The Path to True Knowledge and Integrity
My beloved son! You wished to become the musnid of your age, the foremost transmitter of your time, the one whose connections are the widest and whose asānīd are the highest; to bind the grandchildren to the grandfathers, to return the late-comers to the early ones, to be a source of pride for the near and the far, a destination to which journeys are undertaken, the finger pointing towards you in every gathering, your name mentioned in the circles of learning with the finest honorifics: “Here is Abū al-ʿAbbās; here is Ibn Bayān; here is the man to whom transmission has ended, in whose possession is gathered what is scattered among others.”
My son, not everything the soul desires befits the people of knowledge, nor does every ambition end with praiseworthy consequences. Knowledge has subtle afflictions, the most dangerous of which is that a person turns knowledge into a ladder to fame, transmission into a mount towards celebrity, and isnād into an ornament of assemblies, instead of all these being a trust for which he will be questioned, a covenant to be fulfilled, and an act of worship by which the Face of Allah is sought. How far is the quest for praise from the way of those scholars who preferred obscurity to prominence, withdrawal to leadership! They were content that people should ignore them so long as the truth recognised them, that their names be hidden so long as their traces were manifest.
Reflect, my son, upon the life of Abū al-ʿAbbās Aḥmad b. Abī Ṭālib al-Ḥajjār. He never affected for himself a station, nor sought among people a reputation, nor made it his concern that fingers should point towards him. He lived among the stone-cutters, unknown among his folk, humble within himself: he did not raise his voice with any claim, extend his hand to a rank not spread out for him, nor clothe himself in a garment not woven for him by knowledge. His obscurity harmed him not, nor did his lowly position diminish his worth. Rather, Allah honoured him with a good renown he had not pursued, raised his rank with an elevation he had not contrived; people travelled to him, seekers of knowledge came to him and rejoiced at narrating from him.
Such is the outcome of sincerity. Truth possesses an attraction that has no need of clamour; knowledge a light that takes no radiance from noisy publicity; trustworthiness a testimony its bearer cannot prevent from appearing. A man may hide himself, yet Allah manifests his work; he may disdain people’s praise, yet acceptance is written for him which the eager cannot obtain. This does not mean that obscurity is a virtue in itself, or that fame is unconditionally blameworthy; the whole matter hinges upon intention, means and reality.
Al-Ḥajjār, as related about him, was far removed from pretence in transmission, innocent of claiming what he had not received. He did not forge for himself an isnād, nor gorge himself with what was not his, nor lie about the shuyūkh, nor lay claim to what he had not heard. He was not of those who seek a share of knowledge by other than its door, nor those who aspire to high rank by inventing a path thereto. Truthfulness was his hallmark, trustworthiness his ornament, humility his habit. How noble is the muḥaddith whose veracity is higher than his isnād, whose integrity weighs heavier in the balance of knowledge than the multitude of his narrations, whose fear of Allah is greater than his desire for people’s praise!
Where are you, my son, in relation to these meanings? Where are you in respect of the verifying scholars and the reliable, proficient muḥaddithūn, the ḥuffāẓ who were experts in the hidden defects of reports? They were not content to be mere vessels of narration; they wished to be its critics, discerning its entrances and exits, knowing its points of divergence, distinguishing between sound and weak, defective and preserved, marfūʿ and mawqūf, connected and mursal. Would that you devoted a generous portion of your life to this noble science: studying ḥadīth jurisprudentially, delving into narrators and asānīd, memorising the ʿilal and problematic points, constantly examining the words of the imāms, so that no isnād passed you by except you recognised its men and levels, and no report reached you but you enquired about its origin, routes and critical evaluation.
Would that you concerned yourself with what establishes proof rather than what establishes repute, with what increases understanding rather than what increases admiration, with what repels doubt rather than what attracts applause. For ḥadīth is not a mere heaping of names, nor an amassing of asānīd, nor a race towards loftiness of transmission. It is a discipline with principles, a critique with standards, a jurisprudence that stands only by uniting narration with comprehension. How many a transmitter whose narrations are profuse yet whose share of understanding is scant; how many a seeker whose isnād is lofty yet his insight short; how many a public speaker who fills assemblies with talk of ḥadīth—yet when tested with a subtle defect, a divergence among the trustworthy, or a hidden error, he can give no sound answer nor attain the correct view!
Consider Ibn Ḥajar al-ʿAsqalānī—how he combined knowledge of asānīd and men with a grasp of both the minutiae of narration and comprehension, such that he became a landmark in this field, an imām whose investigations are referred to, whose writings are benefited from, whose explanations and clarifications furnish light. His stature was not the fruit of pretension, nor a gift of titles, nor the din of gatherings. It was established upon prolonged companionship, vast reading, keen scrutiny, and broad induction of scholars’ statements and methodologies. Thus his knowledge testified on his behalf, and his books became an arena wherein narration met comprehension, understanding was examined by proof, and the stature of a scholar was revealed to the extent of his accurate research, not to the extent of his collected honorifics.
Moreover, Ibn Ḥajar was not the son of his own self alone, nor did his knowledge emerge from a void. Rather, he was the fruit of a mighty inheritance passed down by scholars, each bearing from the other, the latter adding to what the former had laid down. Read Ibn Ḥazm; look into the fiqh and vast memorisation of Ibn ʿAbd al-Barr; reflect on the workmanship of Qāḍī ʿIyāḍ and al-Qurṭubī; learn from Ibn Daqīq al-ʿĪd the precision of examining evidence; from al-Nawawī the mastery of expression and fine arrangement; from al-Mizzī knowledge of transmitters and the comprehensiveness of their biographies; from al-Barzalī his care for history and audition; from Ibn Taymiyya the courage of investigation and the strength of argument; from al-Dhahabī the penetration of insight into men and defects; from ʿAbd al-Ḥaqq al-Ishbīlī his concern for distinguishing reports; from Walī Allāh al-Dihlawī the broad outlook on ḥadīth sciences and their objectives; from Shiblī al-Nuʿmānī and Sulaymān al-Nadwī the union of historical research with scholarly analysis.
Beware of stopping at the level of names, my son. Mentioning the imāms is not knowledge of them, just as collecting books is not comprehension of their contents. True knowledge is to penetrate their methodologies, to understand their approaches, to perceive their points of difference, to know why this one authenticated and that one weakened, how an imām preferred one narration over another and by what indication he advanced one statement over another. When you read al-Dhahabī, do not be satisfied with memorising his judgements; enquire about their basis. When you study al-Mizzī, do not suffice with the names of transmitters; consider their connections, levels, teachers and pupils. When you encounter the words of Ibn Ḥajar, recognise the survey, comparison and critique that lie behind his expression. Knowledge is not to repeat what the imāms said, but to understand how they said it and upon what foundation they built their rulings.
Do not imagine, my son, that refuting the doubters is by raising the voice, multiplying titles, or disparaging opponents. Suspicion is not removed by anger, nor doubt erased by assertion. A question is answered with knowledge, an objection repelled with evidence, an error uncovered with proof, and truth known through fairness. When a student faces a doubt concerning a ḥadīth, begin by delineating the exact point of contention; gather the routes of the report; examine the conditions of its narrators; compare its wordings; search for its defects; then speak only according to the limit of your knowledge. Let not the desire for victory drive you to assert what has not become clear; let not the fervour of defence impel you to attribute to the imāms what they did not say, or to weaken what others have authenticated without proof.
Know that completing the trust requires you to say, “I do not know,” when you do not know; to withhold judgement when the evidence is not clear; to retract an error when correctness appears to you. No scholar has ever been diminished by acknowledging the limits of his knowledge; rather, a person is diminished by pretending to possess what he lacks, by making the awe of the question a pretext for affectation, and the fear of criticism a cause for obstinacy. The most truthful of people in knowledge is the one who most intensely calls himself to account, is furthest from vanity over what he has attained, and quickest to accept the truth when it becomes manifest.
Therefore, my son, if you wish to be a man of isnād, first be a man of trustworthiness. If you desire to be known among the muḥaddithūn, let your knowledge of ḥadīth precede their knowledge of your name. If you wish to link the grandchildren with the grandfathers, connect your learning to the effort of the predecessors, not by claiming their station. If you aspire to be a pride for the present and the absent, make your benefit to knowledge and to people greater than your eagerness for what may be said of you. Do not seek to become a replica of Ibn Ḥajar in his name and standing; strive rather to learn from his method in research, his patience in gathering, his precision in critique, his integrity in transmission.
My son, the path to knowledge is long. Wisdom is not to measure what you have reached by what people see in you, but by what remains for you to know. Each time your knowledge widens, the horizon of the unknown before you widens; each time your understanding deepens, you realise that matters you once thought simple possess aspects you had not noticed, that rulings you imagined decisive require reconsideration. Knowledge grants no license for conceit; it only increases a person’s awareness of his own limits.
Turn to ḥadīth as one who wishes to understand, not as one who wishes to dazzle the people; turn to the transmitters as one who wishes to know their conditions, not as one who wishes to inflate the number of his teachers; turn to the asānīd as one who wishes to discharge a trust, not as one who wishes to elevate himself thereby. Make your goal to be faithful in narration, precise in comprehension, just in judgement, courageous in admitting error, humble before the truth.
Know that al-Ḥajjār is not Ibn Ḥajar, and not everyone who wishes to be Ibn Ḥajar becomes Ibn Ḥajar. A person becomes something in knowledge when he ceases to pretend to be something, and begins to work to become it.
Therefore set your aim to be a custodian of ḥadīth, not a commander of assemblies; a servant of knowledge, not a user of it; among those who, when they speak, establish proof; when they transmit, preserve the trust; when they are ignorant, they pause; when they err, they return.
Such, my son, is the way of the firmly grounded scholars. By it a rank is attained which no title bestows, no fame fabricates; it is established only by knowledge, truthfulness and taqwā.
