond deserts and seas, and seeks to reach the stars and planets.
I then spent unforgettable moments with Sumayyah and her children. They were to me like green leaves on a tree rooted in fertile soil—neither thirsty nor withering. There, I was visited by the venerable reciter, Shaykh Jibrīl. We had a lengthy conversation, and he expressed his surprise upon reading my book Bright Days in Egypt and Cairo, in which I recorded details overlooked by many travellers—details only known to one who lived the experience as I did, not with the eye of a tourist, but with the eye of a lover.
The final stop of the journey was at Ustādh Suhayl’s house, where a gracious gathering of people of knowledge and loyalty took place. Among them was Shaykh Mujāhid, and the conversation turned to Arabic literature. One of them asked me: “Who is the dearest author to your heart?” I mentioned among them Ṭāhā Ḥusayn. They were surprised, and someone said, “How can you admire someone known for deviation?” I smiled and said: “I admire his style, not his views. Though I do not approve of his misguidance, I cannot deny his mastery. Whatever one may say about him, the man is a matchless writer, his eloquence unsurpassed. It is enough that he taught us how literature is to be written—even if he erred in some of what he wrote.”
Thus, the journey came to its end—or rather, it did not—for it left in the heart a light, in the mind a thought, and in the memory images that will not fade, no matter how time may stretch on.
Disclaimer: This article was translated by AI. Original post: https://t.me/DrAkramNadwi/6588
