The Good Word as a Good Tree
Planting knowledge, remembrance, and companionship in the soil of hearts
It began not with my own notes, but with a gift.
A reflection carried to me from a dars (lesson) of Shaykh Allie Khalfe — may Allah preserve him — through the words of his student, Masooda. What reached me was not information but suḥba (companionship in transmission). It felt as if a branch had been placed in my hand, living and fragrant.
The dars turned on Imam Sharani’s text. At its close, the author prayed for the one who writes, the one who conveys, and the one who listens — sketching in that duʿāʾ (supplication) the hidden architecture of ijāzah (authorisation). Knowledge is never solitary. It requires scribe, voice, and ear.
When the names of the ʿulamāʾ (scholars) in the sanad (chain of transmission) were recited, it was like witnesses at a nikāh (marriage contract): a chain of trust sealed with al-Fātiḥa (the Opening chapter of the Qur’an) and ṣalawāt (prayers upon the Prophet ﷺ). Not formality, but a bond.
And then, a detail that stills me: the Shaykh reminded that the index finger carries a vein to the heart. The same finger that cradles the pen. Writing, then, is not merely ink — it is the heart made visible.
This is adab as-suḥba — the courtesy of companionship. Sometimes a verse must be allowed to enter and sit in the heart until it ripens into fruit. Its meaning multiplies.
A Good Word, A Good Tree
The Qur’an says:
“A good word is like a good tree whose root is firmly fixed, and whose branches reach the heavens. It gives its fruit at all times, by the permission of its Lord.” (Ibrāhīm 14:24–25).
Masooda spoke of how the verse itself visited her — once even on a screen in Ramadan, tugging her heart like a breeze that compelled her to sit and drink from it. She returned to it again and again, until its shade and fruit became part of her.
This is the work of suḥba, dhikr (remembrance), and ʿilm (knowledge) braided together: soil, water, sun. Good words are nourishment, shelter, and fruit. They live beyond their first moment, feeding others long after.
Oceans Without Shore
“If all the trees on earth were pens, and the ocean were ink, refilled by seven more oceans, still the Words of Allah would not be exhausted.” (Luqmān 31:27).
The tree becomes pen, the ocean becomes ink — and still it is not enough. Knowledge is boundless, and our writing, reading, and speaking are only drops.
Ijāzah is like a rope stretched across generations, so we are not stranded with only our nafs (ego-self) in shallow waters. The sanad becomes a coastline, teacher to student, name to name, heart to heart. Waves advance, pens move, yet the ink of Allah’s words runs deeper than we can fathom.
Bonsai, Hidden Garments, Generational Love
Not all transmission is vast like oceans or towering like trees. Some is slow and deliberate, like a bonsai — carefully pruned, shaped across years, carrying endurance in its smallness. Generational love can be like this: cut back, tended carefully, yet still alive.
Charity is like a hidden garment — a warmth felt but not displayed. And the link to Allah is direct, unmediated, suḥbawith the Real.
Because we began in a garden, we will return to it. To remain a child in the garden — curious, open, growing — is the secret of maturity.
The Farm with a Heart
The land itself was described as a body. One farm to another, the same anatomy: if the brain is sound, the farm is sound. And deeper still, the heart of the farm. It was as though I was hearing the ḥadīth: “Verily, in the body there is a piece of flesh; if it is sound, the whole body is sound. If it is corrupted, the whole body is corrupted. Verily, it is the heart.”
The farm is a mirror of us, and we are mirrors of the farm. Soil, water, mind, heart — they rise and fall together.
And another secret: beautiful people are hidden from the world, like seeds in soil waiting to rise. Their signs are etched into the land, into quiet generosity, into living Qur’an carried in silence. Who would have thought that on the first colonial farm one might hear Qur’an spoken back by the soil, the wind, the hidden awliyāʾ (friends of God)?
Hidden people, hidden farms, hidden saints — Allah scatters them where we least expect.
Fire and Blossom
Here the Cape flora speaks:
Protea waiting,
the fire opens her heart wide,
ash becomes blossom.
So too is the heart. Fire opens what is hidden; patience reveals what is promised.
Dhikr as Greater
All of this — sanad, suḥba, ʿilm, trees, oceans, farms, blossoms — is gathered by one thread: dhikr.
“Wa la dhikrullāhi akbar” — “And the remembrance of Allah is greater, without a doubt.” (ʿAnkabūt 29:45).
Greater than what? Greater than the fire that tests the protea, greater than the nafs that bends the farm, greater than even the words we speak when they are empty of Him. Dhikr transforms knowledge into light, suḥba into companionship, trees into nourishment, oceans into signs without end.
And yet dhikr is even wider than many of us think. It is not only on the tongue, in recitation or chanting. It is also in the body: in breath, in muscle, in tendon, in presence, in stillness. It is kindness, humility, love, and community — whether Muslim, Christian, or Buddhist — meeting each other in harmony and poise.
This too is dhikr. Treasures we must preserve with care, if we wish to remain bridges to safety.
Because we began in a garden, we will return to it. The good word remains a good tree. The ocean remains ink that cannot be exhausted. And remembrance — dhikrullāh — is greater than them all.
Postscript
There are words from the poet Shabbir Banoobhai that linger here — like water poured into an empty cup, still teaching us what thirst means:
wisdom in a jug
an empty cup
you said
pour till it’s full
i tried and tried
finally sighed
and said
it’s empty still
These lines feel like the secret of suhba itself: to never be satisfied with one sip, to know the thirst itself is part of the gift.
Acknowledgement
With gratitude to Shaykh Allie Khalfe, whose dars planted these roots, and to his student Masooda Fadal, who shared these reflections and passed on their fragrance.
Glossary of Terms
- Ṣuḥba (صُحبة) — Companionship; keeping company with teachers, friends, or the Divine. In Sufi tradition: the courtesy of companionship (adab as-suḥba).
- Sanad (سند) — A chain of transmission linking teachers and students across generations.
- Ijāzah (إجازة) — Authorisation or license to transmit a text or knowledge, usually granted by a teacher to a student.
- ʿUlamāʾ (علماء) — Scholars of Islam; those learned in the sciences of religion.
- Nikāh (نكاح) — Marriage contract.
- Al-Fātiḥa (الفاتحة) — “The Opening,” the first chapter of the Qur’an, often recited in prayer and blessings.
- Ṣalawāt (صلوات) — Prayers and blessings upon the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ.
- Dhikr (ذكر) — Remembrance of Allah; includes recitation, prayer, and also presence, breath, stillness, and actions of kindness.
- Nafs (نفس) — The self or ego; the inner self that inclines to desire, distraction, or pride.
- Awliyāʾ (أولياء) — “Friends of God”; saints, those close to Allah through devotion and purity of heart.
Adli Yacubi 