From Sunday’s Kitāb al-Shukr to Monday’s Minhāj al-Ṭālibīn, tracing the chains of Shāfiʿī knowledge, the whispered wisdom of teachers, and a daily breeze of remembrance.
Azzawia Masjid, Walmer Estate – a cornerstone of Cape Town’s Shāfiʿī scholarship and spiritual tradition.
Sunday Morning – Chains of Knowledge, Wings of Mercy
Last Friday, Al Ameen, my swaer, took me to Al Azawia Mosque in Walmer Estate. I had only wanted to greet Shaykh Achmad Hendricks, who was delivering the Jumuʿah khuṭbah. But in the front ṣaff, I also took hands with Shaykh Allie Khalfe.
He smiled and said, “Adli, I’m glad you are here in Cape Town. Come to my dars this Sunday morning.”
I went.
The gathering was in the old style — a teacher seated, a text in Arabic before him, the words flowing into English explanation. Shaykh Allie was reading from Imām al-Ghazālī’s Kitāb al-Shukr (Book of Gratitude). Before the lesson began, Rashaad recited the Qaṣīda al-Burda Sharīf with the beat of the duff — a reminder that knowledge, in our tradition, is not only in the mind but in the heart, the breath, the rhythm.
The room carried the scent of chains of transmission — ustādh to ustādh, back to the author, to the early masters, to the Messenger ﷺ. We were given a chart in Arabic, thirty or so key uṣūl al-fiqh terms, the kind that open doors into the Qurʾān’s architecture. A gift in itself.
Shaykh Allie moved between concepts — ʿilm, tafakkur, ḥāl; gratitude as both unveiling and action; the way arrogance blinds and mercy gives wings; Allah’s command in the Qur’an for Mūsā عليه السلام to speak kindly even to Pharaoh; and how every act, every vessel, every design is part of tawḥīd.
He reminded us that knowledge is not a library of abstractions but an ʿamal — a living response. That Bismillah should precede everything, and that the chains we hold are not shackles but the silsilah — the unbroken links of teachers and students — which, when pulled, draw the heart closer to Allah.
At the end, he placed in my hands a book: A Journey Through Time with Al-Shāfiʿī, Muhammad bin Idris, Volume 2. Another link in the chain, another door to open.
I left with the sense that gratitude itself is a journey — from the first Bismillah to the final Alhamdulillah — and that Cape Town, for all its winds, still holds corners where the old way of learning is alive, unbroken, and quietly shining.
Two pillars of Cape Town’s Shāfiʿī tradition — Shaykh Achmad Hendricks (left) and Shaykh Allie Khalfe (right). Between them flows an unbroken silsilah: the study circles, the Qur’anic sciences, the breath of dhikr, and the living manners of the tradition. Under their guidance, the old way of learning — text in hand, hearts attentive — remains alive in Cape Town.
Monday Night – Two Hours on an Introduction
On Monday night, 11 August 2025, I returned to Azzawia Mosque — this time for the weekly dars with Shaykh Achmad Hendricks.
The WhatsApp invitation from Rashaad Samaai had been simple:
Shaykh Ahmad is currently teaching the Minhāj al-Ṭālibīn of Imām al-Nawawī and the Risālah of Imām al-Qushayrī.
My madhhab is Shāfiʿī — as is the majority of Cape Muslims — so to sit in a reading of Imām al-Nawawī’s masterpiece felt like stepping into my own inheritance.
Shaykh Achmad spent two hours on just the introduction — pausing on its closing lines:
Finally, in cases where there is divergence of opinion among authorities I shall give an impartial exposition of the two opposing theories, the two sides from which one may consider the question in dispute, and the two methods of reasoning adopted in order to solve it; and then I will also, where there is occasion for it, quote separately the decisions of our imam al-Shāfiʿī, and note the relative value of the different appreciations.
From that, a whole world opened: the discipline of fairness, the patience to hold two views in one’s hands, and the humility to weigh them without arrogance.
It took me back to a scene years ago in the Haram at Makkah. A teacher had just finished lecturing his students. When he rose, they swarmed him like bees — those nearest whispering their questions, the teacher answering in whispers too. Everyone leaned in to catch the words. Then, when he departed, they rushed into the market to buy the books he had mentioned.
That is knowledge — not the cold storage of facts, but the living pursuit: sitting, listening, writing, memorising. The kind that makes the heart lean forward. The kind that, even in an age of instant answers, still requires the slow, deliberate turning of a page.
A Gift for the Road – Daily Adhkār
As we stepped out into the cool Cape Town night, Rashaad Samaai pressed a page into my hand.
“It’s from Shaykh Achmad,” he said.
On it was a short litany to be read three times daily — Names of Allah drawn from the Qur’an and the hearts of the early saints:
Bismi Allāh al-Raḥmān al-Raḥīm, Yā Allāh In the Name of Allah, the Most Compassionate, the Most Merciful. O Allah.
Yā Wāḥid, Yā Aḥad — O The One, O The Unique Yā Wājid, Yā Jawwād — O The All-Perceiving, O The Most Generous
Infikhnee bi-nafkhati khayr — blow into me a breeze of goodness
Innaka ʿalā kulli shay’in Qadīr — Indeed, Allah has Power over all things.
A simple gift, but in it, a whole ocean — remembrance for the tongue, stillness for the heart, and a daily returning to the Source.
The green dome of Azzawia Masjid rises like a lantern against the stone face of Table Mountain, a reminder that Cape Town’s spiritual horizon is as enduring as its natural one. From here, the call to prayer has travelled across decades of wind and history, mingling with the clouds that crown the mountain. Under this dome, chains of knowledge are kept alive — voices of teachers, pages of sacred texts, and the quiet remembrance of Allah, all anchored in the heart of the city. [Pic: Shafiq Morton]
Closing line: And so the circles of Azzawia turn — each dars a link, each link a step — until the seeker finds that the journey was not only to the masjid on the hill, but deeper into the heart of the chain itself.
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:
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.
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.”
Patric Tariq Mellet, The Lie of 1652: A Decolonised History of Land, and various writings on Camissa identity and language reclamation.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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 A reflection on Arabic-Afrikaans, the erased voices of dhikr, and the linguistic tenderness that survived colonial erasure.
Tamat: A Sacred Completion, A Living Beginning Explores the Cape Muslim tamat ceremony as both rite of passage and living echo of West African, Javanese, and Arab pedagogical traditions.
The Ratib al-Haddad: A Symphony of Spiritual Resilience
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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)
Hājar: The Black Mother Whose Faith Turned the Heart of Hajj
With deep gratitude to all who preserve these sacred stories.
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.
Adli Yacubi 