Adli Yacubi

Category: Sacred Unveilings

  • The Mother Tongue of Tasbih: Afrikaans, Islam, and the Echoes of Resistance

    The Mother Tongue of Tasbih: Afrikaans, Islam, and the Echoes of Resistance

    The Mother Tongue of Tasbih: Afrikaans, Islam, and the Echoes of Resistance

    An Interlude of Love, Argument, and Memory

    We were driving down a quiet stretch of road — just Sadia and I, the Karoo light pouring in through the windscreen, dust swirling around like old questions.
    She had grown up in Worcester, her Afrikaans carefully folded by teachers and ‘ustaads’, wrapped in the formal tones of schoolbooks and sermons — so different from the swing and slang I had grown up with in the Cape.
    I, on the other hand, had grown up with a different register: kombuis-Afrikaans, spoken in kitchens and mosques, spiced with Quranic rhythm and Kaapse mischief.

    Somewhere between the mountains and memory, we argued.

    “That’s not real Afrikaans,” she said, teasing. “You make up words.”

    “And who decided what’s real?” I asked. “The Broederbond? The DRC? The state that tried to baptize us in its accent?”

    She laughed — but the question lingered.

    This is not just a story of a couple’s linguistic banter.
    It is the story of a language born in exile, nurtured in slavery, softened by Qur’an, and carried through generations of prayer, protest, and poetry.
    This is a story of Afrikaans — not as the language of the oppressor, but as the tasbih of the oppressed.

    1. Afrikaans: Not a White Invention

    Let’s begin here: Afrikaans was not born in Stellenbosch.

    Its roots run through Cape Malay kitchens, slave quarters, mosque courtyards, and prayer gatherings beneath candlelight.
    It was whispered by Javanese mothers exiled from Batavia, recited by Wolof imams from Senegambia, taught by Hadrami scribes, and softened by the Khoena tongues of this land — long before colonial grammarians arrived to cage it in rules..

    The historian Achmat Davids was among the first to challenge the myth that Afrikaans was solely a “white man’s language.” His pioneering research, later extended by Hein Willemse and others, traced Afrikaans’ earliest written form to the Muslim community of the Cape — not in Latin script, but in Arabic-Afrikaans, or what was sometimes called Ajami Afrikaans.

    One of the oldest surviving texts in Afrikaans is a du’a (supplication) manual written in Arabic script by enslaved Muslims.
    Another is the 1869 Bayān al-Dīn, a complete Islamic catechism in Afrikaans, used for madrassah instruction.
    These works prove something scholars of empire often resist: that enslaved and colonised peoples were not passive recipients of a language. They reshaped it. They sanctified it. They infused it with rhythm, resistance, and remembrance.

    Afrikaans was not merely a colonial bastard tongue.
    It was — and remains — a mother tongue for many, especially when that mother stood stirring boeber while reciting Qul Huwa Allahu Ahad under her breath.

    2. Creole? Or Camissa?

    I’ve always had difficulty with the word creole.

    Not because I reject mixedness — quite the opposite. I honour our intertwined bloodlines, the sacred chaos of diaspora, the rivers that met and mingled here at the Cape.
    But because the term creole, as used by certain linguists, often carries a quiet violence: it frames our language as a compromise, a simplified system born of broken tongues.
    It reduces what is sacred into something stitched from scraps. As if kombuis-Afrikaans was the language of people who couldn’t speak properly — not of people who chose to pray differently.

    And too often, creole becomes a coded term for “coloured.” A linguistic way of saying not-white, not-black, not-arabic, not-european — just other.

    I prefer another term: Camissa.
    As Patric Tariq Mellet reminds us, Camissa was the name of the river that once flowed through the Cape Flats, long before the Dutch buried it under stone. It was also the name of the Goringhaicona clan who traded with the world before colonial maps erased them.
    To speak Camissa-Afrikaans is to remember we are not defined by brokenness — but by confluence.

    So no, what we speak is not a creole.
    It is the tasbih of the kitchen, the dhikr of the dockyard, the language of longing.
    What they call kombuis, we call home.

    3. The Language of Tasbih

    In our home, Afrikaans was not the language of textbooks or term reports.
    It was the language of tasbīḥ — of remembrance, rhythm, and breath.

    Thursday nights, just after maghrib, the living room would dim into stillness. A cloth was spread. The Rātib al-Ḥaddād would begin.
    First a whisper:
    Qul huwa Allāhu Aḥad…
    Then a swelling chorus — women’s voices, children’s murmurs, old men with trembling hands.

    We called it the Gadat.
    It was recited in Arabic, but held together by Afrikaans: the instructions, the rhythm, the murmured cues.
    “Ouens, netjies!”
    “Hou die beat mooi!”
    “Moenie vinnig ry nie — luister na die kalmte.”

    Sometimes, someone would break from the dhikr to hush a restless child.
    “Shhh, dis nou Allāh se tyd, my kind.”
    That now — that insistence that this moment of prayer was sacred and immediate — still echoes in my chest.

    And when it was done, a sweetness returned:
    koesisters passed hand to hand, boeber ladled with care, stories resumed in Kaaps lilt.
    The tasbīḥ was complete — not just in recitation, but in the return to one another.

    …

    In his later years, my father told me how the elders taught Qur’an in Afrikaans before Arabic letters could be properly mastered.
    Children would chant:
    “Alif duwa detis, Alif duwa bowa, Alif duwa dappan, An In Oen.”
    It was a phonetic bridge — an echo of how Javanese, Malay, and Arab teachers preserved tajwīd in a tongue the children already knew.

    This wasn’t a lack of Arabic. It was a path to it.

    And it wasn’t unique.

    In Senegal, Wolof Muslims chant dhikr in their own rhythms.
    In Indonesia, pegon script preserves the Qur’an in Javanese hearts.
    At the Cape, Afrikaans — even in its kitchen form — became the vessel through which the Names of God entered the ears of children.

    Afrikaans was never just a tool of survival.
    It was a tool of transmission.

    Of tawḥīd in a tongue our mothers understood.

    4. Jawap: The Command to Recite

    In the old madrassah, silence was not golden — it was a gap in the chain of transmission.
    A break in the rhythm.
    A forgetting.

    And so, when your voice faltered or your memory stalled, the mu’allim would lean forward — not with cruelty, but with urgency — and say:

    “Jawap, my kind!”

    Not shout. Not plead. But command.
    Recite.
    Respond.
    Step back into the rhythm.

    Because in the Cape, jawap was never just “answer.”
    It was a summons — to speak, to return, to carry what you’ve been given.

    The word comes from the Arabic ج و ب — jawāb, meaning “reply,” and ijābah, the act of answering a call.
    But in Afrikaaps, jawap widened its reach.
    It meant:

    • Recite the ayah.
    • Step into the beat.
    • Don’t let the tasbīḥ fall silent.

    You could hear it outside the masjid too —
    In a kitchen when someone moved too slow:

    “Jawap nou! Die kos gaan brand!”
    In a playful quarrel between siblings:
    “Ek wag vir jou jawap, dan sal jy sien!”

    But the root remained sacred.

    To jawap was to not let the memory die.
    It was to pull the verse from the chest, even if the chest was tight.
    It was to let the breath carry the Names of God, even when the tongue stumbled.

    …

    Some nights, I’d sit with my father as he corrected a cousin’s recitation.
    He never raised his voice.
    Just waited for the right moment and said, gently but firmly:

    “Jawap, my klong! Djy ken die beat. Ma’ moenie vergiet’ie.”

    That sentence lives in me.

    And I wonder now if that’s what the Qur’an itself asks of us:

    Fa-ijībū li…
    So respond to Me… (Qur’an 2:186)

    Not just with belief, but with voice.
    Not only with intellect, but with breath.

    To live is to jawap.
    To remember is to jawap.
    To teach, to protest, to praise — is to jawap.

    And maybe that’s why the Gadat still echoes through the Cape —
    Not because we’ve mastered every rule of tajwīd,
    But because someone once told us:

    “Don’t keep quiet. Jawap.”

    A salomie is how we hold history — wrapped in warmth, passed from hand to hand.
    To live is to jawap. To resist is to remember what we’re made of.

    5. Echoes of Resistance: A Language That Refused to Die

    To speak Afrikaaps was once considered vulgar.
    Uneducated. Low.
    The language of skollies, meidens, and kitchen girls.
    The official line was clear: proper speech belonged to white mouths and white pulpits.

    But at the Cape — in Salt River, Bo-Kaap, Parkwood, Belhar, and Bonteheuwel — our people spoke tasbīḥ in their own tongue.

    And that was resistance.

    They recited Qur’an with Kaapse inflections.
    They sang dhikr in alleyways, under washing lines, between the Sunday curry and the Monday washing.
    They wrote duʿāʾ in Arabic script — with Afrikaans vowels — because the state’s education system wouldn’t teach them Arabic, and the imām couldn’t write Latin.

    This wasn’t survival. It was sovereignty.

    When the tongue of the oppressor tried to rename us,
    we jawapped back with remembrance.
    When they broke our schools,
    we turned kitchens into classrooms.
    When they mocked our accent,
    we sharpened it into poetry.

    And in that echo, you can still hear the names of the early reciters:
    Tuan Guru teaching on Robben Island.
    Imam Saban writing Bayān al-Dīn for the children of slaves.
    Ouma Gatie sitting in her chair, reciting Yā Sīn in Afrikaans until her teeth ached — and her soul rose light.

    Even Apartheid’s Bible — the 1933 Afrikaans translation — couldn’t erase the sound of tasbīḥ in our streets.
    Because we had our own Book, our own rhythm.
    Our mothers wrapped Qur’an verses in the same cloth they wrapped around your lunch tin: tight, warm, enough.

    …

    To remember in Afrikaans — to teach La ilāha illā Allāh with a Cape tongue — is not just a cultural artefact.

    It is a form of sabr.
    Of jihād.
    Of wilfully remembering what empire tried to make us forget.

    And so even now, when I hear a child reciting in Afrikaaps,
    I don’t correct the accent.

    I listen for the memory in the melody.
    Because sometimes, the resistance is not in the grammar —
    It’s in the breath.

    Theatre as Tasbīḥ: Walking Through 333 Years

    In 1986, the Call of Islam commemorated 333 years of Islam in South Africa — not with a speech, but with a play.

    “A Walk Through 333 Years” was a theatrical act of remembrance: combining Qur’anic recitation, storytelling, song, and dramatic re-enactment of Muslim life from enslavement to resistance.

    Directed by a community professional, informed by the late Achmat Davids’ research, and carried by a cast of ordinary believers, the play jawapped our history with full breath. It wasn’t just performance — it was pedagogy.

    The production travelled across the country and left audiences moved in ways no pamphlet or sermon could match.

    Like tasbīḥ in the kitchen or dhikr in the alleyway, this was language at work — resisting, remembering, reclaiming.

    Because sometimes, the resistance is not just in the grammar.

    It’s in the gathering.
    It’s in the jawap.
    It’s in the walk through our own years — together.

    6. Tongue, Tasbīḥ, and the Right to Return

    So what is a language?

    A dictionary will tell you it’s a system. A grammar. A structure of rules.

    But we — the people of kombuise and kramats, of ratibs and roti —
    we know different.

    We know that a language is also a holding.
    A way to wrap memory is like a salomie wrapped in a roti — not for perfection, but to preserve warmth.

    We know that Afrikaans is not only the language of the jailer — it is also the jawap of the jailed.
    It is the rhythm of the Qur’an under colonial roofs.
    It is the sound of mothers whispering Bismillah while brushing a child’s hair.
    It is the beat of “Moenie vergiet’ie” — not as a threat, but as a prayer.

    If they ask us who we are, we might say:
    We are the children of those who answered with breath when the world tried to silence them.

    We are the ones who recited even when we could not read.
    Who made dhikr in a tongue they said was impure.
    Who kept the memory of revelation alive —
    in kitchens, classrooms, corners of mosques, and hearts that stammered but never surrendered.

    …

    And so, if anyone asks:

    What kind of Afrikaans is this?

    Tell them gently:

    This is not the Afrikaans of the oppressor. This is the mother tongue of tasbīḥ. The language of jawap. The rhythm of remembrance. This is the tongue that taught us to speak back to the silence — and return to God with our own breath, in our own way.

    Because what they called kombuis,
    we called home.

    📚 Footnotes & References:

    1. Achmat Davids, The Afrikaans of the Cape Muslims from 1815 to 1915: A Socio-Linguistic Study, UCT PhD Thesis, 1987.
      Foundational in establishing the role of Arabic-Afrikaans and Cape Muslim literacy practices.
    2. Hein Willemse, editor and scholar of Afrikaans literary traditions, particularly around marginalised and non-standard variants.
      Relevant essays include: “Language, Race and Power in South Africa.”
    3. Patric Tariq Mellet, The Lie of 1652: A Decolonised History of Land, and various writings on Camissa identity and language reclamation.
    4. Adli Jacobs, Punching Above Its Weight: The Story of the Call of Islam, Function Books, 2024, p. 84.
      Documents the Call of Islam’s 1986 theatrical production “A Walk Through 333 Years”, co-developed with historian Achmat Davids. This performance combined Qur’anic recitation, song, and drama to embody the memory of Islam’s journey from slavery to resistance in South Africa.
    5. Qur’anic verse cited:
      Qur’an 2:186 — “So respond to Me (fa-ijībū li) and believe in Me, that they may be rightly guided.”
    6. Oral traditions and family sayings (e.g. “Jawap, my klong. Jy ken die beat.”)
      Attributed to the author’s father, part of Cape Muslim living heritage.
    7. Arabic-Afrikaans manuscripts (e.g. Bayān al-Dīn, Ratib al-Ḥaddād in Arabic-Afrikaans):
      Refer to holdings in the National Library of South Africa, Clarke Estate Mosques, and private Cape Muslim collections.
    8. Laagu vs Tajwīd debates and Thursday night Gadat gatherings:
      Drawn from oral sources and lived practice in Cape Town’s Muslim communities.
      May cite the influence of Shaykh Seraj Hendricks, Imam Taha Gamieldien, and Imam Abdullah Haron’s legacy of fusing dhikr with defiance.

    🪶 Related Articles in This Series:

  • The Forgotten Tongue of Remembrance

    The Forgotten Tongue of Remembrance

    The Forgotten Tongue of Remembrance

    Afrikaans in Arabic Script and the Ratib al-Haddad

    Bismillah. Among the rarest cultural gems of the Cape is this handwritten or printed Ratib al-Haddad in Arabic script — and beneath each sacred verse, a transliteration and translation in Afrikaans, also in Arabic script. This devotional work bears the title:

    رَاتِبُ الْحَدَّادِ
    هَذَا الْمُسَمَّى الْحِصْنُ الْحَصِيْنُ
    The Ratib al-Haddad – This is Called the Well-Fortified Fortress.

    It is more than just a document — it is a linguistic relic, a spiritual practice, and a memory map of how Qur’anic dhikr was carried across generations, even when Arabic as a language was no longer spoken fluently. The presence of Afrikaans — lovingly scribed in Arabic letters — reminds us that remembrance found its voice even in colonised tongues. This text is proof: the Divine was praised in the language of those who suffered, resisted, and healed.

    This is no ordinary translation. It is a trace of the Cape’s earliest Muslim educational systems, where a now-suppressed form of Kaapse Afrikaans was used to teach, explain, and transmit the Qur’an and dhikr — long before formal Arabic learning was accessible.

    This copy, sourced and shared by Sheikh Jamiel Abrahams, is one of the most exquisite I have seen. It is more than a relic. It is the visual embodiment of a living legacy.

    The Arabic-AfriKaaps hybrid in these pages is not just linguistics — it is resistance, devotion, and adaptation in motion. A tongue formed in the shadows of empire, now remembered in the radiance of dhikr.

    This post offers a glimpse — a few carefully selected lines, an image scroll, and finally, the full PDF. We will not translate every line, for that would dilute the power of seeing, hearing, and feeling them in their original form. But we will linger on a few pages to taste the spiritual flavour of this inheritance.

    One of the first lines to appear in the Ratib is the luminous opening:

    بِسْمِ اللهِ الرَّحْمـٰنِ الرَّحِيمِ
    Bismillāhir-Raḥmānir-Raḥīm
    In die Naam van Allah, die Meest Genadige, die Meest Barmhartige

    Even this sacred formula, transliterated and translated into Afrikaans using Arabic script, glows with the care and creativity of the Cape’s early Muslim scribes. It reveals how rahmah—Divine Mercy—was not only recited, but lovingly inscribed in the mother tongue of those who carried it. A tongue made tender through hardship, and made holy through remembrance.

    🕯️ Download the complete PDF of the Afrikaans–Arabic Ratib al-Haddad here.

    Epilogue: The Ink of the Ancestors

    These pages are not just recitations — they are archives of survival.

    The Cape’s Muslim community, born out of bondage and exile, did not merely memorize. They engraved, translated, sounded out — in their own accents, on their own terms. They bent Arabic script to capture the cadence of their Afrikaans. They bent Afrikaans to serve the memory of Allah.

    In this Ratib, we witness the divine echo across generations.

    To read it is to hear our grandparents whispering in candlelight, gathering children close, turning pages that looked like home.

    This is not nostalgia. It is testimony.

    May we become worthy inheritors of their voices.

    Living Chains: A Note of Gratitude and Transmission

    We are humbled to acknowledge those who have preserved and transmitted this treasure across generations.

    Our deep thanks to Zaid Nordien, who reminded us that this version of the Ratib al-Haddad — written in Arabic-Afrikaans script — was transliterated and rendered by Shaykh Taha Gamieldien, the grandfather of Shaykh Faiek Gamieldien. It was widely copied and circulated in Cape Town, including in black-and-white prints. Zaid shared that his own journey began at the age of three, attending Gadat with his uncle, the late Boeta Faldie Behardien, and that his grandfather, Galiefa Ebrahim Nordien (Brayma Bokbaard), had received ijāzah for the Ratib from Shaykh Ismail Ganief. His father also received ijāzah from Shaykh Omar Abdullah of the Comoros — known throughout Africa as Mwyini Baraka — as well as from the late Shaykh Muhammad Alawi al-Maliki.

    And here the circle returns home:

    Zaid Nordien relayed that Shaykh Omar Abdullah gave express permission to grant ijāzah to all who recite the Ratib, all who love it, and all who seek it. He conveyed this instruction to me personally in Glen Austin, Midrand, during my recovery from a stroke. Now, alḥamdulillāh, it is finally recorded.

    Even more striking: the ancestor of this very Shaykh — the deposed Sultan Abdallah II ibn Alawi of Anjouan, from the noble Ba ʿAlawī lineage — was exiled to Cape Town around 1834. Local oral tradition holds that he met Carel Pelgrim (Hassanuddin), the Cape’s first known Muslim pilgrim to Makkah, and may have encouraged him on his sacred journey. The silsila, both spiritual and historical, reveals itself in astonishing ways — alive, pulsing, and unfolding across time.

    The Salawāt of Mwyini Baraka

    We close with a salutation upon the Prophet ﷺ, taught by Shaykh Omar Abdullah — a direct descendant of the Messenger ﷺ through Sayyid Abu Bakr bin Salim.

    Here is the salawāt he shared:

    Arabic:

    اللّهُمَّ صَلِّ عَلَى سَيِّدِنَا مُحَمَّدٍ صَلَاةً تَمْلَأُ قُلُوبَنَا يَقِينًا وَبِهَا اللهُ مِنْ كُلِّ سُوءٍ وَمَكْرُوهٍ سَلِيمًا

    Transliteration:

    Allāhuma ṣalli ʿalā Sayyidinā Muḥammadin ṣalātan tamlaʾu qulūbanā yaqīnan
    wa bihā Allāhu min kulli sūʾin wa makrūhin salīm    ā.

    Translation:

    “O Allah, send salutations upon our master Muḥammad — salutations that fill our hearts with certainty, and by them, may Allah protect us from all harm and from all that is detested.”

    📜 Other Paths of Remembrance

    This scroll is only one leaf in a growing tree of spiritual memory.

    If this piece stirred something in you, you may also wish to explore:

    🌿 “Tamat: A Sacred Completion, A Living Beginning” – A reflection on the Cape tradition of tamat and Qur’anic memorisation
    🌿 “The Ratib al-Haddad: A Symphony of Spiritual Resilience” – A celebration of the sonic and spiritual power of this litany
    🌿 “The Verse That Faces Outward” – A meditative scroll on the hidden verses engraved above the Rawḍah, and the inner legacy of Imām al-Ḥaddād

    These are threads in a larger weave — remembering the divine through the tongues of our mothers, the melodies of our fathers, and the whispered prayers of the unseen saints who still walk among us.

  • The Legend of the Silver Tree

    The Legend of the Silver Tree

    The Legend of the Silver Tree

    (Passed down through the mothers. Told now in your hands.)

    My mother told me this story.
    She said her own mother heard it from her mother.
    So now, I pass it to you — like a seed in the wind —
    so that you, too, might send it down the line.

    If you look toward our mountain — Table Mountain —
    you’ll see the cloth of cloud spread across its top like a table set for guests.
    To the right: the lion, his back forming Signal Hill, his mane rising into Lion’s Head.
    To the left: Devil’s Peak, brooding.
    The lion and the devil seated at the same table.
    What a sight for any ship entering Table Bay!

    But this story is older than the ships.
    Older than the settlers who named those peaks.
    Older even than the first Khoi and San who walked these lands.

    Long, long ago — perhaps 22,000 years or more —
    the people lived far inland.
    The land was green. Rivers ran deep.
    Wild animals moved in herds like shadows.
    The earth was generous.

    But then the rains lessened.
    The land grew hotter, harder.
    Some clans became violent.
    The world was shifting.

    And so it was that a man named Gubi — a fire-maker, a spark of a man —
    took his young son, Nori, and journeyed south along the Atlantic edge.
    Not fleeing.
    Seeking.

    Their goods were wrapped in leather.
    Their bows slung across their backs.
    They followed the cold sea winds,
    walking toward a dream of sanctuary.

    One night, as their fire danced in the dunes,
    hyenas came snarling through the dark — hunting porcupines.
    Gubi rose with fire in hand, casting its light wide,
    pushing the predators back into the night.

    From the shadows came a porcupine.
    But this was no ordinary porcupine.
    She was old — a sage — her quills silver with wisdom.
    She stepped forward and spoke in a voice like rustling leaves:

    “You have shown courage and care.
    For this, I give you a pouch.”

    Inside: a handful of shimmering seeds —
    soft, silver-tipped, unlike anything they had seen.

    She said:
    “As you walk,
    look for the place where the sea makes clouds.
    When you find it, plant these.
    If they grow, you’ll know: this is your place.”

    And so they walked on.

    And when they reached the foot of the mountain —
    flat, cloud-veiled, vast —
    Gubi and Nori felt the truth of it in their bones.

    They planted the seeds.

    And by dawn, the Silver Trees had begun to rise —
    shimmering, breathing, alive.

    Not just plants.
    A blessing.

    And that is how the Silver Tree — found only here —
    came to live beneath Table Mountain.
    Not brought by botanists.
    Not named by settlers.
    But gifted by a porcupine,
    Planted by Gubi and Nori,
    Rooted in fire, story, and seed.

    And when the rains came,
    those Silver Trees
    drank from the river
    that flowed down the mountain —
    the one they called Camissa —
    the place of sweet waters,
    rushing underground, murmuring toward the sea.

    Even now, that river runs — quietly —
    beneath the city that forgot it.
    But the mountain remembers.

    It remembers its own name.

    Not Table.
    But Hoerikwaggo — the Mountain of the Sea.
    To its right, the curled-back hill they once called The Sleeping Lion —
    its back arched into what settlers would name Signal Hill,
    its mane rising into Lion’s Head.
    To the left, the shadowed one —
    once called Windmaker’s Watch,
    now called Devil’s Peak.

    The land is older than its names.
    And stories, like rivers, find their way back.

    Epilogue

    Some stories are planted, not written.
    They take root in silence.
    They grow in the shade of memory.

    This is one of those.

    Passed from mother to daughter, from father to son,
    from fire-circle to ear, from silence to word.

    The Silver Tree still stands.
    The mountain still watches.
    And somewhere, Gubi and Nori are still walking —
    between cloud and coast,
    between the land’s longing and the sky’s answer.

    So tell this story again.

    When the mountain is misted,
    when the wind shifts,
    when the child beside you asks,
    “Where did we come from?”
    Tell them…

    “Let me tell you the story of Gubi and Nori —
    the spark and the seeker —
    and the tree that shimmered with yes.”

    Postscript

    This story is told in honour of those who remind us that memory is a form of resistance.

    We acknowledge Patric Tariq Mellet, whose book The Camissa Embrace reclaims the deep currents beneath colonial erasure. Through his work, Camissa is no longer hidden — it is remembered as a place of sweet waters, of creolised identity, of sacred convergence.

    We also draw from Stuart Hall, particularly The Fateful Triangle: Race, Ethnicity, Nation, which reminds us that nations are not simply born — they are narrated into being.
    To say I am from Camissa is to resist imposed categories and to speak from the riverbed of relation — to narrate the nation otherwise.

    This reflection flows alongside the companion essay:

    → A Word That Wounds and Wakes Us: Rethinking “Coloured” in the Age of Memory
    which wrestles with the term “Coloured” — its violence, its survival, and the sacred dye of remembrance:
    ṣibghah Allāh — the Colour of God (Qur’an 2:138).

    🌿 Author’s Note

    I wrote this story in honour of a voice passed through many generations — from my mother, to her mother, and beyond. It weaves ancestral memory with imagination, drawing from the wisdom of our lands, our rivers, and our people.

    Gubi and Nori may be characters in legend, but they carry something real: the spirit of all those who walked before names, who travelled with seeds, and who listened deeply to the mountain’s silence.

    I offer this story as a small act of remembering — a quiet prayer that memory may once again run like water beneath the city.

    – Adli Yacubi
    Writer. Listener. Wordsmith of the Sweet Waters.

  • The Ratib al-Haddad: A Symphony of Spiritual Resilience

    The Ratib al-Haddad: A Symphony of Spiritual Resilience

    The Ratib al-Haddad: A Symphony of Spiritual Resilience

    Close-up of hand holding Ratib al-Haddad booklet with black-and-white keffiyeh

    Introduction

    In the centuries-old Cape Muslim tradition, the Rātib al-Ḥaddād stands as a spiritual symphony. Its composer, Imam ʿAbd Allāh ibn ʿAlawī al-Ḥaddād, drew upon a Qur’anic verse known as the Verse that Faces Outward at the Rawdah of the Prophet ﷺ, giving it a protective resonance. This rhythmic litany unfolds like movements of a musical masterpiece, each moment drawing the heart closer to Divine presence. Inspired by Imam al-Haddad’s mission to guide believers through fear and trial, the Ratib remains a living masterpiece of faith.

    Movement I: The Prelude of Protection

    O you who fear, gather at the gate of forgiveness; Bismillah like a banner above your heart, Ayatul Kursi as your armour, verses of Baqarah as your shield. In this dawn of remembrance, let salawat fall on your lips like rain upon a thirsty earth, and trust flow through your veins until your soul is clothed in light. This is the first movement: a prayer of protection woven from the very breath of Revelation.

    Movement II: The Rhythms of Remembrance

    Subḥānallāh, transcendence like the sky’s endless horizon; Alḥamdulillāh, gratitude flowing through every breath; Allahu Akbar, awe striking the heart; Lā ilāha illallāh, unity beyond all boundaries. These dhikr, recitations, rise and fall like ocean waves, polishing the mirror of the heart until it shines with trust and surrender.

    Movement III: The Pulse of Tawhid

    Al Maʿbūd, meaning The Worshipped One, calls the believer to recite Lā ilāha illallāh fifty times, each repetition chiseling away fear and confirming pure oneness. It circles the heart like a crown of certainty. The three Quls stand as guardians, their verses sealing every crack against doubt. This movement is a fortress of tawhid, where the soul forgets every other reliance and trusts only Allah.

    Movement IV: The Prayerful Crescendo

    Duas rise like incense, interlaced with Al-Fātiḥa, each plea a petition for healing, protection, mercy, and light. The tongue becomes a river of hope, carrying the soul to a calm shore. Here the believer surrenders every burden, resting in the assurance that Allah is the One who hears and responds.

    Closing Invocations

    • Al-Fātiḥa on the soul of our master, our beloved, our intercessor, the Messenger of Allah, Muhammad ibn Abdillah, his family, his Companions, his wives, and all his noble household.
    • Al-Fātiḥa on the soul of our master al-Muhajir Ahmad ibn Isa and his descendants.
    • Al-Fātiḥa on the soul of our great teacher, the jurist al-Muqaddam Muhammad ibn Ali Ba Alawi and his lineage.
    • Al-Fātiḥa on the souls of our noble Sufi masters wherever they may be, east or west, that Allah may raise their ranks.
    • Al-Fātiḥa on the soul of the compiler of the Ratib, the Axis of Guidance, Abdullah ibn Alawi al-Haddad and his family line.
    • Al-Fātiḥa on the souls of all the pious servants of Allah, our parents, our teachers, those who have rights upon us, and the believers who have passed away in this land.
    Decorative cover design for Ratib al-Haddad Symphony in traditional Islamic style

    Cape Ritual Practice

    In South Africa, especially in the Cape, families often recite the Ratib al-Haddad after a loved one passes away, beginning from the first night and continuing for seven nights, then gathering on the fortieth day, the hundredth day, and each year on the anniversary of the passing. The Ratib is also recited at birthdays, during Mawlud celebrations, generally every Thursday night, sometimes Sunday mornings, a week before weddings, at engagements (known as lambary), and at naming ceremonies (doekmal or doopmal). This tradition anchors the community in remembrance and prayers for all occasions of joy, transition, and remembrance.

    About Dhikr

    The term dhikr refers to remembering, remembrance, or reciting and chanting the names of Allah, specific prayers, or Qur’anic verses. It is a rhythmic practice that roots the soul in the Divine, and is central to the Ratib al-Haddad tradition.

    Individual or Group Practice

    The Ratib al-Haddad can be recited alone or in a group, with equal blessing. Allah says in the Qur’an: “And men and women who remember Allah often — for (all of) them Allah has prepared forgiveness and a great reward” (Quran 33:35). The Prophet ﷺ said: “People will not sit in an assembly in which they remember Allah without the angels surrounding them, mercy covering them, and Allah mentioning them among those who are with Him.”

    Decorative cover design for Ratib al-Haddad Symphony in traditional Islamic style

    Foundations

    The Ratib al-Haddad stands upon the firmest pillars of faith, a radiant string of pearls drawn from the Qur’an and Sunnah. It opens with the best Surah — Sūrat al-Fātiḥah, flows into the greatest verse — Āyat al-Kursī, affirms the Shahādah — the finest declaration of oneness, and continues with the enduring praises of al-Bāqiyāt al-Ṣāliḥāt. It includes the daily istighfār of the Prophet ﷺ, abundant ṣalawāt upon the Beloved ﷺ, and concludes with the dhikr by which Imām al-Bukhārī sealed his Ṣaḥīḥ.

    Composed in sacred sequence by Imām ʿAbd Allāh ibn ʿAlawī al-Ḥaddād — a noble grandson of the Messenger ﷺ — this Ratib is not merely a litany, but a luminous map of remembrance. It is a symphony of Qur’anic light and Prophetic rhythm, preserved across centuries as a living trust.

    And its resonance reached far beyond Ḥaḍramawt: both the Wird al-Laṭīf and the Ratib al-Ḥaddād were introduced and supported within the Harams of Makkah and Madinah under the patronage of Sultan Muḥammad IV of the Ottoman Empire (r. 1648–1687). This formal recognition affirms the Ratib’s deep-rooted legitimacy — not as invention, but as a distillation of the best of revelation, transmitted and treasured by the global Ummah.

    Ijāzah: A Living Trust of the Ratib

    For those who wish to benefit from the Ratib al-Haddad, we carry with us a sacred ijāzah — a scholarly and spiritual transmission — conveyed through four chains (asanīd) that reach back to the Composer of the Ratib, Imām ʿAbdullāh ibn ʿAlawī al-Ḥaddād**, may Allah sanctify his soul.

    Shaykh Jamiel Abrahams writes:

    “Ijāzah for those who wish to benefit from the four asānid to the Composer of the Ratib… Say: Qabilnā al-Ijāzah — ‘We have accepted the scholarly permission to recite the Ratib of Imām al-Ḥaddād.’”

    “We say Composer, not Author — for the adhkār are drawn from the finest pearls of the Qur’an and the most radiant lights of the Prophetic Sunnah.”

    This ijāzah is not just scholarly — it is a living trust passed down through centuries of remembrance. To receive it is to stand in the river of continuity, with the awliyāʾ and scholars who preserved this path of dhikr through love, hardship, and sincerity.

    And as for those who label such remembrance a bidʿah…

    رَغِمَ أَنْفُ مَن صَرَّحَ بِأَنَّهَا بِدْعَةٌ
    “May the nose be rubbed in dust of the one who declares it an innovation.”

    Let the river flow. Let the remembrance remain. And let every breath that utters His Name be a proof of mercy, not division.

    My Personal Ijazah

    This symphony carries my own transmission: an ijāzah granted by Zaid ibn Umar to me, Adli ibn Ibrahim, written in his own hand, linking me to the chain of Imam al-Haddad. That blessing lives within every note of this symphonic meditation, reminding me of the trust, humility, and sacred responsibility that this heritage confers. This ijazah is more than a note: it is a living chain, a breath carried from master to student across centuries, reaching back to Imam al-Haddad and forward into my heart. It binds me to the rhythm of this Ratib as if to a heartbeat, reminding me to hold it with care, reverence, and gratitude, so its protection and blessing might continue to resonate for future generations.

    Historical Echoes

    The Ratib was recited by enslaved Muslims at the Cape as a shield of hope and protection during times of oppression, helping them hold fast to faith. Generations later, it became a spiritual companion for many who resisted apartheid, its verses reminding them of divine justice, courage, and unity against all forms of tyranny. It is said that in the darkest nights of slavery at the Cape, the Ratib became a quiet liberation, whispered in hidden corners. Its rhythms reminded believers they were still seen by Allah, still dignified. During the anti-apartheid struggle, activists turned to these same verses, finding courage and calm as they faced injustice, with the Ratib a spiritual sword against oppression and despair.

    Conclusion

    From Yemen to the Cape, from ancient gatherings to modern hearts, the Ratib al-Haddad remains a living breath of resilience and unity. Its movements still guide communities to remember Allah, to stand together in hope, and to place trust in Divine mercy across the centuries. Like a living river, its currents still flow, nourishing communities with remembrance and calling them to a higher trust in Allah’s mercy. Imam al-Haddad, inspired by the symbolism of the Verse that Faces Outward, wove its spiritual meanings into the Ratib, transforming it into a shield that echoed both the Prophetic sanctuary and the everyday lives of worshippers from Yemen to the Cape.

    Family reciting Ratib al-Haddad together on white linen with pillows and Qur’an

    May its verses guard every heart, and may its blessings gather our children and their children into the same ocean of divine love, until the final day.

    You Might Also Like These Cape Memories

    ✨ Scroll of the Sorbaan & Medora – Worn in Sound, Washed in Meaning
    Exploring the sacred cloths and their living resonance.

    ✨ The Verse That Faces Outward
    A glimpse into the calligraphic verse guarding the Rawdah.

    ✨ Hy Lyk Soos ’n Wolf: The Sorbaan and the Teacher Who Raised Me
    A tribute to a teacher’s quiet strength and Cape heritage.

    ✨ Tamat: A Sacred Completion, A Living Beginning
    The meaning of tamat in Cape Qur’an recitation tradition.

    ✨ From Chains to Qur’an: The Cape’s First Pilgrim and My Bloodline
    Tracing the story of Cape Islam through my family’s journey.

    Coming Soon

    ✨ The Grandmothers Who Raised the Qur’an — celebrating Cape matriarchs who preserved Qur’anic recitation.

    ✨ Echoes of Arafah: Pilgrim Voices from the Cape — reflections from local hujjaj returning with spiritual stories.

    ✨ The Kramats: Guardians of the Cape — the circle of Cape saints who protect and inspire.

    ✨ Barakah Before Business: The Forgotten Blessing — Cape Muslim traders and their rituals before opening shop.

    ✨ The Secret of Rampies Sny — unveiling the Cape’s scented floral traditions linked to dhikr gatherings.

  • Tamat: A Sacred Completion, A Living Beginning

    Tamat: A Sacred Completion, A Living Beginning

    Tamat: A Sacred Completion, A Living Beginning

    The word Tamat has been spoken in Cape Muslim homes for generations — a word so small, yet carrying the weight of centuries of memory. It is more than a graduation. It is a celebration of sound, of presence, of a child who has taken the Qur’an into their tongue and heart, and who now steps forward to carry it into the world.

    Our grandparents knew this word from Hadramaut, where the Tamat was a festival of joy and responsibility. When a child completed their Qur’an recitation, they were gathered into a seven-day procession of voices, prayers, and sweets — with flags raised high, neighbours cheering, and the whole community celebrating the future. It was never just about memorising verses, but about honouring the discipline of correct recitation, Tajweed, manners, and knowledge that could anchor a whole community.

    These children wore the banus, a beautifully embroidered cloth, reserved just for Tamat days. Banners would shimmer with Surah al-Fatihah and Ayatul Kursi waving above their heads, as if to shield and guide them on their new journey. Their teachers, the elders, and even passing strangers would bless them — because everyone understood: this child will serve, protect, and live the Qur’an (based on Sheikh Jamiel Abrahams, 2025).

    When Tamat Reached the Cape

    When Hadrami scholars and teachers arrived at the Cape of Good Hope, they brought this deep tradition with them, adapting it to new winds and new stones. In places like District Six, Bo-Kaap, and beyond, the Tamat found fresh soil.

    Cape children would gather in the masjids, reciting the final chapters they had laboured over line by line, vowel by vowel. Then they would step out, dressed in their sorbaan and medora, and walk proudly along the cobbled streets. Their path sometimes led them all the way to the Company Gardens, deep in the colonial centre of Cape Town — an act of courage and pride that seemed to say, “This Qur’an walks with us too.”

    In those moments, they were not just finishing a book. They were claiming a legacy.

    The Meaning of Sorbaan and Medora

    The garments of Tamat still speak.

    For the boys, the sorbaan is a turban, but far more — a Khirqah al-Taḥkīm, a sign of trust. It wraps the head with a promise: you are now a guardian of Qur’an, carrying its mercy and its responsibility.

    For the girls, the medora — circular, beautifully embroidered in gold or silver threads — holds the same dignity. It says: Your voice, too, is worthy. Your recitation is precise. Your role is essential.

    In both, there is no sense of “fashion” — only inheritance.

    A Tapestry of Cape Heritage

    What makes Tamat so powerful is how it weaves into a far bigger story. It stands alongside the handwritten kitāb manuscripts passed down through Cape families, and the huffādh who still recite on local radio during Muharram (VOC Khatam broadcast, 2025). It echoes in the walls of the Auwal Mosque, where Tuan Guru — himself a prisoner and Qur’an teacher — copied out the entire Qur’an from memory in chains, so that his community would not lose its light.

    It whispers through the kramats encircling Cape Town, the shrines of saints and scholars who carried Islam through exile, and who insisted that education was the best shield against forgetting who we are. Many of these traditions, as documented in works like Al-Istizādah min Akhbār as-Sādah compiled by Ali bin Muhsin al-Saqqaf, travelled with Hadrami scholars to the Cape and found new expression in the garments, recitations, and community gatherings of local Cape Muslim life.

    It even rests quietly in the Tana Baru cemetery, where generations of those who lived the Qur’an are buried, their tombstones telling silent stories of resilience.

    Beyond Memorisation

    One of the most powerful aspects of Tamat, especially in the Cape tradition, is that it was never simply about memorising words.

    Children were trained in correct pronunciation, rhythm, and understanding. They were questioned on the essential knowledge of their faith, from acts of worship to everyday etiquette, and the rights and responsibilities of being a Muslim in society.

    Their teachers, elders, and neighbours stood witness that these children had become competent not only in their individual acts of worship (furoodh ayniyyah) but also in their ability to serve the community (furoodh kifayah): to lead prayer, to help wash and bury the deceased, to read du‘ā for the sick, to keep society upright.

    In this way, Tamat was never a personal achievement alone, but a communal guarantee of resilience.

    Echoes in Bosmont

    Though times have changed, the spirit of Tamat still lives on. Take, for example, the Bosmont madrassa in the 1970s, where 15 young boys and girls graduated after years of Qur’anic training. Their ceremony was called Gatmeid Koran — a name with the same spirit as Tamat.

    Six boys and nine girls, only twelve to fourteen years old, stood before thousands of family members and neighbours, reciting what they had carried line by line, vowel by vowel. The hall was so full that people pressed against the windows to watch.

    It was more than a prize-giving. It was a moment of pride, of hope, of handing the Qur’an over to the next guardians of its sound and meaning.

    Imams and teachers from all over — including Durban, Cape Town, and the Transvaal — came to witness these children take their place in the living chain of knowledge. There was even a colourful procession through the streets, a tradition of honour that stretched all the way back to Hadramaut.

    They were not just students. They were being trusted to live the Qur’an: to hold its discipline, to guard its standards of moral character, to shine it into their communities.

    (Source: newspaper clipping shared by Sheikh Jamiel Abrahams, c. 1970s)

    A Living Beginning: Our Echoes, Our Hope

    In every child who ties the sorbaan or drapes the medora, there lives a promise. A promise that the Qur’an will not only be memorised, but lived — that its rhythms will shape how we speak, how we act, how we serve.

    From the echo of Hadramaut’s processions, to the cobbled streets of District Six, to the crowded halls of Bosmont where children stood reciting before thousands — Tamat has remained a celebration of beginnings, not endings.

    These ceremonies remind us that we are never alone. We stand in a line of teachers, elders, and ancestors who trusted the Qur’an to transform us, generation after generation.

    As long as there is a child willing to steady their breath, to learn its melody, to carry its mercy into the world, then our communities will never be without light.

    That is the heartbeat of Tamat.
    That is why it will always matter.
    And that is why it must continue.

    A Closing Du‘ā

    O Allah, accept from these children what they have learned,
    strengthen their tongues in Your remembrance,
    open their hearts to Your wisdom,
    and grant them the courage to carry Your Book with mercy and justice.
    Make them lanterns for their families,
    protectors for their neighbours,
    and guides toward goodness.
    And let every letter they have recited be light on their path
    in this world and the next.
    Ameen.

    References woven into the narrative:

    • Sheikh Jamiel Abrahams, Tamat, Its Origins and Objectives (2025)
    • VOC Radio Cape Town annual Khatam broadcast (2025)
    • Tuan Guru’s Qur’an manuscripts at Auwal Mosque (Wikipedia)
    • Tana Baru Cemetery (Wikipedia)
    • ourcapetownheritage.org on Cape Kramats (source)
    • Aramco World, Handwritten Heritage of South Africa’s Kitabs (source)

    📖 Read more at: Scroll of Sorbaan & Medora

  • Hājar: The Black Mother Whose Faith Turned the Heart of Hajj

    Hājar: The Black Mother Whose Faith Turned the Heart of Hajj

    Hājar: The Black Mother Whose Faith Turned the Heart of Hajj

    With deep gratitude to all who preserve these sacred stories.

    A digital silhouette of Hājar holding her infant, depicted against an ochre background with the Ka‘bah in the distance. The text reads: “Hājar: The Mother of Zamzam, The Mother of Revolution.”

    Introduction

    Hājar — a Black African woman, enslaved and then displaced — was chosen by Allah to become the mother of Ismāʿīl, and to have her house absorbed into the sacred geometry of the Kaʿbah itself.

    Not a prophet.
    Not a queen.
    Not a caliph.
    But a mother. A servant. A Black woman.

    The House of Allah bows toward her grave.

    Ali Shariati called her the “Unknown Soldier” of Islam. But Allah made her known forever — through Zamzam, through Safa and Marwa, through the sacred enclosure known as Ḥijr Ismāʿīl. You cannot perform Hajj without acknowledging her. That is not just history. That is revolution.

    When I look across the ummah today — from Cape Town to Cairo, Timbuktu to Jakarta — I see faces of every shade, hearts carrying a message revealed for all people, for all time. Yet too often, I also see shadows of forgetfulness, places where racism still stalks our communities.

    Hājar’s story stands to remind us:
    Allah honours whom He wills.

    1️⃣ Introduction to Hājar’s Background

    Hājar was an African woman, described in traditional sources as a servant of Sarah, married to Ibrahim (a.s), and the mother of Ismāʿīl. She was displaced, left alone with her child in a barren valley with no shelter or food, yet her faith did not break.

    When Ibrahim prepared to leave, she asked him only one question:
    “Has Allah commanded you to do this?”
    He said yes.
    And she replied:
    “Then He will not abandon us.”

    In those words, you hear an entire revolution of trust.

    2️⃣ The Test in the Valley

    Ibrahim (a.s) left them in that desolate place, answering Allah’s command. Hājar stood alone, with her child crying from thirst, under a burning sun. The Qur’an echoes Ibrahim’s prayer for them in Surah Ibrahim (14:37):

    “Our Lord, I have settled some of my descendants in an uncultivated valley near Your sacred House, our Lord, that they may establish prayer…”

    While Ibrahim placed his trust in Allah and walked away, Hājar held the child close and placed her trust in Allah while staying put.

    3️⃣ The Sa‘y of Hājar

    The baby, Ismāʿīl, cried in hunger. Hājar’s heart broke, but she did not surrender to despair. She ran to Safa, looking for water. Then to Marwa. Then back again. Seven times she ran between those hills, searching, hoping, refusing to quit.

    This was not a ritual yet — this was a desperate mother in motion, placing faith in her feet as well as her heart.

    Allah loved that moment so much that He turned it into an act of worship until the end of time. The Prophet ﷺ established the sa‘y as a pillar of both Hajj and ʿUmrah, hardwiring Hājar’s courage into the fabric of Islamic devotion.

    4️⃣ Zamzam: The Well of Mercy

    After her seventh run, the angel of Allah appeared, striking the earth where Ismāʿīl’s heels had kicked, and water gushed forth. Hājar rushed to gather it, crying “Zamzam, Zamzam” — gather, gather.

    What an image:
    A mother shaping the flow of a spring that would sustain a civilization.

    Even today, millions drink Zamzam, quenching their thirst from the miracle granted to her trust.

    5️⃣ Zamzam and the Birth of Quraysh

    From Zamzam, life returned to that valley. Birds gathered, signaling water, and desert tribes came to settle there with Hājar’s permission. From these settlements, a community grew, and over centuries, the Quraysh tribe took shape — the tribe that would eventually protect the Kaʿbah and see the birth of the Prophet ﷺ himself.

    Allah reminds Quraysh of these blessings in Surah Quraysh:

    “Let them worship the Lord of this House, Who has fed them against hunger and made them secure against fear.”
    (Qur’an 106:3–4)

    The security and provision mentioned here trace directly back to Hājar’s courage, the water of Zamzam, and the revival of Makkah as a place of blessing.

    She was not only the mother of Ismāʿīl. She was the grandmother of the Quraysh, the one whose faith made their existence possible.

    6️⃣ The Kaʿbah and the Ḥijr Ismāʿīl

    Years later, when Ismāʿīl (a.s) and Ibrahim (a.s) rebuilt the Kaʿbah, Hājar was still there to witness it. When she passed away, Allah honoured her so greatly that her grave was placed within the semi-circular enclosure next to the Kaʿbah — the Ḥijr Ismāʿīl.

    Even today, every Muslim who bows toward the Kaʿbah bows toward the grave of a Black mother, a woman whose heart trusted Allah completely.

    If the Kaʿbah is the heart of the Muslim world, then Hājar is the pulse that keeps it beating.

    7️⃣ The Symbolism of Hājar

    Hājar is not just a historical figure — she is a living ritual.
    Every sa‘y repeats her running.
    Every sip of Zamzam repeats her hope.
    Every glance at the Kaʿbah remembers the woman whose grave lies in its shade.

    The Prophet ﷺ hardwired her courage into the pillars of worship, so no pilgrim can ever complete Hajj or ʿUmrah without walking in her footsteps.

    Ali Shariati called her the “Unknown Soldier” of Islam. But Allah made her known forever.

    He made her sa‘y eternal.
    He made her water a source of life.
    He made her grave a sign of dignity.

    For every woman who has been dismissed, for every person who has been enslaved, for every soul who has been left alone in the desert of despair — Hājar is the proof that Allah sees you, Allah remembers you, and Allah can make your struggle immortal.

    8️⃣ Modern Resonance

    In our time, the stories of Black women are still pushed to the margins. Hājar corrects that. She was a Black woman, a servant, alone — yet Allah made her footsteps a sacred pillar, her water a miracle, her grave a sanctuary.

    Every year, millions repeat her ritual, even if they do not say her name. Millions face the Kaʿbah, even if they do not know who rests in its courtyard.

    Hājar shows us that Allah honours faith wherever He finds it, and that He can transform even the most overlooked among us into the authors of history.

    If she was enough to carry the future of Islam on her shoulders,
    then every Black woman is enough.

    And still, we must ask — as reader Khaliq Dollie so piercingly put it:

    “How can anyone who has performed Hajj have even the slightest amount of racism or be sexist — unless, of course, they only perform the ritualistic aspects without comprehending?”

    This is more than a question. It is a reckoning.

    How can one run where a Black woman ran,
    drink from her well,
    bow toward her grave —
    and still carry arrogance in the heart?

    Unless the ritual never reached the bloodstream.
    Unless the heart never opened to her story.

    Hājar does not just invite motion; she demands meaning.
    Not just performance, but transformation.
    Not just remembrance, but repentance.

    As the Qur’an reminds us:

    “It is neither their flesh nor their blood that reaches Allah, but it is your taqwā that reaches Him.”
    — Surah al-Ḥajj, 22:37

    True Hajj begins where ego ends — in humility, in honour, in justice.

    To walk her path is to honour every Hājar still unnamed —
    every woman, every Black body, every soul left in the desert with nothing but trust.

    9️⃣ Conclusion

    Pilgrims still run between Safa and Marwa.
    Children still drink from Zamzam.
    Believers still circle the Kaʿbah.

    All of these acts, day after day, year after year, remain living proof of a woman’s courage — a woman whom the world tried to forget.

    Hājar did not hold a royal title. She did not lead an army. She was not a prophet. She was a mother. A servant. A displaced Black woman. Yet Allah made her story the foundation of the sanctuary itself, built the House of God around her grave, and made her sa‘y part of every pilgrimage until the end of time.

    That is not just history. That is revolution.

    May every step we take between Safa and Marwa remind us of her strength. May every sip of Zamzam honour her trust. And may every glance toward the Kaʿbah remember the mother who gave it life.

    🌿 A Dua

    O Allah, as You accepted Hājar’s faith, accept our faith. As You answered her cry for water, answer our cries for hope. As You made her story immortal, make our footsteps sincere and worthy of Your mercy. Let her memory heal the hearts still wounded by racism, and honour every mother who stands alone with trust in You. Āmīn.

    A Reflection Inspired by a Reader:
    A friend reminded me that Hājar’s courage speaks also to hidden forms of abandonment: how we sometimes feel unseen, even by ourselves. Her words — “Allah will not abandon us” — are an anchor not just for surviving the desert, but for surviving the storms within. May we never abandon our own hearts, nor each other.

    As the Qur’an reminds us:

    “And those firmly rooted in knowledge say, ‘We believe in it; all of it is from our Lord.’”
    (Qur’an 3:7)

    Another Reflection Inspired by Masooda Fadal:
    She reminded me that Ibrahim (a.s), when leaving his father’s community, said:
    “I am turning to my Lord. He will feed me and clothe me. He suffices me.”

    Alongside him, in the same family, Hājar carried that same radical trust, saying:
    “Allah will not abandon us.”

    There is a deep yet silent beauty in their inner shared knowing — a spiritual inheritance that flowed between father and mother and reached their child, becoming a collective, rasikh rooted faith.

    Masooda also reflected that Hājar’s story amplifies the message of gender and race: that women equally embody the path of submission. While Ibrahim is often seen as the template of pure tawakkul, Hājar mirrored it so beautifully, showing that Allah honoured her Black, feminine courage with the same divine legacy.

    This teaches us that abandonment is not only physical; it can be subtle, hidden, even within ourselves. Hājar’s faith is an antidote to all those layers — reminding us never to abandon our own hearts, nor each other.

    Comment Prompt

    Who in your family or community reminds you of Hājar? Share their story — let us honour these mothers of faith together.

  • The Verse That Faces Outward

    The Verse That Faces Outward

    The Verse That Faces Outward

    The Hidden Poem Above the Prophet’s Gate

    A Knock Upon the Door: A Poem Hidden in Stone

    In the sacred precincts of Madinah al-Munawwarah, where pilgrims send peace upon the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him), few notice a quiet miracle. Above the gate to the Rawḍah — where our Prophet rests — is an engraved verse of Arabic poetry, nestled in plain sight. Most eyes pass over it, drawn instead to the Qur’anic verse below. But that upper verse is from a 40-couplet qaṣīda written by Imām ʿAbd Allah ibn ʿAlawī al-Ḥaddād — a saint, scholar, and Sufi of the Bā ʿAlawī lineage of Tarīm. Only one couplet of the poem is visible to the public.

    One line.
    Facing outward.

    Why this line? Who chose it? What does it mean that the rest of the poem lives inside, engraved on the inner walls of the chamber of the Prophet ﷺ? What does it mean to be the line that stands at the threshold?

    This blog is a gentle unfolding of those questions.

    Above the gate of the Prophet’s ﷺ chamber, one line of sacred poetry faces outward —
    a single couplet from Imām al-Ḥaddād’s 40-verse ode, chosen to stand above the Qur’anic verse.

    Some verses open books. Others open doors. The chosen line stands where praise meets Revelation.

    Section 1: The Verse That Faces Outward

    نَبِيٌّٜ عَظِيمٌ خُلُقُهُ الخُلُقُ الَّذِي ‏ لَهُ عَظَّمَ الرَّحْمَنُ فِي سَيِّدِ الُكُتُبِ

    A magnificent Prophet — his noble character,
    Exalted by the Most Merciful in the Master of Books.

    Imām al-Ḥaddād is drawing from the Qur’anic verse:

    “And truly, you are of a most noble character.”
    (Surah al-Qalam, 68:4)

    In these lines, poetry bends in humility before Revelation. The poem is not in competition with the Qur’an. It is a witness to it. A praise that holds its breath before the Word.

    Section 2: Ishārah and ʿIbārah: The Inner and Outer Signs

    “Yā Fātiḥil-Abwāb — O Opener of Doors.” Some verses open books. Others open hearts.

    What is visible above the gate is the ʿibārah — the outward expression. But the choice to place this verse there is also an ishārah — a subtle sign. It whispers: Look closer. Listen deeper. The rest of the poem remains inside the sacred chamber, out of sight, like the hidden knowledge that only the heart can read.

    The verse that faces outward becomes a threshold, a knock upon the door. A visitor may stop to read it, but the meaning enters only when the heart listens. As Shaykh Jamiel said: “Most people see the ʿibārah, but few perceive the ishārah.”

    And that is the invitation.

    Section 3: The Hidden Inheritance

    The inner walls of the Rawḍah: Where the full poem of Imām al-Ḥaddād is inscribed — invisible to the public, but alive in transmission.

    There is a story passed down from the early life of Imām al-Ḥaddād. When he was still an infant, his mother dreamt that she was at the tomb of a great spiritual master. In the dream, the master emerged from his grave, took the baby to his breast, and gently placed his tongue into the baby’s mouth.

    In the language of sacred dreams, this is no ordinary image. It means that the child inherited the master’s knowledge — not through books or teachers, but through direct spiritual transmission. Through the tongue. Through barakah.

    When we recite the Ratib al-Ḥaddād, we are inheriting from that lineage. When we stand before the gate and read the outward verse, we are brushing our lips against the memory of that transmission.

    Section 4: The Sultan Who Opened the Doors

    It is worth noting that the spiritual legacy of Imām al-Ḥaddād extended well beyond the valleys of Ḥaḍramawt. The Wird al-Laṭīf and Ratib al-Ḥaddād — his litanies of remembrance — were introduced and supported within the Harams of Makkah and Madinah under the patronage of Sultan Mehmet IV (sometimes rendered Mehmed or Muḥammad IV) of the Ottoman Empire (r. 1648–1687). A ruler known for his reverence of Islamic and Sufi traditions, Sultan Mehmet IV’s endorsement ensured that the sacred rhythms of Tarīm would echo in the holiest sanctuaries of the Ummah. Even the architecture of prayer carries the trace of this inheritance.

    🟫 Note on Naming & Recognition

    A reader of this blog, Kitty Amina Rabbas, beautifully reflected on the significance of this verse’s placement — connecting her own reading of Sufi Sage of Arabia with the timeline of Imām al-Ḥaddād’s visit to Madinah in 1669 CE (1079 AH), during the reign of Sultan Mehmet IV.

    She reminded us that, while Ottoman rulers held immense worldly power, Sultan Mehmet IV — known for his taqwā and reverence for the Prophet ﷺ — may have recognised in Imām al-Ḥaddād a spiritual authority greater than his own. That a single verse from the Imām’s poem was chosen to face outward from the Rawḍah may well be an act of humility, not mere decoration.

    Section 5: What Is the Sign?

    What is the sign? A call to see beyond the eye, to listen with the inner ear. Some verses open books. Others open hearts.

    Not everyone notices the verse above the gate. Not everyone will be called to. But for those who do, a quiet spark may awaken in the heart. Shaykh Jamiel once described this line as a wick that does not even need fire to burn. The love, the longing, the witnessing — it ignites on its own, just by being near to the Real.

    There are some verses that open books. Others open doors.
    And then, some open hearts.

    Epilogue: The One Who Watches

    The Prophet (peace be upon him) said, “Indeed, in the body there is a lump of flesh. If it is sound, the whole body is sound. If it is corrupted, the whole body is corrupted. Indeed, it is the heart.”

    To read the verse that faces outward is to knock gently on that heart. To remember that character is not costume, and praise is not performance. It is to walk humbly. It is to remember the One who sees in secret.

    And when no one sees, know that ar-Raqīb always does.

    Acknowledgement: This blog was deeply enriched by the insights and generosity of Shaykh Jamiel Abrahams, who shared the photographs, historical details, and the luminous teachings behind the scenes. His voice opened a door, and lit a candle inside.