By Mohammad Zafar

A while back I got into an argument with my older sister, and we both stopped speaking to one another. This deeply upset our mother, but it was difficult to set aside our differences and make things right. I decided to seek counsel from a friend. He then asked me something to which I could only respond with silence: “Will you wait for a tragedy to force you to go back and talk to your sister?”

I had no reply.

I mumbled no, but still knew it would be hard for me to go forward. And he did not need to say more; I knew exactly what he meant. What if something happened to Mom—would we both still be stubborn enough to ignore one another? What if something happened to my sister—would I even for a second hesitate to come rushing to help her? What if she or I passed away without one of us having a chance to apologize to the other? What sort of guilt would we feel then?

Some time later both my sister and I set aside our differences and made things right. She came to apologize to me in Ramadan while I, unable to sleep at night knowing how hurt my mom was, eventually obliged. We had a great, perhaps the best, mediator between us.

Long after that cleared up I still remember the words my friend asked me, which leave me speechless to this day. Was I really waiting for a tragedy to force my hand? Although this is a micro example of one Muslim family, I believe we can use the same approach towards a macro problem of the Muslim community. Do we have to wait until a tragedy occurs to put aside our differences?

Our community at large is at times just like the stubborn guy I was. There are far more important issues than the ones we spend hours and hours arguing over, to no avail. And while some of us may recognize that our arguments can be trivial at times, it does not seem to stop us in a pragmatic way.

In light of recent tragic events, did it have to take the execution-style murder of three young, vibrant students for us to realize that perhaps we should not waste our time with these trivial disputes?

And while every issue deserves its due attention, it is vital to understand just how much. How much time is really needed to argue about which shaykh (religious leader) should be followed and which refuted? Or whether we should belong to this group or that group? Or if one opinion is better than the other? How much?

These arguments typically end in either party becoming too tired or simply too bored to continue. So the arguments can last hours for some people or days and weeks for others. They go as long as they need to until both sides simply become too fed up to continue.

How true the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ (peace be upon him) when he said, “I guarantee a house on the outskirts of Paradise for him who leaves an argument even if he is right,” (Sunan Abu Dawud).

Deah Barakat had a dream: “I have a dream to have a unified and structured community.” ((https://pbs.twimg.com/media/B9kIyiqIQAEMCIz.png)) I am sure that Yusor and Razan would have agreed, so why not make that their legacy? These three young leaders of our community were killed but they left to us a challenge—the challenge of setting aside our differences, not rebuking others at every chance we get, and just being there for one another.

If we all hope to be in each other’s company in Paradise, why do we not start to work on it right now? Why do we wait for calamities to occur to know that?

I was able to witness firsthand how not speaking to my sister hurt my mom, which caused guilt I could not bear. Imagine if we could all see how disappointed Allah (subhanahu wa ta`ala—exalted is He) becomes with us for the way we constantly treat each other? How would we bear the guilt then?

(c) Rehan Shaikh

By Fuseina Mohamad

Reflections of a student from the Bayyinah Dream Program

“Ustadh Nouman, about this speech, how long should it be? Mine is four minutes.”

Ustadh shook his head and leaned on the pool cue. “No. Three minutes, max.”

“But…”

“Three minutes, Fuseina. Three minutes. ”

I’d been giving Ustadh Nouman Ali Khan grief for the past ten months and hoped to get away with one last request. Three minutes may seem long for a graduation speech but how does one summarize ten life-changing months in three fleeting minutes?

I turned to leave with this question in my head. The familiar sound of pool balls cracking against each other echoed in my thoughts as the game I had interrupted resumed.

Why Dream

I am a first-generation Ghanaian-American who spent most of my life in Saudi Arabia and Ghana before moving back to the United States 11 years ago. During the course of my stay in the States first as a college student then as an employee at a Fortune 500 company, I somehow became distant from the Qur’an. The little Arabic I had learnt as a second language had faded from my memory.

Alhamdulillah (praise be to God) I faced a personal challenge that forced me to acknowledge that my heart was quickly accumulating layers of dust. I desperately needed a light, and I resolved to find one.

Allah subahanahu wa ta’ala (Glorified is He) says in the Qur’an:

وَيَزِيدُ اللَّهُ الَّذِينَ اهْتَدَوْا هُدًى ۗ وَالْبَاقِيَاتُ الصَّالِحَاتُ خَيْرٌ عِندَ رَبِّكَ ثَوَابًا وَخَيْرٌ مَّرَدًّا

“And Allah increases those who were guided, in guidance, and the enduring good deeds are better to your Lord for reward and better for recourse.” (19:76)

I see the proof of His promise in my journey to Bayyinah. The path that led me here spanned about 3 years.

In my search for knowledge, I became addicted to Islamic conferences, seminars and lectures, hungry for any understanding of Allah’s conversation with me in His Book. Imam Siraj Wahhaj became a favorite speaker of mine. His grandfatherly personality coupled with his real talk penetrated my conscience. Despite working a full time job while obtaining a Master’s degree, I would often drop everything to attend his lectures.

It was during one such conference that I was taught the importance of the Arabic language. Before Imam Siraj spoke another Imam was invited to the podium. I sighed. It was close to midnight on a Sunday. I faced a two and a half hour drive home and work at 7 the next morning. “Please,” I prayed silently, “hurry up.”

He didn’t, alhamdulillah.

The Imam’s captivating words shook me. He spoke of the challenges of post-modernity in the American society and demanded that Muslims raise the bar for seeking knowledge in America. As a convert, he had memorized the Qur’an and spoke Arabic with enviable fluency.

“Who IS that?” I whispered to my friend as the Imam took his seat.

“That’s Imam Suhaib Webb,” she responded. “He’s a convert. I think he’s studying at Al Azhar. ”

I was floored. A convert, hafidh (one who has memorized the Qur’an) and student at one of Islam’s oldest and most prestigious universities?

“What’s your excuse?” I scolded myself. A deep sense of guilt and urgency struck me. I wanted to understand the Qur’an and its key had just been handed to me. But where could I learn Arabic in America?

A few months later the answer presented itself at another conference. Again Imam Siraj was scheduled to speak, but was unable to attend due to health reasons. I stayed anyway, hoping to benefit from the other scholars and speakers.

I accidentally wandered into a youth session. I felt it rude to leave when the speech started, so I remained, trapped in a crowd of teenagers. I had never heard of the brother speaking, but his speech was good. His approach was friendly and open. “Good advice for kids,” I thought.  “Who is this guy?”

The conference program answered with his name: Nouman Ali Khan from the Bayyinah Institute.

I watched a couple of the brother’s YouTube lectures and decided that he seemed to know what he was talking about. I signed up for Bayyinah’s Divine Speech Seminar the next month.

Divine speech is not a class. It’s a journey to and through the beauty, depth and power of Allah’s Book. ((Bayyinah’s Divine Speech course is no longer available live, but can be viewed online at Bayyinah.tv))  The book that Br. Nouman shared with us that weekend was a book I’d never read before.

As the class came to a close I found myself in tears, grateful that Allah (swt) had allowed me to discover His Book. I swore that I wouldn’t lose it and prayed, “Allah, just let me understand this Book. I just want to understand these words.”

Br. Nouman leaned on the edge of the table and waited for silence. “I want to tell you guys about the Dream program…” He explained the idea: a 10-month Arabic immersion program in Texas, focusing on Qur’anic Arabic and understanding the Qur’an. SubhanAllah (Glory to God)—the power of du’a` (supplication)! “I’m going to do that,” I resolved.

Because I had two years of school left I was unable to join the first batch of Dream students. Alhamdulillah this was a blessing because I needed the time to plan. The next two years were spent saving, budgeting, memorizing Qur’an and pursuing local Islamic and Arabic classes. I reasoned that if was going to Dream I had to be prepared.

Living the Dream

The Bayyinah Dream sisters’ first party was held the Saturday before classes started. After a summer of emailing each other, finding housing, and figuring out roommates, we felt it would be good to put faces to names before serious work began on Monday.

Most of us came from outside Texas: California, Arizona, Illinois, Louisiana, Ohio, Maryland and New York. For us, Irving was a different world. Over homemade rice, cookies, and summer fruit salad we marveled at the sheer size of the local masjid (mosque), commented on the Texas drought, and complained about the Texas heat. We peppered our TAs, students of the first Dream batch, with questions about the program and the teachers, especially Ustadh Nouman. Though they answered our questions every answer was suffixed with “…but you guys will find out on Monday.”

The Dream curriculum and schedule is ambitious for a 10-month program: four days of full-time class with a test every Friday, Saturdays off, followed by Sunday Qur’an Day.
The Dream program provides a solid foundation in Arabic grammar (nahwu), morphology (sarf), grammatical analysis (irab), and then continues with conversation, reading, studying and memorizing Arabic expressions, and other specialized topics such as tafseer (exegesis of Qur’an), media Arabic, hadith (narrations of Prophet Muhammad ﷺ) studies, balaagha (rhetoric), seerah (biography of Prophet Muhammad ﷺ), tajweed (proper recitation of Qur’an) and towards the end, a little fiqh (Islamic jurisprudence).

But what’s impossible to capture in an essay is the love that we found at Dream. We didn’t have a campus, we had a home. We weren’t classmates, we were brothers and sisters.

When the going got tough, we would encourage each other, tutor each other, and feed each other. We planned lunch hour potlucks to celebrate class milestones, student accomplishments, birthdays, or just because. Future Dream students, especially sisters, should be warned of the Bayyinah 15.

Weekends were booked with horseback riding, shopping, kayaking, and road trips. We attended events, lectures, and classes at the local masaajid, especially the Islamic Center of Irving. The Irving Muslim community is one of the most welcoming communities I have lived in. The Muslims in Irving embraced us; their families became our families and their homes, our homes.

Don’t get me wrong; we studied hard as well. Study groups remained on campus after class to prepare readings for the next day. Class breaks would find groups of students reviewing Qur’an or quizzing each other for an upcoming test. The Islamic Center library and musallah (prayer area) were often occupied by Dream students. Late-night study groups gathered often for cookies and chai.

In class, our teachers established the same balance. They worked us hard and when the class seemed stressed or tired Ustadh Nouman would share a Qur’an gem with us or let us watch Kung Fu Panda in Arabic. Module endings were commemorated with lunch from Fadi’s or barbecues at Grapevine Lake.

As a class we bonded and we showed our teachers love the best way we knew how. We played pranks on Ustadh Nouman, baked a truck-shaped cake for Sheikh Abdul Nasir Janga and hounded Imam Zia in his office and on Facebook. Our teachers were our mentors and advisors. They pushed us to succeed, patiently putting up with the grief we would inevitably give them.

I particularly remember one tafseer class where I felt extreme sympathy for Ustadh Nouman. He was substituting for Imam Zia, our regular tafseer instructor. A few minutes into the class a silent panic settled over the students. We were supposed to read two pages of tafseer each day in preparation for class discussion, but at Ustadh ‘s rate we would quickly exceed our page limit before the class ended.

“We need to slow him down,” I said urgently to my partner in crime. She nodded and the whispered directive spread throughout the class. Brothers and sisters are separated by a barrier, so either a text message got sent to the brothers or they came to the same conclusion on their own. Soon I raise my hand.

“Ustadh, I have a question, if you don’t mind. Why is this word used in this ayah (verse) instead of a similar word?”

Ustadh Nouman paused, thought, then patiently answered.

Another hand rose. “Ustadh, there’s a similar ayah in another Surah (chapter of Qur’an) what’s the benefit of this wording here?”

“Ustadh, can it be argued that this sentence structure provides more emphasis than the expected sentence structure?”

“Ustadh, do you mind re-explaining that answer?”

Finally Ustadh Nouman looked at us suspiciously and asked “Do you guys ask Imam Zia this many questions?”

The bell for tafseer class rang soon after and we exchanged guilty grins with each other. We had been taught a wonderful Arabic expression the first week of class:

لا تترد في السؤل فالسؤال نصف العلم

“Do not hesitate in asking questions because questions are half of knowledge.”

We took this to heart and on rare occasions took advantage of it. May Allah forgive us (Everyone say, “Ameen!”). Our teachers were models of kindness and patience and we owe them our deepest gratitude.

We had been taught at the beginning of the year that a student of knowledge trusts his/her teacher and it is that trust that carries the student whose lack of experience and knowledge prevents him/her from understanding the teacher’s grand vision.

When Ustadh Nouman instituted the Arabic-only policy on campus we joked that campus was going to be extremely quiet. At first, it was. We would sneak English comments to each other, abruptly ending conversations when Ustadh Nouman walked by. But he persisted, reminding, encouraging, and threatening us.

“Anyone caught speaking English on campus will be sent home,” he warned.

We still spoke English but when Ustadh entered the room instead of falling silent we found ourselves quickly switching to Arabic. Eventually our halting Arabic exchanges evolved into entire conversations.

I personally believe that Ustadh was secretly proud of us when we would whine in Arabic for less homework, earlier breaks, and postponed tests. He would refuse to compromise, refuting our suggestions, thus forcing our pleas to become more creative, more eloquent, and more convincing. I remember once we attempted to persuade the Ustadh to cancel an Arabic class in lieu of Sunday Qur’an Day.

“No!” he staunchly refused, “I want you guys to learn some Arabic.”

“Ustadh,” one of the sisters responded, “there’s no better Arabic than the Qur’an!”

“Nice try,” Ustadh laughed. “But we’re still doing Arabic. We’ll do Qur’an on Sunday.”

The Qur’an came alive on Sundays. The Arabic concepts that I struggled to grasp during the week shone like diamonds on every page, treasures whose value I finally understood.

More importantly for the first time, I heard the Qur’an as conversation. During the week we studied the Qur’an, drowning in the grammar, sentence structure, and the tafseer with its varying points of view. On Sundays we surfaced from the depths of the sea of academics to simply appreciate the Qur’an. Sundays reminded me why I had left everything and come to Dream in the first place. ((Qur’an Day (formally called Qur’an Cover to Cover) is also available on Bayyinah.tv))

We visited my favorite surah (chapter), Maryam, on our last Qur’an Day. When we came to ayah 76, I looked back to our first day of class where, overwhelmed by the ambitious curriculum, I’d slowly penned the words of this ayah into the margins of my notebook—reassurance that I could not only survive, but excel, in the next ten months. I returned to Qur’an Day grateful for the reminder of how far I had come and fully aware of how much further I had yet to travel.

When I stepped in front of the microphone on graduation night, the nervousness I expected never materialized. Rather I felt completely comfortable—as if I was speaking to the closest members of my family. For four minutes I spoke in Arabic of our journey together and our upcoming responsibilities to the Ummah (Muslim community). I told inside jokes to remind myself and my brothers and sisters how much grief we had given our teachers and asked Allah (swt) to allow us to reunite in Jannah (Paradise).

My delivery wasn’t perfect by any means. Anything that seems impressive was simply a testament to the unending love and support of my family, classmates, and teachers, and to the extreme mercy and blessings of Allah (swt) who allowed me the opportunity to take this step towards understanding His book. I pray that the Most Merciful allows all of us to draw closer to Him, to drown in the beauty of His words. I pray that every day He allows us to be amazed by the Qur’an, and I pray that on the day when it counts the most He will allow the Qur’an to be a proof for us and not against us.

I’d like to add a note of thanks to all my teachers, especially Ustadh Bashir Ansari who offered corrections and suggestions for the speech.

On a greater scale, it’s a question that has been asked throughout time. And for many people, the answer to that question has determined their path to—or away from—faith.  Faith in God, faith in life’s purpose, faith in a higher order or a final destination has often all rested upon how this singular question has been answered. And so, to ask this question is to ask about life, in the most ultimate  way.

Why do we suffer? Why do ‘bad’ things happen to ‘good’ people? How could there be a God if innocent children starve and criminals run free? How can there be an all-loving, all-powerful deity who would allow such misfortunes to happen?

And if God is indeed Just and Good, shouldn’t only good things happen to good people and only bad things happen to bad people?

Well, the answer is: yes. Absolutely. Only good things do happen to good people. And only bad things happen to bad people. Why? Because God IS the Most Just and the Most Loving. And He has no deficiency in His knowledge or understanding.

The problem is that we do have deficiencies in knowledge and understanding.

See, to understand the statement “only good things happen to good people and only bad things happen to bad people”, we must first define ‘good’ and ‘bad’.  And although there are as many definitions of good and bad as there are people, a comprehensive understanding exists. For example, most people would agree that to succeed in achieving my desired purpose or goal in a particular matter would be ‘good’. While on the other hand, failing to achieve my intended purpose or aim would be bad. If my aim is to gain weight because I am dangerously underweight, becoming heavier would be good. If, on the other hand, my aim is to lose weight because I am harmfully overweight, becoming heavier would be bad. The same event could be good or bad, depending on my intended purpose. So ‘good’ in my eyes rests on the achievement of my personal aim. And ultimate ‘Good’ rests on the achievement of my ultimate aim.

But what is my aim?

That brings us to the fundamental question of purpose as it relates to the greater Reality of existence. There are essentially two distinct worldviews when it comes to purpose in life. The first worldview holds that this life is the Reality, the final destination and ultimate goal of our endeavors. The second worldview holds that this life is only a bridge, a means that stands as nothing more than a glimpse in the context of God’s infinite Reality.

For those in the first group, this life is everything. It is the End to which all actions strive. For those in the second group, this life tends towards zero. Why? Because, in comparison to infinity, even the largest number becomes zero. Nothing.  Like a fleeting dream.

These distinct worldviews directly affect the question of purpose. See, if one believes that this life is the Reality, the final destination, the goal of all endeavors, the purpose of life would be to maximize pleasure and gain in this life.  In that paradigm, ‘bad’ things ARE in fact happening to ‘good’ people every single second. Within that paradigm, people reach the conclusion that there is no justice and therefore either there is no God or God is not Just (wa athu billah, I seek refuge in God). It’s like a person who concludes that there must be no God because they had a bad dream. But why don’t we give the experiences of our dreams much weight? After all, some dreams are horrifying to live through—and very often do happen to ‘good’ people.  In our dreams, do we not experience extreme terror or bliss? Yes. But why doesn’t it matter?

Because put in context of our real life, it is nothing.

In the second world view (the Islamic paradigm) the purpose of creation is *not* maximizing pleasure and gain in a life that is nothing more than a dream. In that world view, life’s purpose is defined by God who tells us: “I have not created jinn and humans (for any purpose) except to worship me,” (Qur’an, 51:56).

It is important to note the special construction of this statement. It begins with a negation: ‘I have not created jinn and humans (for any purpose) […]’.  First Allah subhanahu wa ta’ala (exalted is He) negates ALL other purposes before He states the one and only, singular purpose:  ‘except to worship Me.’ This means that as a believer I know that there is no other purpose of my existence except to know, love and get closer to God. This is the one and only reason why I was created. And this is the most essential realization, as it defines everything else I do or believe. It defines all things around me, and everything I experience in life.

So returning to the meaning of ‘good’ and ‘bad’, we find that anything that brings us closer to our ultimate purpose is Good and anything that takes us away from our ultimate purpose is Bad, in an ultimate sense. In a relative sense, for those whose goal is this material world, worldly things define their ‘good’ and ‘bad’. For them, things like gaining wealth, status, fame, or property is necessarily ‘good’.  Losing wealth, status, fame, or property is necessarily ‘bad’. So in that paradigm, when an innocent person loses every material possession they own, this is a ‘bad’ thing happening to a ‘good’ person. But that is the illusion that comes as a result of a flawed worldview. When the lens itself is distorted, so too is the image seen through it.

For those of the second worldview, anything that brings us closer to our purpose of nearness to God’s love is good; and anything that takes us away from that purpose is bad. Therefore, winning a billion dollars may be the greatest calamity ever to happen to me if it takes me away from God—my ultimate purpose. On the other hand, losing my job, all my wealth, and even falling ill, may in fact be the greatest blessing ever given to me if it brings me closer to God—my ultimate purpose.  This is the Reality that is spoken about in the Qur’an when Allah (swt) says:

“It may happen that you hate a thing which is good for you, and it may happen that you love a thing which is bad for you. Allah knows, you know not,” (2:216).

As a believer, my criterion is no longer gain or loss in a material sense. My criterion is something higher. What I have or do not have in a worldly sense is only relevant in as much as it brings me closer or farther from my Aim: God. This dunya (life) becomes nothing more than that dream that I experience for a moment and then awaken from. Whether that dream was good or bad for me, depends only on my state once I awaken.

And so on the ultimate scale there is perfect justice. God only gives good (nearness to Him) to good people, and bad (distance from Him) to bad people. The greatest good is nearness to God, in this life and the next. And it is only ‘good’ people who are blessed with this. That is why the Prophet ﷺ has said: “Strange is the case of a believer, there is good for him in everything—and this is only for the believer. If a blessing reaches him, he is grateful to God, which is good for him, and if an adversity reaches him, he is patient which is good for him,” (Muslim).

As this hadith (record of the sayings or actions of the Prophet ﷺ) explains, whether something is good or bad is not defined by how it appears externally. “Goodness”, as explained by this hadith, is defined by the good internal state that it produces: patience and gratitude—both manifestations of peace with and nearness to God.

On the other hand, the greatest calamity is distance from God—in this life and the next. And it is only ‘bad’ people who are punished with this. What such ‘distanced’ people have, or do not have of wealth or status or property or fame is only an illusion—no more real or important than having, or not having, these things in the greatest dream, or the worst nightmare.

Of these illusions Allah (swt) says: “Nor strain your eyes in longing for the things We have given for enjoyment to parties of them, the splendor of the life of this world, through which We test them: but the provision of thy Lord is better and more enduring,” (Qur’an, 20:131).

The enduring life is the one that begins once we awaken from this world. And it is in that awakening that we realize…

It was only a dream.

Question: My husband used to drink alcohol, and I am someone who prays alhamdulillah (praise be to Allah). I was very concerned and unsure of what to do, so I lied to him, and I hope that Allah forgives me. I told him: ‘I dreamt of a Shaykh, and he told me that my husband has to stop drinking, or else such and such (bad) will happen.’ When I told him in the morning, he believed me. He made ablution alhamdulillah, and started praying. I still feel uneasy because I lied to my husband, but alhamdulillah he prays now, and has not missed a single prayer ever since. I hope you can benefit me, and pray that Allah forgives me for this lie.

Answer: What [you] did is not considered lying because it’s permissible to use these types of allegories to rectify certain wrongs. This is an allegory because what you told him is, in reality, agreed upon amongst Muslims. So, you made him understand something that was not based on an actual occurrence, but its general meaning does exist.

This is considered figurative lying, and it is permissible (only) in war, in reconciling between people, and in reconciling between husbands and wives. It is also permissible if the husband wants to please his wife, as with telling her she is the most beautiful of women – even if that’s not so! This is not actual lying, but it takes the form of lying; and although it contradicts reality, it is still not considered lying because it brings about greater good. That is why Allah subhanahu wa ta`ala (Exalted and All-Mighty) blessed your words, and made this blessing lead to the guidance of your husband, and made him fully convinced by what you said. You should feel content because, insha’Allah (by the will of Allah), you are not sinful.

Translated from Fatawa’l-Nisa’, p. 301.