Dr Mohammad Akram Nadwi

Dr Mohammad Akram Nadwi

The Qur’anic Identity: Vicegerency, the Sacred Trust, and the Journey of Self-Purification

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Quran

The question “Who am I?” cannot be meaningfully addressed within the confines of a purely worldly or material framework. The Qur’an consistently reorients the human being towards an eschatological horizon, requiring that life be understood in light of the inescapable realities of death and the Day of Judgement. This perspective is not intended to promote withdrawal from the world, nor does it advocate a negation of worldly engagement; rather, it serves to restore clarity regarding the true nature, purpose, and limits of worldly existence. Death, in the Qur’anic worldview, functions as a decisive moment of unveiling. It strips away illusion, exposes the fragility and temporality of worldly attachments, and reorders human priorities by situating all actions within a larger moral and metaphysical trajectory. In this light, life is not an end in itself, but a transitional phase, a passage that culminates in the encounter with God, in which every action, intention, and disposition will be brought fully into account.Click Here To Follow Our WhatsApp Channel

The Day of Judgement, as articulated in the Qur’an, constitutes the central axis of human moral responsibility. It provides the ultimate coherence of ethical life by affirming that no deed, however small, is insignificant, and that no intention, however concealed, escapes divine knowledge. The human being is therefore not a passive participant in existence, but a morally responsible agent who is moving inevitably towards a moment of comprehensive reckoning.

Within this framework, the purification of the self (tazkiyah al-nafs) emerges not as an optional or secondary spiritual exercise, but as the central task of human existence. It is the necessary preparation for that final encounter with God, as expressed in the Qur’anic declaration: “He has succeeded who purifies it, and he has failed who corrupts it” (91:9–10). Success, therefore, is not defined by outward achievement, social recognition, or material accumulation, but by the condition in which the human soul returns to its Creator.

At the core of this moral and spiritual journey lies the faculty of will, through which the human being exercises choice, intention, and direction. However, the will does not operate independently or arbitrarily; it is shaped, informed, and refined by knowledge and understanding. An uninformed or misdirected will, even when exercised with determination, may lead not to moral rectitude but to corruption and self-destruction. By contrast, a will that is grounded in sound knowledge, knowledge derived from revelation, supported by reflection, and integrated within the Qur’anic moral framework, becomes a means of transformation, discipline, and elevation. The Qur’anic paradigm does not recognise a separation between knowledge and action. True knowledge is not merely informational; it penetrates the heart, reforms perception, and ultimately governs behaviour.

In this sense, the project of self-purification is inseparable from the acquisition and internalisation of knowledge. One cannot purify the self without first understanding the self: its inclinations, its vulnerabilities, its tendencies towards self-deception, and its capacity for both good and evil. The formation of willpower, therefore, depends upon a structured and disciplined cultivation of knowledge. This includes knowledge of God and His commands, awareness of the inner self and its impulses, recognition of the consequences that unfold in the Hereafter, and a sustained commitment to self-discipline and self-accountability. Through the integration of knowledge and will, the human being becomes capable of resisting base impulses, overcoming forms of self-delusion, and maintaining steadfastness upon truth. Without such integration, the will remains unstable, easily swayed by desire, heedlessness, or external pressures.

Within this broader conceptual framework, the Qur’an situates the human being in a position of profound significance by designating him as both a vicegerent (khalifah) and a bearer of trust (amin). God declares: “Indeed, We offered the Trust to the heavens, the earth, and the mountains, but they declined to bear it and feared it; yet man undertook it. Indeed, he has always been unjust and ignorant” (Qur’an 33:72). This “Trust” (amanah) is intrinsically connected with the concept of vicegerency articulated elsewhere in the Qur’an: “Indeed, I will place upon the earth a vicegerent” (Qur’an 2:30). The Trust refers to a unique and immense responsibility conferred upon the human being: the capacity for conscious, voluntary obedience to God. The human being has been granted the necessary intellectual, moral, and practical faculties required to fulfil this responsibility. He has been given access to resources, endowed with the ability to understand divine guidance, and provided with the means to act upon it. However, crucially, he has not been compelled to obey. Rather, he has been granted full freedom to accept or reject divine command.

This element of voluntary obedience lies at the heart of the Trust. It is precisely because the human being is not coerced that his obedience acquires moral meaning and value. The heavens, the earth, and the mountains—despite their magnitude and stability, declined to bear this Trust, recognising their incapacity to fulfil the demands of such a responsibility. The human being, by contrast, accepted it. In doing so, he demonstrated both his remarkable potential and his exposure to immense risk. The Qur’anic characterisation of this acceptance as an act marked by injustice and ignorance invites careful reflection. Injustice here pertains to the misuse or misplacement of responsibility in action, while ignorance pertains to a failure to fully comprehend the gravity and implications of what was undertaken. In accepting the Trust, the human being embarked upon an undertaking of profound consequence without fully grasping its weight.

Yet it is precisely within this daring acceptance that the secret of human potential resides. Without the willingness to assume risk, the latent capacities of the human being would remain unrealised. If the human being were to avoid all danger and responsibility, his potential for moral and intellectual development would never manifest. It is through engaging with risk, through the possibility of both success and failure, that the human condition unfolds. Consequently, human history presents a wide spectrum of outcomes. On one end stand the Prophets, Noah, Abraham, Moses, Jesus, and Muhammad (peace be upon them all), along with the righteous, who fulfilled the Trust through conscious obedience and moral integrity. On the other end stand figures such as Cain, Nimrod, Pharaoh, Abu Lahab, and Abu Jahl, who betrayed the Trust and exemplified moral corruption. This divergence is not incidental; it is the direct and inevitable consequence of human freedom of choice.

The Qur’an further clarifies the ultimate outcomes of this moral differentiation: “That God may punish the hypocrite men and women and the polytheist men and women, and that God may accept the repentance of the believing men and women; and God is Ever-Forgiving, Most Merciful” (Qur’an 33:73). Thus, the acceptance of the Trust leads either to moral decline, manifested in disbelief, hypocrisy, and ethical failure, or to moral elevation, realised through faith, repentance, and the reception of divine mercy. Importantly, even where failure occurs, the possibility of return remains open. Human beings are not defined solely by their lapses, but by their capacity to recognise error, to repent, and to realign themselves with divine guidance. The earliest example of this dynamic is found in the account of Adam, whose lapse was followed by repentance and acceptance, thereby establishing a foundational paradigm for human moral recovery.

A question may arise regarding the apparent tension between the positive portrayal of the human being in the verse concerning vicegerency and the critical portrayal in the verse concerning the Trust. This tension is resolved by attending carefully to the difference in context. In the context of vicegerency, the Qur’an addresses the human being with a tone that highlights his potential and honours his capacity, while simultaneously warning him against the enmity of Satan, whose opposition originates in the very moment of humanity’s elevation to this status. The emphasis here is on human potential and the necessity of vigilance. In contrast, in the context of the Trust, the Qur’anic discourse shifts towards exposing the realities of disbelief and hypocrisy, emphasising the human tendency towards failure when the Trust is neglected. Each passage, therefore, illuminates a different dimension of the same human reality: one emphasises potential and responsibility, while the other highlights vulnerability and the consequences of moral failure.

In sum, the human being occupies a position defined by both honour and fragility. He is entrusted with a responsibility that even the greatest creations declined, yet he remains susceptible to error, heedlessness, and moral decline. To understand who we are is to recognise that we are travellers moving inexorably towards death and judgement; that our will must be disciplined, informed, and guided by sound knowledge; and that we are bearers of a profound Trust that is exercised through conscious and voluntary obedience to God. The purification of the self is the process through which this Trust is honoured. It is a lifelong endeavour that seeks to align knowledge, will, and action in accordance with divine guidance, thereby preparing the human being for the moment when all realities are unveiled and every soul is brought face to face with the truth of its own condition.

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Dr Mohammad Akram Nadwi

Nadwatul Ulama at a Crossroads: Tradition, Renewal and the Vision

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Nadwatul Ulama at a Crossroads:

A meeting of the Majlis-e-Shura (Advisory Council) of Nadwatul Ulama was scheduled for 5th April 2026. I arrived in Lucknow a day earlier and stayed there until 9th April. These few days were not merely a matter of formal attendance, but rather rare moments of reflection, observation, dialogue, and spiritual contentment for me—an opportunity to see the soul of an ancient academic institution through the lens of its present and future. Nadwah, which was founded on the very dream of building the future by embracing the academic traditions of the past with the awakened needs of the present, still stands at this same crossroads: on one side, the brilliant legacy of its luminous past; on the other, the fierce and fast-changing winds of time’s evolving demands. It is like an ancient tree whose roots are deeply embedded in centuries-old soil, yet whose branches still rise towards the sky to welcome new seasons. Click Here To Follow Our WhatsApp Channel

Throughout this entire stay, I was repeatedly blessed with the company of Maulana Syed Bilal Hasani Nadwi, the Nazim (Rector) of Nadwatul Ulama. Whether at his residence, at his dining table, during the journey to Rai Bareilly, or in the meeting of the Majlis-e-Shura, one aspect of his personality stood out everywhere: humility, nobility, excellent character, and that family grace which emerges not from the veils of formality but from the pure layers of nature.

The simplicity in his hospitality was the very ornament of his greatness; the modesty in his behaviour was the true essence of his leadership. He is like those orchard trees whose fruit comes first and the blossom later—meaning the blessing of his character perfumes the hearts before his words.

He interacts with a character that is bestowing
He is a fruit-bearing branch; blossom before fruit

The report Maulana presented in the Majlis-e-Shura, and the conversations held with him on various occasions—all repeatedly highlighted one reality: Maulana has a profound awareness of the changes in the age. His gaze is not lost merely in the pages of the past, but is also fixed on the beating heart of the present. He knows that time is a river, and whoever does not understand its flow gets scattered like sand on its banks.

The wind changes colour every moment, O Mir
Earth and time are different in every age

He is not among those heads of seminaries who, confined within the fortress of stagnation and blind imitation, close their eyes to the questions of the present. In his mind lives the same vision of Nadwah that its founders envisioned: an institution that is a preserver of the past, but does not become a mausoleum of the past; that is a trustee of tradition, but does not let tradition become a title for stagnation; that builds the future, rather than merely remaining a relic of yesterday. In his vision, Nadwah is a lamp lit by its own ancient oil, but its flame is for the darkness of new nights.

In his discussions, Maulana emphasised several major themes that are, in fact, the fundamental pillars of Nadwah’s intellectual direction:

Comprehensiveness and Moderation
The most prominent theme was “Comprehensiveness and Moderation.” Maulana explained it with great clarity and stated that Nadwah’s distinguishing feature is precisely that, from the very beginning, it has strived to build a bridge between the various jurisprudential and intellectual streams of the Ummah. Today, when a large portion of religious seminaries is getting lost in the dust of sectarian bigotry, jurisprudential extremism, and subsidiary conflicts, this temperament of Nadwah is nothing short of a blessing. This very comprehensiveness is the wide door through which caravans from different schools of thought can enter the same courtyard, and this very moderation is the sweet spring that can wash away the bitterness of narrow-mindedness created in the name of religion. This is the quality that can save Indian Muslims from disintegration.

The Call of the Divine Book
The second theme was the call of the Holy Quran. When excessive emphasis is placed on jurisprudential schools, the common people’s attention begins to divert from the original source of guidance. The founders of Nadwah sensed this danger from the beginning, which is why they made deep understanding of the Holy Quran the centre of their mission.
Maulana Syed Bilal Hasani Nadwi is continuing this tradition. Arranging Quranic lessons in various mosques of Lucknow, the continuous struggle to connect ordinary Muslims to the Book of Allah, and making the Quran’s message a guide for life—all these are clear examples of this thought. I felt that for him, the Quran is not merely a book for recitation, but that sun of the Ummah’s spiritual and intellectual renewal whose rays can turn the frozen seasons of hearts into spring again.

The Message of Humanity
The third theme was the “Message of Humanity.” Today, when slogans of hatred, markets of prejudice, and displays of narrow-mindedness are becoming common in the beloved homeland, Maulana’s thought is of utmost importance. Instead of erecting walls in the name of religion, he strives to connect hearts in the name of humanity. His thought is like rain that does not distinguish between settlements but falls equally on all.

When a dagger strikes someone, we, the leaders, feel the pain
The pain of the entire world resides in our hearts

In his view, Islam’s true message is mercy, justice, and goodwill. If Nadwah spreads this message, it can become a great moral force in India’s social context, a lighthouse whose beam shows the way to lost caravans far and wide.

Purity of Character
The fourth theme was the moral training of the new generation. The speed with which mobile phones and social media have gripped young minds is a serious issue. Although these means are ostensibly lamps, their unbridled light often dazzles the eyes and steals insight. Maulana is deeply concerned about this. In lengthy conversations, he repeatedly pondered how students and ordinary Muslim youth could be protected from the implications of these means, and how the use of technology could be made subject to moral responsibility. His thought is not merely about prohibition, but about training and guidance; he does not believe in cutting the branches, but wants them to grow in the right direction.

Language, Education, and Contemporary Awareness
Besides these topics, another important aspect stood out in the conversation: the issue of language and education. Nadwah’s history testifies that it considered the Arabic language not merely a subject of study, but a living civilisational bond. For Nadwah, Arabic is not just a vocabulary repository, but a door to civilisation and a highway to the heart of the Ummah. Even today, if Nadwah is to maintain its distinctive excellence, it must move with an open mind towards English and contemporary sciences alongside Arabic.
From Maulana’s speech, it was evident that he feels this need and wants a student of Nadwah who has roots in tradition but also knows the language of the age; who grows from the soil of his past but breathes the air of the future.

Nadwah’s Real Challenge
But all these ideas can only bear fruit when the institution also creates a new spirit in its administrative and educational structure. Nadwah’s biggest challenge is precisely that it does not get crushed under the weight of its historical greatness. The danger for every ancient institution is that it becomes so awed by its past greatness that it sits unconcerned with the needs of the present. Nadwah must avoid this danger. It must remember that respect for history is paid not through stagnation, but through creation; otherwise, halls built of the marble of the past also become ruins in the desert of time.

A Promising Scene
After observing these few days, I do not hesitate to say that Nadwah is still alive today, and it possesses the strength to remain alive. Under the leadership of Maulana Syed Bilal Hasani Nadwi, a feeling arose that the institution is not unaware of its era, but rather has its hand on the pulse of its time. If this awareness meets the power of action, if thought is supported by institutional discipline, and if tradition is granted the courage of renewal, then Nadwah can once again become the centre of religious and intellectual leadership in the subcontinent.
Nadwah’s true greatness is not in its buildings, nor even in its history; its true greatness lies in the dream that its founders saw. And the welcome news is that dream has not shattered; its interpretation still remains—an interpretation that perhaps is about to appear on the horizon of coming days like the first star of dawn.

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Dr Mohammad Akram Nadwi / Education

The Danger of Intellectual Laziness: A Thought-Provoking Reflection on Blind Imitation and True Knowledge

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Intellectual Laziness

It is said that in a certain city there lived a scholar whose reputation for knowledge far exceeded his actual knowledge. At the entrance of his house hung a sign: “Dār al-Tafakkur” (The Abode of Reflection). Yet, the moment one stepped inside, it became clear that this was not a place of reflection, but of affectation. The walls were lined with books arranged like soldiers standing in formation—but, alas, most of them had never seen the battlefield of study.

One day, a young man—his eyes shining with questions and his heart yearning for truth—came to this “Abode of Reflection.” With utmost respect, he said:

“Sir, I wish to know: what is the truth?”

The scholar adjusted his glasses, stroked his beard, and picked up a thick book, placing it before him as though delivering a judicial verdict.

“This is the truth,” he declared.

The young man looked at the book, then at the scholar, and asked with simple sincerity:

“And if there is disagreement within it?”

The question struck like lightning. For a brief moment, a trace of unease appeared on the scholar’s face. But quickly recovering, he replied:

“Then consult another book… but beware! Do not dare to think for yourself. That habit leads people astray.”

The young man fell silent for a moment, then said softly:

“Sir, if everyone had thought like that, these books would never have been written.”

Hearing this, the scholar resorted to a cough, ended the conversation, and turned toward his books—as though they were his true disciples: silent, obedient, and free of questions.

This anecdote is not about a single city or a single individual. It is the story of an entire mindset—a mindset we politely call intellectual laziness (taqlīd). It is a condition in which a person considers the act of thinking an unnecessary burden, and presenting others’ ideas as one’s own the height of wisdom.

The intellectually lazy person is a peculiar creature. He has an opinion on everything, yet takes responsibility for none. He possesses a wealth of words, but suffers from a famine of meaning. He speaks sentences that sound profound, but upon closer inspection turn out to be nothing more than the echo of empty vessels.

His greatest skill—perhaps his greatest trick—is that he cloaks his laziness in the garb of wisdom. With great composure he says:

“Too much thinking is not good; it only confuses a person.”

As though embracing ignorance to avoid confusion were the pinnacle of intelligence!

For such people, knowledge is something to be placed on a shelf, not something to be internalized in the mind. Books are ornaments, not instruments of study. They open a book only enough to refresh their intellectual image with the scent of its pages.

And if ever a debate arises, their method of argument is quite something to behold: instead of evidence, they cite authorities; instead of research, they invoke sectarian tradition; instead of thought, they rely on imitation. They say, “This is what everyone says,” as though this were the final proof—leaving no room for further thinking.

The most dangerous aspect of intellectual laziness is that it spreads silently. The complacency of one person engulfs an entire gathering. Questions cease to be raised, disagreement is treated as insolence, and dialogue is reduced to the mere nodding of heads.

The truth is that intellectual laziness is a comfortable prison. It requires no effort, no restlessness, none of the unease that accompanies the search for truth. But that is also its greatest deception: a mind that avoids exertion ultimately deprives itself of its own potential.

So, if we truly wish to be inhabitants of the Dār al-Tafakkur, we must move beyond the display of books and begin the practice of thinking. Otherwise, we too will remain like that scholar—sitting among books, yet miles away from knowledge… with minds that exist only for display.

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Dr Mohammad Akram Nadwi

How to Explain a Misunderstood Hadith About Jews and Christians to Children in Islam

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Dr Akram Nadwi

Dear respected Shaykh, I hope you are well, I need your advice on a matter please.
My 14 year old daughter was asked a question yesterday at school by a Christian classmate related to a hadith, I am sharing the picture here the girl sent. She asked “is it true all Jews and Christians will be put in Hell Fire to save the Muslims?”
I don’t know how to respond to this. Would you kindly please advise and guide me.
جزاك الله خيرا

Answer:
Assalāmu ʿalaykum wa raḥmatullāhi wa barakātuh.
The narration in question, reported in Ṣaḥīḥ Muslim, states: The Prophet ﷺ said: “When it will be the Day of Resurrection, Allah would deliver to every Muslim a Jew or a Christian and say: This is your rescue from the Hellfire.”Click Here To Follow Our WhatsApp Channel

At first glance, especially when seen in isolation or presented without explanation, this wording can sound troubling. A young person might understandably ask whether this means Muslims are saved at the expense of others, or whether Islam teaches something unfair about people of different faiths. However, such a reading does not reflect the broader teachings of Islam, nor the way this narration has been understood by serious scholars.

To begin with, Islam rests upon a very clear and repeated principle: every human being is accountable for their own choices. The Qur’an emphasises this again and again, stating that no soul carries the burden of another. This is not a minor idea, but a foundational rule of divine justice. It means that no one is punished simply so that someone else can be saved. If that were the meaning of this hadith, it would contradict one of the most central teachings of Islam, which is not possible when the religion is understood correctly as a whole.

Because of this, scholars have never taken this narration in a simplistic or literalistic way. Instead, they explained it in light of the wider framework of belief. Some clarified that the hadith refers to people who knowingly rejected truth after it became clear to them, not to all Jews and Christians as entire groups. Others explained that it is a way of expressing that God, in His mercy, may forgive certain believers, while those who persist in disbelief and wrongdoing bear the consequences of their own actions. In other words, it is not about transferring guilt from one person to another, but about the ultimate outcome of divine justice, where each person ends up where their own choices have led them.

It is also important to recognise that religious language, especially in prophetic sayings, sometimes uses vivid or striking expressions to convey deeper realities about the Hereafter. If such texts are read without guidance, they can easily be misunderstood. This is why scholars always insist that individual narrations must be read alongside the Qur’an and the overall message of the Prophet ﷺ.

When we turn to the Qur’an, we find a far more balanced and nuanced picture of people of other faiths. Jews and Christians are referred to as “People of the Book,” and they are not all spoken of in the same way. Some are criticised, particularly those who knowingly reject truth or act unjustly, but others are clearly praised for their sincerity, humility, and righteousness. The Qur’an even describes some among them as people who believe in God and the Last Day and strive to do good. This alone shows that Islam does not teach a blanket condemnation of entire religious communities.

Furthermore, Islam commands Muslims to treat others with fairness, kindness, and dignity. It explicitly teaches that God does not forbid Muslims from being good and just towards those of other faiths who live peacefully with them. This ethical teaching would make little sense if Muslims were meant to view all others as simply condemned or inferior.

Another key point is that, in Islam, ultimate judgement belongs to God alone. Human beings do not have the authority to declare specific individuals or entire groups as destined for Paradise or Hell. A person’s final outcome depends on many factors: what they knew, what opportunities they had, their sincerity, their intentions, and their actions. These are matters only God can fully judge. This perspective encourages humility rather than arrogance, and reflection rather than judgement of others.

For a young Muslim responding to such a question, the most honest and balanced answer would be to say that the hadith is often misunderstood when taken out of context. Islam does not teach that people are punished to save others, nor does it teach hatred towards Jews or Christians. Rather, it teaches that God is perfectly just and merciful, and that every person will be judged fairly based on their own life.

In a school setting, where such questions can sometimes feel confrontational or confusing, it is helpful to respond calmly and thoughtfully. One might say that Islamic teachings are part of a larger system, and that pulling out a single line without explanation can give the wrong impression. Just as in any tradition, deeper understanding requires context, learning, and careful interpretation.

In the end, this hadith, like many others dealing with the unseen realities of the Hereafter, points towards the seriousness of belief and the vastness of divine justice and mercy. It is not a statement meant to encourage superiority or division, but a reminder that outcomes in the next life are based on truth, sincerity, and accountability. When understood in this way, it aligns fully with the Qur’anic message that God is never unjust, and that every soul will receive what it has truly earned.

Such an approach allows a young person to remain confident in their faith while also being respectful, thoughtful, and fair-minded towards others—qualities that are at the very heart of the Prophet’s character.

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Articles / Dr Mohammad Akram Nadwi

Life, Death, and the Fleeting Journey Between Hope and Reality

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Life, Death

What is life but a fleeting moment between dawn and sunset: it begins with a cry and ends in silence, passing like a drifting cloud that never settles in one state. A person runs after hopes and gathers from the world whatever he can, imagining that tomorrow stretches endlessly before him. Yet suddenly he realises that life has been swifter than his own steps, and that the days have been racing him towards their end.
Then—death. That reality which never misses its appointed hour and asks permission of no one. It comes unannounced; the clamour falls silent, the voices fade, the pages are folded, and a person stands alone before what his own hands have sent ahead. Neither wealth avails, nor rank suffices, nor lineage intercedes; what remains is righteous action, sincere intention, and the good trace a person leaves in the hearts of others.Click Here To Follow Our WhatsApp Channel
Let death therefore remain present in our consciousness, not as a cause for despair, but as an impulse towards reform. It reminds us of our limits, refines our ambitions, and restores the proper balance to our hearts. Whoever prepares for it with an alert mind and a sound heart will find it a passage into mercy and justice; but whoever neglects it will be seized by it unawares, having squandered what can never be recovered.

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Dr Mohammad Akram Nadwi

Why the Prophet ﷺ Abandoned Iʿtikāf One Year: Lessons from a Hadith in Ṣaḥīḥ Muslim

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Prophet ﷺ Abandoned Iʿtikāf

Question:
Assalamoalaykum Shaikh, May Allah bless you and preserve you. I have a quick question regarding the hadith in Muslim as to why prophet asked his tent to be removed and did not do I’tikaf that year.
Barakallah feekum, Imran Akram, Virginia, USA

Answer:
Wa ʿalaykum al-salām wa raḥmatullāhi wa barakātuh.
This ḥadīth narrated by ʿĀʾishah (raḍiya Allāhu ʿanhā) and recorded in Ṣaḥīḥ Muslim offers a profound insight into the inner reality of iʿtikāf and the Prophetic concern for safeguarding the sincerity and objectives of worship. It is not merely a historical report, but a carefully preserved lesson in spiritual discipline and ethical prioritisation.

ʿĀʾishah relates that when the Prophet ﷺ intended to perform iʿtikāf during the last ten nights of Ramaḍān, his tent was erected in the mosque after he had prayed Fajr. Thereafter, Zaynab (raḍiya Allāhu ʿanhā) ordered her tent to be set up, and other wives of the Prophet ﷺ followed suit. When the Prophet ﷺ emerged after Fajr and saw several tents erected in the mosque, he remarked: “Āl-birra turidna?” “Is it righteousness that you are seeking?” He then ordered his own tent to be taken down, abandoned iʿtikāf for that Ramaḍān, and later observed it in the first ten days of Shawwāl.

The key to understanding this incident lies in recognising that the Prophet ﷺ did not object to the legality of women performing iʿtikāf, nor did he question the integrity or sincerity of his wives. On the contrary, the wives of the Prophet ﷺ did perform iʿtikāf with his permission, and this is well established. Their devotion and uprightness are beyond doubt. Rather, his concern was with the direction and purity of intention, and with the preservation of the essential spirit of iʿtikāf as an act of complete withdrawal from worldly and social engagements in order to turn wholly to Allah.

Iʿtikāf is not merely residing in a mosque, nor is it a collective or social activity. Its essence is inward and outward seclusion, where the slave disengages from all distractions, even lawful ones, to focus entirely on remembrance, prayer, reflection, and supplication. When multiple tents appeared, the situation outwardly changed. What began as solitary devotion now risked resembling mutual presence, quiet competition, or the transformation of iʿtikāf into a visible arrangement rather than a hidden act of devotion. Even if such motives were unintended, the Prophet ﷺ perceived the danger that the act could gradually drift away from its intended purpose.

His statement, “Is it righteousness that you are seeking?”, was therefore not a rebuke of intention but a gentle and penetrating reminder. It redirected attention from the outward form of worship to its inward reality. The Prophet ﷺ was teaching that righteousness does not lie in multiplying religious forms if their meanings are diluted, nor in engaging in acts of devotion that risk becoming performative or habitual rather than sincere.

The decision of the Prophet ﷺ to abandon iʿtikāf altogether that Ramaḍān is particularly striking. Iʿtikāf in the last ten nights is a highly emphasised Sunnah which he consistently observed. Yet, when its spirit was threatened, he chose to leave it rather than allow even a trace of compromise in its meaning. This establishes a foundational principle in worship: protecting sincerity and purpose takes precedence over persistence in outward performance.

At the same time, his later performance of iʿtikāf in the first ten days of Shawwāl shows that this was not abandonment due to negligence or displeasure with the act itself. Rather, it was a deliberate educational choice. By making it up later, he demonstrated both the value of consistency in worship and the permissibility of observing iʿtikāf outside Ramaḍān, while also reinforcing the lesson that worship must be aligned with its objectives at all times.

This ḥadīth thus teaches the Ummah that acts of worship are not evaluated solely by their legality or frequency, but by their alignment with the purposes for which they were legislated. When circumstances arise that undermine those purposes, restraint may itself become an act of devotion. The Prophet ﷺ, through this action, trained the hearts of believers to prioritise depth over display, sincerity over symbolism, and meaning over mere form.

Dr Mohammad Akram Nadwi

Paying Service Charges with Interest and Insurance for Housing: An Islamic Ruling

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Dr Akram Nadwi

Question:
Assalamualaykum Warahmatullahi Wa Barakatuh Shaykh,
I hope you are well Shaykh and in the best of health. I have benefited enormously from your thinking and knowledge over many years and continue to do so and hope you can answer my question. Click Here To Follow Our WhatsApp Channel

When considering renting a flat to live in, the landlord (housing association) requires a service charge aside from the rent, as is the norm in many apartment blocks in the UK, which contributes to the management, cleaning and maintenance of the communal areas of the building. Part of the charge also goes to a reserve fund which is an interest-bearing account, and the landlord saves it incase of major repairs. All leaseholders (residents) must contribute to this fund and cannot opt-out of the interest. The landlord says that the money cannot be returned back to the leaseholder, neither the capital nor the interest, and the landlord is in full control of the money. Although the money is “held in trust” by the landlord, in practice the money does not belong to the leaseholder. Is it allowed to pay this service charge considering the above and that it is necessary, in addition to the fact that there are limited housing options?

Another part of the service charge goes to building insurance, which is necessary to give also, again can this be given considering the limitations for housing options?
May Allah reward you and increase you in blessings.
Ahmad Suleman

Answer:
Wa ʿalaykum al-salām wa raḥmatullāhi wa barakātuh,
There is no disagreement among the scholars that ribā is categorically prohibited, whether one consumes it directly or participates in it willingly and by choice. At the same time, Islamic law is precise in distinguishing between a person who intends, controls, or benefits from ribā, and one who is indirectly and unavoidably affected by it without consent or choice.

In the situation you describe, the service charge is not a voluntary payment, nor is it an investment or a loan from the tenant or resident to the landlord. Rather, it is a compulsory condition attached to the right to reside in the property. Once paid, the money is no longer owned, controlled, or reclaimable by the resident, neither in its capital nor in any interest it may accrue. The decision to place part of that money into an interest-bearing reserve account is taken solely by the landlord or housing association, and residents are neither consulted nor able to opt out. Importantly, the resident does not intend to earn interest, does not receive it, and does not benefit from it in a personal sense.

On this basis the moral and legal responsibility for the interest-bearing arrangement lies with the party that knowingly establishes and manages it, not with the one who is compelled to pay a non-separable fee in order to secure a basic need. The payment in question is made in exchange for accommodation and the upkeep of communal facilities, which are themselves permissible, and the impermissible element is incidental and imposed rather than sought.

Furthermore, housing is a genuine and pressing need, particularly in the UK where service charges of this nature are widespread and often unavoidable in blocks of flats. Islamic jurisprudence recognises that widespread need (ḥājah ʿāmmah) may be treated akin to necessity, especially where avoiding the matter would lead to hardship, instability, or serious difficulty, and where lawful alternatives are either unavailable or extremely limited. In such circumstances, the Sharīʿah grants concession, while the original ruling regarding ribā remains unchanged in principle. One should still dislike the impermissible element in one’s heart and avoid it where a real and reasonable alternative exists, but there is no sin in proceeding under compulsion.

A similar analysis applies to the portion of the service charge allocated to building insurance. Commercial insurance, as commonly practised, involves elements of uncertainty and contractual imbalance and is therefore regarded as impermissible by the majority of scholars. However, where insurance is mandatory, inseparable from the tenancy, and required either by law or by the structure of the lease, and where the individual is not entering into the contract by choice nor able to select a Sharīʿah-compliant alternative such as takāful, then participation is permitted by necessity. In this case too, the resident is not deemed to be willfully engaging in an impermissible contract, but rather complying with unavoidable conditions attached to securing shelter.

It is important to hold firmly to two complementary principles. The first is that ribā and impermissible contracts must never be normalised or treated lightly, and a Muslim should always seek to avoid them where reasonably possible. The second is that Allah, in His mercy, does not burden a soul beyond its capacity, nor does He require a person to abandon essential needs where avoidance is genuinely beyond their control.

Your concern and caution are themselves signs of taqwā, and you are not blameworthy for entering into such arrangements under the constraints you have described. You may proceed without sin, while continuing to ask Allah for lawful provision and for avenues that are clearer and purer should He make them accessible to you.

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Moonsighting: A Means to an End, Not a Source of Division in Islam

by
Moonsighting

The determination of the beginning and end of Ramadan represents one of the most prominent expressions of collective religious life in Islam. These moments are intended to unite Muslims in shared worship, discipline, and spiritual renewal. Yet in many contemporary contexts, particularly within Muslim minority societies, the issue of moonsighting has become a persistent source of discord. Instead of reinforcing communal bonds, differing approaches to determining the lunar calendar have fragmented families, divided mosques, and generated confusion in public institutions. This recurring phenomenon raises a fundamental question: is the disagreement over moonsighting a genuine juristic impasse, or does it reflect a deeper failure to understand the ethical and communal priorities of Islamic law?

The Nature of Moonsighting: A Functional Tool, Not a Sacred Ritual

A careful examination of the sources and objectives of the Sharīʿah indicates that moonsighting is not an act of worship in itself, but a means to establish the correct timing of worship. The obligation imposed upon Muslims is to fast during the month of Ramadan and to mark its conclusion with Eid; the sighting of the crescent moon is merely one method historically used to determine when that obligation begins and ends. The Qur’an explicitly frames the crescent moons as instruments of temporal organisation, stating that they are “time markers for people and for Hajj” (Qur’an 2:189). This formulation makes clear that the moon’s religious relevance lies in its functional role rather than in any intrinsic ritual value.

The Legal Principle: Certainty Over Conjecture, Means Over Form

Understanding moonsighting as a means rather than an end has significant legal and ethical implications. In Islamic jurisprudence, means are evaluated according to their effectiveness in achieving certainty and facilitating obedience, not according to symbolic attachment. The Sharīʿah consistently prioritises yaqīn (certainty) over conjecture, and the method used to attain that certainty may vary depending on context, knowledge, and available tools. The prophetic instruction to fast upon sighting the moon was not a sacralisation of visual observation, but a practical directive suited to a community that lacked alternative means of precise calculation. The underlying objective was reliable knowledge, not adherence to a specific sensory process.

Historical Flexibility Within the Juristic Tradition

Within the juristic tradition, scholars have long recognised this distinction. While some held that visual sighting should remain the primary method for determining the lunar month, others accepted astronomical calculation, particularly when it offered greater accuracy or resolved ambiguity. A widely accepted moderate position acknowledges the value of calculation as a means of verifying or invalidating sighting claims, thereby preventing error and confusion. This approach does not negate the Prophetic model, but rather preserves its intent by ensuring that religious obligations are fulfilled with certainty rather than doubt. To reject reliable knowledge simply because it was not available in earlier periods is to confuse historical circumstance with legal principle.

The Higher Ethical Priority: Communal Unity in Worship

However, the most critical dimension of the moonsighting debate lies not in epistemology, but in ethics. Islamic law places extraordinary emphasis on unity in collective acts of worship. Fasting Ramadan, celebrating Eid, and performing Hajj are not private devotions that each individual undertakes independently; they are communal obligations that derive much of their meaning from shared observance. In such matters, the Sharīʿah consistently subordinates individual preference to collective cohesion. This principle is analogous to congregational prayer, in which worshippers follow the imam even when their personal juristic views differ, in order to preserve the integrity of the congregation.

The Consequences of Division: Harm to the Community

The harm caused by persistent disunity over moonsighting is both measurable and profound. Families often find themselves fasting or celebrating Eid on different days, undermining the sense of shared spiritual experience. Mosques within the same neighbourhood may observe Ramadan and Eid separately, sending conflicting signals to their congregations and to the wider society. Children face confusion and embarrassment in schools when religious observances lack consistency, while communities fracture into rival camps marked by mutual suspicion and recrimination. These outcomes contradict the very purposes of Ramadan, which is meant to cultivate taqwā, solidarity, patience, and compassion.

An Administrative, Not a Theological, Challenge

Such consequences suggest that the issue is not fundamentally religious, but administrative and organisational. Determining the Islamic calendar is comparable to establishing prayer times: both involve identifying the correct moment for worship, and both rely on technical means to do so. The sanctity lies in the act of worship itself, not in the mechanism used to calculate its timing. Just as Muslims routinely rely on scientific calculations and timetables for prayer without controversy, there is no inherent reason why the lunar calendar should be treated differently. Expertise in astronomy or administration, regardless of religious affiliation, can legitimately serve this function, as the task is technical rather than devotional.

The Structural Failure and the Path Forward

The persistence of annual disputes therefore reflects a deeper structural failure within the Muslim community: the absence of agreed-upon systems for collective decision-making and the reluctance to accept outcomes that require personal compromise. Addressing this challenge requires a shift in focus from debating methods to building structures. Unified national or regional bodies tasked with determining the Islamic calendar, inclusive of diverse schools of thought and community representatives, offer a practical solution. The precedent of Hajj demonstrates that the Ummah already accepts a unified calendar for its most significant collective ritual, prioritising cohesion over procedural exactitude.

Conclusion: Reform Begins with a Commitment to Unity

In conclusion, the ongoing controversy over moonsighting exposes a broader challenge facing the contemporary Muslim community: the difficulty of prioritising collective responsibility over individual certainty. The solution does not lie in accumulating more arguments or refining legal positions, but in cultivating humility, discipline, and a genuine commitment to unity. The Sharīʿah does not require perfection in method; it requires sincerity in worship and cohesion in communal life. Until Muslims are prepared to step back from personal insistence for the sake of the Ummah, the cycle of division will persist. True reform in this matter begins not with the moon, but with the willingness to stand together beneath it.

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Is Zakat Payable on Land Bought for Children’s Future Needs?

by
Dr Akram Nadwi

Question
Assalamualaikum sheikh, I have a query, kindly advice
A friend who is settled abroad, has bought a piece of land in Pakistan ,with her savings of years,for her three kid’s future education and needs or maybe used for performing Hajj for the family once children are of the age.
Although husband is currently working but this is all from her own savings as husband is not much interested in this investment.He doesn’t mind using mortgage etc. So to say it’s an asset put aside for the time when it’s needed most for the kids. .Click Here To Follow Our WhatsApp Channel
The question is, now when the land is bought, what is the hukm about paying zakat on the land. As you know the price of the plot goes up /down every year, so would Zakat be applicable every year,until plot is not sold, or is it applicable once it is sold on the selling amount?
If Zakat is applicable every year, on the plot,she does not work herself so how would she be paying zakat yearly?
JazakaAllah khairun kaseera
Wassalam, Irum Shafique

Answer
Wa ʿalaykum as-salām wa raḥmatullāhi wa barakātuh,
Your question reflects a sincere desire to ensure that one’s wealth is dealt with in a manner pleasing to Allah, and such concern itself is highly commendable. The ruling regarding zakāh on land becomes clear once Islamic law’s distinction between ownership for use and ownership for trade is properly understood.

In Islamic jurisprudence, zakāh is not obligatory on land, property, or real estate merely because a person owns it. Ownership alone does not make an asset zakātable. Rather, zakāh becomes obligatory on land only when it is purchased with a clear and definite intention of trade, that is, when a person buys land as part of a business, intending to sell it for profit in the same manner that merchants buy and sell goods. In such a case, the land is categorised as ʿurūḍ al-tijārah (trade assets), and zakāh is payable on its current market value every lunar year at the rate of 2.5%, provided the value reaches the niṣāb.

The situation you have described, however, is entirely different. The land was purchased using personal savings accumulated over many years, and its purpose is to serve as a form of long-term security for the children’s future, whether for education, essential needs, or possibly for performing Ḥajj when circumstances allow. There was no intention of entering into a business of buying and selling land, nor was the purchase made with a view to regular resale and profit-making. Such land is therefore considered a personal asset held for future use, even if that use is delayed for many years.

According to the majority of classical scholars, no zakāh is due on land held for personal or family needs, regardless of how long it is retained and regardless of fluctuations in its market value. An increase or decrease in the price of the plot does not affect the ruling, as zakāh is not connected to potential value, but to the nature and intention of ownership.

It is also important to clarify that merely waiting to see whether the land may be sold in the future does not make it a trade asset. Many people hold property as a safeguard against future hardship, and this does not constitute commercial trading in the Sharʿī sense. As long as there is no firm, ongoing intention to sell the land as part of a business activity, zakāh does not apply to it.

If, at some point in the future, the land is sold, zakāh is still not calculated for the previous years. Rather, once the sale takes place, the proceeds become cash. That cash will only become subject to zakāh after one full lunar year has passed from the time it comes into her possession, provided it reaches the niṣāb and remains above it throughout the year.

With regard to the concern about paying zakāh while not being employed, this worry does not arise in this case, as there is no zakāh obligation on the land itself. Zakāh is only due on assets upon which Sharīʿah has made it obligatory, and Allah does not burden a soul with that which He has not required.

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Is It Permissible for a Muslim to Attend Church Funeral ?

by
Church Funeral

Question
Assalamu alaikum
Dear Shaykh Akram
My dear elderly neighbour passed away yesterday and I’ve been invited to the church funeral. Please can you advise as to whether I can attend?
Jazakumullah khair

Answer:
Assalamu alaikum wa rahmatullahi wa barakatuh,
May Allah reward you for your sensitivity, good manners, and concern to act in a way that pleases Him while maintaining good relations with those around you. Your question reflects a sincere desire to balance faithfulness to Islam with kindness towards others, which is itself a praiseworthy intention. Click Here To Follow Our WhatsApp Channel

Islam places great importance on maintaining good relations with neighbours and the wider community, regardless of differences in religion. The Prophet ﷺ repeatedly emphasised the rights of neighbours, to the extent that he said: “Jibril continued to advise me regarding the neighbour until I thought he would make him an heir.” This teaching applies to Muslim and non-Muslim neighbours alike and includes showing respect, kindness, and compassion, especially at times of loss and grief.

With regard to attending the funeral of a non-Muslim, the majority of classical and contemporary scholars permit a Muslim to attend for the purpose of offering condolences, maintaining neighbourly relations, and showing respect for human dignity. This is supported by the well-known incident in which the Prophet ﷺ stood when a Jewish funeral procession passed by him. When asked why he did so, he replied: “Was it not a human soul?” This shows that Islam recognises the dignity of human life without endorsing the religious beliefs of others.

However, Islam also draws clear boundaries to protect one’s faith. While attendance for social and humanitarian reasons is permitted, participation in religious rituals that contradict Islamic belief is not allowed. This includes joining in prayers, hymns, or statements that affirm beliefs contrary to tawḥīd. During such moments, you should remain silent and refrain from any form of participation. Your presence should be understood as an expression of sympathy and good character, not religious agreement.

It is also important to distinguish between condolence and religious endorsement. Islam encourages excellent conduct with others, while firmly prohibiting compromise in matters of belief. Allah states clearly in the Qur’an: “Allah does not forbid you from being kind and just to those who do not fight you because of religion” (Qur’an 60:8). This verse provides a strong foundation for maintaining peaceful and respectful relations within a plural society such as ours.

If you feel uncomfortable remaining for the entirety of the church service, there is no harm in attending briefly, offering condolences to the family, and then leaving politely. This approach is often sufficient to convey care and respect, while also safeguarding your religious principles. Alternatively, expressing condolences before or after the service, or in writing, is also acceptable if that feels more appropriate.

Living as Muslims in a diverse society requires wisdom, balance, and clarity. By observing these guidelines, you can maintain strong community relations, reflect the beautiful character taught by Islam, and remain fully obedient to Allah. Such conduct often becomes a means of dawah through example, demonstrating that Islamic faith encourages compassion, dignity, and moral integrity.

May Allah grant you wisdom in your actions, accept your good intentions, and reward you for striving to uphold both faith and good character.

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Discipleship vs Companionship: The Prophetic Model of Knowledge, Authority, and Moral Responsibility

by
Akram Nadwi

The distinction between a disciple and a companion is not merely terminological, but reflects two fundamentally different conceptions of knowledge, authority, and moral agency. Throughout intellectual and religious history, discipleship has commonly denoted a hierarchical relationship in which the student’s primary obligation is the faithful reproduction of the master’s teachings. By contrast, the Islamic notion of ṣuḥbah (companionship), most fully embodied in the relationship between the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ and his companions (aṣḥāb), represents a markedly different pedagogical and ethical paradigm. This model does not aim simply at the transmission of information or the replication of ritual practice, but at the formation of individuals capable of understanding, applying, and extending knowledge across the full range of human life. Click Here To Follow Our WhatsApp Channel

Within the conventional model of discipleship, the disciple functions within narrowly defined limits established by the master. Action is permitted only with explicit authorisation, and the exercise of independent judgement in matters of doctrine, terminology, or application is largely prohibited. The disciple’s task is fundamentally imitative rather than interpretive. Even minor adjustments in expression or practice are regarded as illegitimate unless the master has formally conferred authority upon the disciple, often by appointing him as a successor or recognising him as an independent teacher. Until such recognition is granted, the disciple remains intellectually dependent, entrusted with preservation rather than development.

This restrictive understanding of authority is reflected in the limited scope of discipleship. Instruction tends to be confined to personal discipline, ritual observance, and symbolic practices such as dress, prayer, and associated devotional acts. These teachings are frequently detached from the ordinary affairs of life. Matters such as commerce, governance, warfare, marriage, and social organisation are not treated as intrinsic components of moral or spiritual formation. They become objects of concern only insofar as they affect the psychological or spiritual condition of the disciple. Consequently, discipleship often produces individuals skilled in ritual conformity yet ill-equipped to address the ethical and practical complexities of social life.

Companionship, by contrast, presupposes a fundamentally different relationship between teacher and learner. Companions are not treated as passive recipients of instruction but as active participants in an intellectual and moral enterprise. The teacher regards them as fellows, and his role is not simply to transmit conclusions but to cultivate in them the capacity to learn, to reason, and to teach others. The emphasis shifts from the preservation of fixed formulations to the acquisition of skills, including ethical discernment, contextual judgement, and principled reasoning. These skills are imparted gradually and internalised, enabling companions to act independently while remaining faithful to the aims and spirit of the teaching.

In this pedagogical framework, authority is not monopolised but deliberately shared. Companions are trained to apply what they have learned to new and varied circumstances without compromising its foundational principles. Their legitimacy does not depend upon constant recourse to the master’s explicit permissions, but upon demonstrated competence, sound judgement, and moral integrity. Companionship thus produces not perpetual students but individuals who are themselves capable of mastery, able to extend the teaching beyond the immediate presence and lifetime of the teacher.

The educational practice of the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ exemplifies this model of companionship in its most comprehensive form. His teaching encompassed all dimensions of human life, integrating devotion to God with responsibility in social, economic, legal, and political spheres. He instructed his companions in worship and personal conduct, but also in commerce, family relations, conflict, governance, and the organisation of community life. None of these domains was treated as morally neutral or religiously peripheral. At the same time, he did not attempt to regulate every contingency through exhaustive prescriptions. Rather, he cultivated in his companions an understanding of principles and purposes that enabled them to exercise sound judgement in circumstances he could not directly address.

It is this approach that explains the companions’ capacity, after the Prophet’s death, to confront unprecedented challenges with confidence and coherence. They governed expanding societies, adjudicated complex legal cases, and engaged with diverse cultures while remaining anchored in the Prophetic ethos. Their authority was not derived from mechanical imitation, but from a deep internalisation of the Prophet’s method of teaching and learning.

A defining feature of this companionship was its inclusivity. Both men and women were regarded as companions and were educated accordingly. While the practical content of instruction varied considering differing social responsibilities and lived realities, the foundational principles governing their relationship with God and their ethical formation were identical. Women were not confined to private or ritual instruction; they participated actively in learning, teaching, transmitting knowledge, and issuing legal judgements. This demonstrates that companionship was defined not by gender or social role, but by intellectual engagement, moral responsibility, and participation in the Prophetic project.

The contrast between discipleship and companionship thus reveals two divergent educational and moral visions. Discipleship prioritises control, preservation, and limitation, producing followers whose primary virtue is conformity. Companionship emphasises trust, mastery, and comprehensive engagement with life, producing individuals capable of translating enduring principles into changing realities. The Prophetic model of companionship remains distinctive in its integration of knowledge with moral agency and in its refusal to separate spirituality from the practical demands of human existence. It is this model that enabled the companions to carry forward the Prophetic legacy not as static imitators of the past, but as living embodiments of wisdom, judgement, and ethical leadership.

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A Letter on Humility, Intention, and Islamic Balance

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Letter on Humility

A Letter to Mohammad Ahmad Khan
Son of the respected Qur’anic teacher, Mrs Sehrish Tashfin

By: Dr Mohammad Akram Nadwi
Oxford
5/1/2026

Dear Mohammad,
It gives me great pleasure to know that you are working hard in your studies, striving to practise your religion sincerely, and showing obedience and respect to your parents. These are beautiful qualities, and they are signs of a good character. May Allah grant you success in this world and in the Hereafter, and make you a source of comfort and pride for your family.

I would like to share with you an important lesson about Islam which many people, even some religious ones, sometimes forget. This lesson is about the difference between values and forms.

Islam gives great importance to values. One of these values is humility. Every Muslim should try to be humble and should avoid arrogance, pride, and looking down on others. Arrogance is disliked by Allah, while humility is loved by Him.

Forms, on the other hand, are outward actions or appearances. These forms are important, but they are meant to protect the values, not replace them. For example, certain types of clothing can sometimes make a person feel proud or superior. If a form leads to arrogance, then it should be avoided. But if it does not lead to arrogance, then it may be allowed.

In Arab culture at the time of the Prophet ﷺ, dragging one’s clothes below the ankles was a clear sign of pride and showing off. That is why the Prophet ﷺ warned strongly against it. However, the Prophet ﷺ himself made it clear that the real reason for the prohibition was arrogance, not the cloth itself.

This is beautifully shown in the well-known hadith of Abu Bakr (may Allah be pleased with him). When Abu Bakr said that one side of his garment sometimes fell below his ankles, the Prophet ﷺ replied that he was not doing it out of arrogance, and therefore he was not included in the warning. This shows us that intention and attitude matter greatly in Islam.

Because of this, the majority of great scholars of Islam, including Imam al-Shafi‘i, Imam Ahmad, Imam Abu Hanifah, Imam Ishaq, and Imam al-Bukhari, agreed that wearing clothes below the ankles is not sinful if it is not done with pride or arrogance. Some scholars considered it slightly disliked, while others saw no problem at all, as long as arrogance is not involved.

It is also important to understand that cultures and climates are different. In countries like England, the weather is often very cold, especially in winter. People naturally need to cover their ankles to keep warm. In such circumstances, wearing trousers that reach or cover the ankles is completely reasonable and allowed, as long as the intention is not arrogance and the trousers are not dragged on the ground.

So, my dear Mohammad, you should remember this balanced and beautiful teaching of Islam. You are allowed to wear trousers that reach your ankles, especially in a cold country, as long as:
• You do not feel proud or superior because of your clothing
• You do not look down on others
• You do not drag your clothes on the ground

What truly matters is your heart, your character, your humility, and your obedience to Allah. I pray that Allah grants you wisdom, good understanding of His religion, and a gentle and humble character. May He keep you firm on the straight path and make you a benefit to others.

With my sincere prayers and best wishes,

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Understanding the Problem of Evil: A Faith-Based Intellectual Response

by
Problem of Evil

Question:
Respected Dr Mohammad Akram Nadwi, peace and blessings be upon you. I hope you are well.

Recently, a widely discussed intellectual debate on social media has revived an ancient yet significant philosophical question known as the Problem of Evil. Regardless of whether such debates are ultimately beneficial or harmful, a positive outcome has been the growing demand for serious and reasoned responses to the questions raised by sceptics and atheists.

A common objection they present is this: why are atrocities such as the killing of innocent children, sexual violence against women, and widespread injustice so prevalent in the world? If God exists, and if He is omnipotent, just, and merciful, why does He not prevent these evils? And if He does not prevent them, does this not count as evidence against His existence?
My question is how such objections can be addressed in a rational, balanced, and intellectually satisfying manner—one that can genuinely reassure a fair-minded inquirer and help them understand that the problem of evil does not negate God’s existence, but instead points towards deeper wisdom and a broader metaphysical perspective.

I would be grateful if you could clarify this issue in light of your scholarly and intellectual experience.
With prayers and thanks, Yāsir Ghufrān

Answer:
Peace and blessings be upon you. Dear Yāsir Ghufrān, may God reward you abundantly for your thoughtful and earnest enquiry.Click Here To Follow Our WhatsApp Channel

The Problem of Evil occupies a central place in the philosophy of religion and has persistently engaged the human intellect across historical periods and civilisations. At times, however, this issue transcends the realm of abstract theorisation and manifests instead as a visceral moral protest. In our present age, catastrophic realities such as those unfolding in Gaza, where, over a prolonged period, innocent children, women, and defenceless civilians have endured killing, destruction, and relentless suffering, have lent this problem an especially acute urgency. In such circumstances, many experience profound intellectual and emotional disquiet: if God truly exists, and if He is omnipotent, perfectly just, and infinitely merciful, why does He not intervene immediately to prevent such horrors? And if He does not intervene, does this not undermine either His existence or His attributes of perfection?

Although this objection appears emotionally compelling and rhetorically powerful, careful philosophical analysis reveals that it rests upon a set of assumptions that themselves require critical examination. The most fundamental of these assumptions is that human moral intuition constitutes a final, absolute, and universally valid standard by which divine action must be assessed. In other words, whatever appears to human beings, here and now, as injustice or cruelty is assumed to be injustice in the sight of God as well. It is precisely at this juncture that a deep conceptual error emerges, one that arises from a failure to recognise the essential ontological and epistemic distinction between the human and the divine.

The modern imagination, particularly in cultural contexts where the boundaries between divinity and humanity have become blurred, often conceives of God as a moral agent analogous to a human being, differing only in scale or power. God is thus implicitly imagined as thinking, feeling, and judging in essentially human terms, albeit with superior capacity. As a consequence, human comfort, emotional reassurance, immediate psychological needs, and culturally conditioned moral sensibilities are elevated into criteria for evaluating divine justice. When an event violates these sensibilities, it is hastily concluded that God has either failed morally or does not exist at all.

It is essential to clarify that moral anguish in response to oppression, sorrow for the suffering of innocents, and restlessness in the face of injustice are not only natural but ethically commendable. A human being who remains unmoved by cruelty would represent a profound moral failure. From this perspective, distress at the atrocities committed in Gaza is evidence of a living moral conscience, one that rightly impels resistance to injustice and solidarity with the oppressed. The difficulty, however, lies not in this moral sensitivity itself, but in the philosophical inference drawn from it: namely, that God must necessarily intervene in exactly the manner, at precisely the time, and according to the same criteria demanded by human moral intuition.

Human reason, conscience, and ethical judgement are undoubtedly valuable, yet they remain intrinsically limited. Human beings evaluate events on the basis of partial information, immediate consequences, and emotional proximity. Their notions of justice are shaped by psychological dispositions, cultural norms, and historical circumstances. Divine knowledge, by contrast, is absolute, comprehensive, and unrestricted by the constraints of time and space. God is not bound by past or future; all moments are present to Him as a single, unified reality. To project human limitations onto God is therefore a fundamental philosophical error, what is known in philosophy as a category mistake. Classical theistic thought, and Islamic theology in particular, has consistently maintained that God is not merely a greater or more powerful human-like being, but a reality of an entirely different ontological order.

This distinction directly challenges the assumption that divine justice necessarily entails immediate intervention. Such an assumption implicitly presumes that human beings possess exhaustive knowledge of the moral architecture of the universe: when evil ought to be permitted, when intervention would be genuinely just, and what long-term consequences follow from either course of action. In reality, human beings possess no such comprehensive knowledge, nor do they even agree among themselves regarding what justice requires in particular situations.

The case of Gaza illustrates this epistemic limitation with striking clarity. While large segments of the global population regard the events there as manifest injustice, oppression, and even genocide, other groups—particularly those aligned with Zionist ideology and its supporters, justify the very same actions on political, moral, or even religious grounds. If human moral intuition were truly universal, objective, and beyond dispute, such deep and irreconcilable disagreement would not exist. This divergence itself demonstrates that human moral judgement cannot serve as the ultimate and definitive measure of divine justice.

Religious traditions repeatedly highlight this imbalance in knowledge and remind human beings of the limits of their understanding. The Qur’ānic account of the mother of Mary (peace be upon her) offers a particularly eloquent illustration. She vowed to dedicate her unborn child to sacred service, assuming, within the constraints of her social and practical understanding, that such a role could only be fulfilled by a male. When she gave birth to a daughter, her disappointment was entirely natural. Yet the divine response made clear that God knew better. History later revealed that it was precisely this girl who played a decisive and indispensable role in the divine plan. Similarly, the account of Zachariah (peace be upon him) underscores the contrast between human reasoning, bound by natural causes, and divine decree, which transcends them. These narratives do not negate human reason; rather, they define its proper limits.

A further dimension of the problem of evil, frequently neglected in contemporary discussions, is that of human freedom and moral responsibility. The expectation that God should directly prevent every act of injustice effectively absolves human beings of their ethical obligations. The moral structure of the world is grounded in the fact that human beings have been granted freedom, and with freedom necessarily comes accountability. The persistence of injustice, therefore, does not indicate divine absence or indifference, but rather human failure to act upon the moral capacities entrusted to them.

From this perspective, evil is not a defect in the divine order, but the result of human misuse of freedom. It constitutes a trial, not only for the oppressed, but also for the oppressor, the silent bystander, institutions, and entire societies. The more fundamental question is not why God tolerates injustice, but why human beings do so, and, at times, why they actively legitimise or defend it. The tragedy of Gaza, in this sense, exposes humanity itself: its moral inconsistency, selective sensitivity, and deep institutional contradictions.

The demand for immediate divine justice also overlooks a core theological principle: this world is not the final arena of judgement. According to Islamic theology, as well as other theistic traditions, complete and definitive justice will be realised in the Hereafter. Delay in justice does not amount to its negation. Once the world is understood as a place of moral testing, the persistence of injustice no longer logically entails a denial of divine justice.

Faith in the unseen (īmān bil-ghayb) is not blind credulity, but a conscious and reflective acknowledgement of the limits of human knowledge. Trust in God’s justice and mercy does not weaken moral responsibility; rather, it deepens and intensifies it. Human beings remain fully accountable for their actions, while the complete manifestation of divine justice unfolds in accordance with a wisdom that transcends the finite human intellect.

In conclusion, the Problem of Evil does not constitute a genuine argument against the existence of God. Instead, it exposes a conceptual confusion: the attempt to confine divine reality within the parameters of human moral intuition. Evil exists not because God lacks justice, but because human beings misuse their freedom, misunderstand the nature of divine wisdom, and demand definitive answers beyond their epistemic reach. Properly understood, the existence of evil is not a refutation of God, but a mirror reflecting human moral responsibility, intellectual humility, and existential trial. Perfect justice does indeed exist, but not according to human standards, rather according to divine criteria and divine timing.
And God knows best.

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Is Keeping a Beard in Islam Obligatory or Recommended? Scholars Explain the Difference

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Beard in Islam

The legal ruling concerning the beard in Islam has long been a subject of juristic discussion and recognised scholarly disagreement. This divergence arises from differing interpretations of the Prophetic instructions concerning the beard and the extent to which such instructions convey binding legal force. While it is universally acknowledged that the Prophet ﷺ maintained a beard and encouraged its preservation, Muslim jurists have differed as to whether this encouragement constitutes a legal obligation or a recommended practice within the broader framework of personal grooming and customary conduct.Click Here To Follow Our WhatsApp Channel

Islamic sources consistently affirm that the Prophet ﷺ did not shave his beard. Authentic narrations describe his careful attention to its appearance, as he would trim from its sides and upper portions in a manner that enhanced its neatness and ensured harmony with his facial features and overall demeanour. He also maintained its cleanliness by washing, combing, and running his fingers through it. The Companions, may Allah be pleased with them, followed the Prophet ﷺ in these practices, emulating both his outward conduct and his personal choices. This continuity of practice underscores the beard’s recognised place within the Prophetic way of life, while also demonstrating that its maintenance was accompanied by care, moderation, and attention to appearance.

The principal textual evidences informing the juristic discourse on this matter are found in well-established Prophetic traditions. Among the most frequently cited is the narration reported by al-Bukhārī and Muslim from Ibn ʿUmar, in which the Prophet ﷺ stated: “Act contrary to the polytheists: trim the moustaches closely and let the beards grow.” Another narration recorded by Muslim from ʿĀʾishah includes the beard among the practices of the fiṭrah, alongside other acts related to cleanliness and personal hygiene, such as trimming the nails, using the tooth-stick, and cleansing the body. These narrations clearly demonstrate the Prophet’s encouragement of maintaining the beard; however, they do not, in themselves, decisively establish its precise legal classification in terms of obligation or recommendation.

On the basis of these texts, classical jurists articulated two principal legal positions. The Ḥanafī and Mālikī schools, together with a view adopted by later Ḥanbalī scholars, held that the Prophetic command indicates obligation and therefore ruled that shaving the beard is unlawful. This position rests upon the established principle of Islamic legal theory that a command fundamentally denotes obligation unless a contextual indicator diverts it from this meaning. Moreover, the command is explicitly linked to opposing the polytheists, and imitation of non-Muslims in distinctive practices is generally regarded as impermissible. On this basis, authoritative jurists from these schools explicitly stated that shaving the beard is prohibited.

In contrast, the Shāfiʿī school, in its relied-upon position, along with a considerable number of scholars across the legal schools, maintained that letting the beard grow is a recommended Sunnah rather than a binding obligation. According to this view, shaving the beard is disliked but does not rise to the level of prohibition. Scholars who held this position argued that the beard belongs primarily to the realm of customary practices and personal appearance rather than acts of ritual worship. Consequently, the Prophetic command is understood as guidance and moral instruction aimed at promoting dignified appearance and conformity with sound social norms, rather than as a legally binding injunction.

This interpretation is supported by well-established juristic principles concerning commands related to etiquette, hygiene, and refinement of conduct. Scholars such as Ibn Ḥajar al-ʿAsqalānī explained that when commands pertain to manners and commendable behaviour, they are often interpreted as recommendation rather than obligation, particularly when contextual indicators are present. The rationale of opposing the polytheists, while meaningful, does not by itself necessitate legal obligation, as opposition to non-Muslims is binding only in matters of belief and distinctive religious identity, not in all outward customs and social practices.

Further support for this view is found in the inclusion of the beard among the practices of the fiṭrah. These practices are widely understood by scholars to be recommended acts that promote cleanliness, beauty, and physical well-being. Since such matters are already encouraged by natural human disposition, the Sharīʿah did not impose them as strict legal obligations. Jurists have also observed that legal prohibition and obligation are generally reserved for matters involving clear moral harm or public interest, whereas issues of personal grooming typically remain within the sphere of recommendation unless accompanied by explicit and unequivocal evidence.

Closely related to this discussion is the question of the size or length of the beard. The overwhelming majority of scholars did not stipulate a legally defined minimum length for what constitutes a beard. Rather, the beard is understood according to customary recognition (ʿurf), meaning that whatever is commonly regarded by people as a beard is considered as such in legal terms. Islamic law does not prescribe a specific measurement or fixed standard in this regard. This understanding is consistent with the broader treatment of customary matters in jurisprudence, wherein definitions are left to social convention rather than rigid legal quantification. The Prophet’s own practice of trimming and grooming further supports the view that the Sharīʿah did not intend to impose a particular length, but rather to encourage a dignified and recognisable appearance.

Modern scholars have reinforced this understanding by situating the issue of the beard within the context of social custom and cultural norms. Prominent contemporary jurists have argued that matters of dress and personal appearance, including the beard, fall within the domain of social convention and should reflect what is considered appropriate and dignified within a given society, so long as no fundamental religious principle is compromised. This approach has been widely adopted by many contemporary scholars, particularly among the scholars of al-Azhar, both in their legal reasoning and lived practice.

In conclusion, the ruling on the beard represents a well-established area of juristic disagreement within Islamic law. While some scholars consider letting the beard grow to be obligatory and regard shaving it as prohibited, others view it as a recommended Sunnah and deem shaving merely disliked. Likewise, no definitive legal standard exists regarding its length, as the matter is governed by customary recognition rather than textual specification. As such, this issue belongs to the category of subsidiary legal matters in which valid scholarly disagreement exists. In accordance with the principles of Islamic jurisprudence, there is no basis for condemnation or censure in such matters, as reproach is reserved only for issues upon which there is clear and uncontested scholarly consensus.

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From Gomti River to Certainty: A Journey Beyond Names, Causes, and Illusions

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Gomti River

If the distance between Mani Kalan and Jamdahan were measured, it would not seem very great. But in the early days of our consciousness, this distance felt like it stretched for miles. It was a time when the roads were unpaved, questions were immature, and knowledge was an unfamiliar thing. In winter, dew was abundant and our feet would be soaked with moisture and mud; in the rainy season, the sludge would seize hold of us. Science was not taught at Zia-ul-Uloom, so it was hardly surprising that our knowledge was close to zero.Click Here To Follow Our WhatsApp Channel

Every morning we would set out for Mani Kalan and return in the evening. On rainy days, one question would torment us: Where does the water in the clouds come from? We had no answer. By chance, we befriended a boy from another village, though his maternal relatives lived in Jamdahan. He too began travelling with us daily. One day, when the question of the clouds’ water arose again, he told us that his grandfather had gone to the city of Jaunpur, where he had seen with his own eyes that the clouds descend lower and lower and drink water from the Gomti River, and then pour that same water down in all directions. He added that his grandfather had even broken off a piece of one of those clouds and taken it home, where it was still preserved.

Having found an answer to our question, we were immensely happy, as if a knot in our minds had been untied. Yet a small ache remained in the heart: why had my grandfather not gone to Jaunpur to witness this scene? And why had no piece of cloud come to our house?

When I began studying at Maulana Azad Educational Centre, the first book on logic and philosophy came into my hands. The teacher explained that the universe is the name of a continuous chain of events and created things, and that this chain does not come to an end anywhere. Infinite regress is an ancient philosophical problem. Muslim theologians, however, attempted to resolve it through the discussion of the possible and the Necessary Existent. According to them, the Necessary Existent is the source of all possible beings, and the Necessary Existent itself has no source.

I objected that the problem remained exactly where it was. Philosophers believe in an infinite chain of causes and effects, and theologians, by introducing the term “Necessary,” have merely declared the same chain to be infinite. The chain persists; only the terminology has changed. The teacher became upset and said that this was a pointless question, and since he did not engage in pointless debates, today’s lesson was over.

The problem of infinite regress remained unresolved, but during the discussion I told my classmates that clouds drink water from the Gomti River and then produce rain. After that day’s lesson, a new question arose in my mind: Where does the Gomti River itself come from? One classmate replied that his brother studied at Nadwa, and according to him the Gomti flows in front of Nadwa. This meant that the Gomti comes from Lucknow. I asked: Where does it come from in Lucknow? Someone said: from somewhere beyond Lucknow. And thus we were once again trapped in the jaws of infinite regress.

One classmate declared that infinite regress was false. Outside Lucknow, he said, lived a sadhu who spat water from his mouth, and from there the Gomti River emerged. We asked how he knew this. He replied: “Through reason. When the solution to the infinite chain of events and creations is the Necessary Existent, my reason immediately decided that the solution to the Gomti’s chain must also be that same sadhu.” We were satisfied with this answer, and the problem of regress was resolved—for the moment.

I was admitted to Nadwatul Ulama, and thus my intellectual life entered a new phase. Here, I devoted myself wholeheartedly to acquiring literary, empirical, and certain knowledge, and gradually became naturally averse to conjecture, speculation, and fruitless debates. Nadwa taught me that knowledge is not that which merely occupies the mind, but that which disciplines the intellect, gives direction to thought, and brings a person closer to reality.

The greatest distinction of Nadwa is that its founders closed all the doors to intellectual indulgence in the name of knowledge, and directed students’ attention toward disciplines that are both beneficial and effective. Knowledge here was not treated as mere amusement or intellectual acrobatics, but as a means for building life, refining thought, and cultivating certainty. As soon as one enters Nadwa’s atmosphere, one feels that there is freedom to ask questions—but also responsibility to carry those questions to their proper end.

This is why Nadwa led me out of the noise of conjecture into the silence of certainty, and taught me that the perfection of reason lies not in the abundance of questions, but in knowing where to stop. Here I learned that philosophy, when it exceeds its limits, scatters the mind, and that knowledge, if deprived of the balance between revelation, experience, and literature, remains mere supposition. Nadwa named this balance “knowledge” and declared it the true capital of life.

When I came to Oxford, I befriended an American Christian young man, whom I shall refer to here as David (not his real name). Our conversations were sometimes academic, sometimes light-hearted, and sometimes revolved simply around human wonder.
One day, I narrated to David the entire story of the clouds and the Gomti River—the sadhu, infinite regress, and the temporary comfort of reason. He said in astonishment, “It’s surprising that you were satisfied with the narrative that the source of the Gomti River is a sadhu’s mouth.”

I replied, “At the time, we were novice students of philosophy. The problem of infinite regress had made us restless. That answer gave us temporary relief, so we did not reflect further on the existence of the sadhu. Besides, we were children—how deeply could we really think?”
David smiled and said, “But now you are grown up.”
I replied, “Yes—and now I also know where the water of the Gomti actually comes from.” He listened intently. I then presented to him a narration recorded by Imam al-Dhahabi in Siyar A‘lam al-Nubala’, volume 11, page 539. Qasim al-Mutarriz relates that he visited ‘Abbad ibn Ya‘qub al-Rawajini in Kufa. He was blind and used to examine students. He asked me: “Tell me, who dug the sea?” I replied: “Allah.” He said: “That is correct—but tell me, who dug it?” I said: “Shaykh, you tell me.” He replied: “‘Ali dug it.” Then he asked: “Tell me, who caused the water to flow in it?” I replied: “Allah.” He said: “That too is correct—but tell me, who caused the water to flow?” I said: “Shaykh, you tell me.” He replied: “Husayn caused it to flow.”
After I had heard his hadiths, I returned to him again. He repeated the same question: “Who dug the sea?” I replied: “Mu‘awiyah dug the sea, and ‘Amr ibn al-‘As caused the water to flow in it.” As soon as I said this, I jumped up and ran away, while he shouted behind me: “Catch this sinner, this enemy of God!”

David immediately said, “That’s an obvious contradiction—sometimes Husayn, sometimes ‘Amr ibn al-‘As?”
I replied, “This is not a contradiction; this is the real story of philosophy and theology. Just as one group says the universe rests on an infinite chain of causes and events, while another says the chain ends at the Necessary Existent—when in reality the chain continues, only a new name is assigned to it. The disagreement is not over reality, but over expression.”
“Here too,” I continued, “the reality is one, but the names differ. In the Shi‘a expression, ‘Ali made the river and Husayn set it flowing; in the Sunni expression, Mu‘awiyah made it and ‘Amr ibn al-‘As set it flowing.”

Hearing this, David burst out laughing. I asked what amused him. He said, “It reminded me of Imam al-Ghazali’s remark—that some philosophical statements are such that if someone muttered them in his sleep, people would doubt his sanity.”
I said, “You’ve put philosophy and theology in the same row!” David replied seriously, “That is exactly what Imam Fakhr al-Din al-Razi said: I tested the paths of theology and philosophy, but they neither cured the disease of the heart nor quenched the thirst of the soul. The path closest to me was the path of the Qur’an.”

David then asked me, with great seriousness: “When the Qur’an itself introduces God, why don’t you tell me how God introduces Himself in His Book—what style He uses and what arguments He presents?” I realized that this was not a casual question, but a profound intellectual demand. So I replied, “You have made a most valid, reasonable, and thought-provoking request. Its answer cannot be given in a brief conversation. In our next meeting, we will reflect carefully and in detail on Qur’anic monotheism, to see how the Qur’an addresses reason to make God known, and how it leads human beings out of conjecture to the threshold of certainty.”

And at that very moment, I realized with complete clarity that the real issue had never been the clouds, nor the Gomti River, nor the puzzle of infinite regress. The real issue was that we had been satisfied with names instead of reality, and had remained entangled in terminology instead of meaning.
We had mistaken causes for reality, and made expressions stand in for existence—whereas the path of knowledge lies beyond names, and the destination of certainty transcends interpretations.

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Gold or Silver? Rethinking Niṣāb for Zakāh in the Light of Fiqh, Justice, and Modern Economics

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Niṣāb for Zakāh

Question:
Recently, I wrote an article in Urdu arguing that gold, rather than silver, should be adopted as the standard for determining niṣāb in zakāh. In response, the well-known Qur’an teacher, Dr Farhat Hashmi, forwarded the following question to me:

Piyari Ustazah ji The reply by esteemed sheikh in itself is very pragmatic and full of Hikmat الحمد لله Two humble questions here: 1) The government always announces nisaab each year on the basis of silver (not gold). The consequent deductions through banks are calculated according to the same nisaab. 2) If gold is made the basis for nisaab then a large amount of zakat contributors will be exempted. On the other hand the number of fuqara and masakeen and other zakat applicable persons and factors is increasing day by day. How will the gap be bridged?

Answer:
The questions raised touch upon an important intersection of fiqh, public policy and social justice, and therefore need to be addressed with clarity and balance.Click Here To Follow Our WhatsApp Channel

With regard to the first point, when a Muslim government officially announces a niṣāb and organises the collection of zakāh through institutional means, such as bank deductions, this falls under the sphere of siyāsah sharʿiyyah (administrative authority exercised for public order). Once such a mechanism is in place, individuals are not entitled to interfere with, obstruct or invalidate that collection, even if they personally hold a different juristic opinion. Compliance in practice is therefore required in order to preserve order and avoid chaos. At the same time, this does not mean that scholarly discussion is closed. Scholars and concerned citizens may, and indeed should, convey well-reasoned and sincere advice to the authorities, explaining the fiqhi implications and possible long-term consequences of adopting one standard over another. Obedience in implementation and advice in counsel are two separate matters, and both have their proper place in the Sharīʿah.

As for the second issue, it is essential to recall the foundational principle upon which zakāh is built. Zakāh is not meant to be taken from the poor and redistributed among the poor; rather, it is taken from the rich and given to the poor. This is clearly established in the well-known ḥadīth in which the Prophet ﷺ instructed that zakāh is taken from the wealthy of a community and returned to its needy. The objective of zakāh, therefore, is not merely the circulation of money, but the transfer of surplus wealth from those who can afford it to those who cannot.

When silver is adopted as the universal standard for niṣāb in the modern economic context, the monetary threshold becomes extremely low due to the drastic decline in the value of silver. As a result, many people who are themselves financially strained, struggling with inflation and rising living costs, and barely meeting their basic needs, are classified as zakāh payers. In reality, such individuals are closer to being deserving recipients than obligated contributors. Making them pay zakāh reduces their already limited resources and, instead of alleviating hardship, risks entrenching it further. In this way, the very mechanism intended to ease poverty can inadvertently contribute to its growth.

It is also important to correct a common misconception: the belief that the zakāh system is meant to eradicate poverty entirely. This was never its sole purpose. Even during the time of the Khulafā’ al-Rāshidūn, when justice and piety were at their height, poor people still existed. Zakāh did not eliminate poverty, but it did ease its burden, prevent desperation, and preserve human dignity. Its role is remedial and protective, not utopian.

The persistence of poverty in many Muslim societies today is therefore not primarily a failure of the zakāh system itself, but of its implementation and the broader economic environment. A major problem is that many wealthy individuals do not pay their zakāh correctly, honestly or consistently. Others treat zakāh as the maximum of their responsibility rather than its minimum. Furthermore, zakāh alone cannot compensate for weak economic policies, lack of employment opportunities and the absence of sustainable projects that enable the poor to earn a living with dignity.

Islam does not place the entire burden of social welfare on zakāh alone. When zakāh proves insufficient, voluntary charity becomes a moral and religious necessity. The Prophet ﷺ explicitly stated that there is a right in wealth beyond zakāh. This principle becomes especially relevant when need persists despite the fulfilment of obligatory dues. Alongside this, governments bear a clear responsibility to adopt sound economic policies, invest in projects that generate employment and empower the poor to become self-sufficient rather than perpetually dependent.

In conclusion, where the government collects zakāh on the basis of a particular niṣāb, that collection should not be obstructed, even if one holds a different scholarly view. At the same time, it is both legitimate and necessary to convey thoughtful advice to policymakers. Using silver as a universal standard in the present context risks shifting the burden of zakāh onto those who are not truly wealthy, contrary to the spirit of the Sharīʿah. Zakāh lightens poverty but does not abolish it; honest payment by the rich, generous voluntary charity, and just economic policies together are what truly uphold social balance.

May Allah grant us understanding rooted in wisdom, justice tempered with mercy, and the ability to fulfil the rights of wealth in a manner that brings relief rather than hardship. آمين

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Islam and Freedom of Religion: A Muslim Perspective on Human Rights and Non-Coercion

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Islam and Freedom

Question:
السلام عليكم ورحمة الله وبركاته
I have been asked to write a piece for my local university press & I am confused. I would really appreciate some guidance.
They are asking me what a Muslims stance is on “freedom of religion as a human right
It’s a short 200 words. Imo it’s a good way to spread dawah because I can touch on the fact, contrary to belief there is no compulsion in religion. We can’t force people to become Muslim, we can ask.
Also the paper is for a humanitarian organisation called amnesty, who help people from Palestine to Ukraine. They report on human rights abuses, would I be able to work with them on this even though they are not an organisation that represents islam as such, but they do stand up for Muslims?
I’m not saying all religions are right, I’m going to say that under Islamic rule, people are free to practice what they believe in without fear of persecution. It is a human right in the eyes of a Muslim.
A sister was saying it’s an aqeedah issue and I can’t write this, but islam does protect any human life regardless of what religion there are? If they agree to live under a “Khalifa” or Muslim ruler they will even be protected as far as I know?
There is a fatwa by shaykh ibn Baz in which he says: “islam does not permit freedom in matters of creed. It does not make people free to choose which ever religion they wish”
But this fatwa doesn’t related to the question does it?
So my final question is, can I write a 200 word paragraph on “freedom of religion IS a human right & islam does not allow any human being to be persecuted based off religion”Click Here To Follow Our WhatsApp Channel
Q = would this be touching on any aqeedah issues and is it wrong to work with a human rights organisation that’s not Muslim based
Please do clarify, I would greatly appreciate it.

Answer:
Wa ʿalaykum as-salām wa raḥmatullāhi wa barakātuh.
The question you raise pertains to an area in which Islamic legal theory and theological discourse are frequently misunderstood, particularly when framed within contemporary human rights language. It is essential to distinguish between two domains: the inviolable personal freedom of belief, and the state’s prerogative to regulate public order and prevent sedition or societal harm.

At the level of individual conscience, Islam unequivocally affirms freedom of religion. The Qur’ān declares, “There is no compulsion in religion” (2:256), a verse understood by classical exegetes to articulate a foundational maxim: genuine faith arises from conviction rather than coercion. Throughout Islamic history, non-Muslim communities, including Jews, Christians, and others, were permitted to adhere to their faiths, preserve their religious institutions, and administer personal status matters according to their own laws. This historical precedent demonstrates that Islam does not oblige non-Muslims to convert, nor does it sanction their persecution on account of belief.

Limitations within Islamic governance pertain not to belief itself, but to conduct that threatens communal stability or constitutes rebellion, categories regulated by virtually every legal system. Such considerations fall within the purview of statecraft and public interest (maslahah), not doctrinal compulsion. Hence, the fatwā you cited concerns theological consistency within the Islamic creed rather than the civil question of protecting religious freedom as a right.

Consequently, it is both accurate and legitimate to assert that Islam recognises freedom of religion and safeguards individuals from coercion. Articulating this principle in a public or humanitarian context does not compromise ʿaqīdah, provided one does not claim all religions are theologically equal, but rather that individuals possess the freedom to choose, and that persecution on the basis of belief is rejected.

Cooperating with non-Muslim organisations in areas that align with universal ethical concerns, such as protection of life, humanitarian relief, and the defence of civil rights, falls under the recognised Islamic principle of taʿāwun ʿalā al-birr, cooperation in righteousness. The Prophet ﷺ himself entered into cooperative pacts with non-Muslims in matters of justice and social welfare. Hence, engagement with such organisations is permissible when it serves noble aims and does not entail compromising Islamic doctrine.

In conclusion, the assertion that Islam upholds freedom of religion as a human right, prohibits coercion in matters of faith, and supports the protection of minority rights, is consistent with both Islamic legal tradition and the objectives of Sharīʿah. Writing on this subject, particularly to clarify misconceptions and promote justice, does not infringe upon ʿaqīdah.

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Returning to the Dīn: How True Faith Leads to Self-Knowledge and Nearness to Allah

by
Qur’ān and Sunnah

Question:
My student, Abu Hanifah Dilawar, forwarded to me the following question:
Assalāmu ʿalaykum wa raḥmatullāhi wa barakātuhu, Shaykh. This is a question from a Bangladeshi reader of the Bangla Facebook page who regularly reads your articles. They wrote: “I could not help but comment. I read the articles on this page almost regularly. Alḥamdulillāh, such beautiful writing—every single word reflects the depth of knowledge. SubḥānAllāh, these are not words that merely pass the lips; they penetrate deep into the heart, enriching my understanding and helping me recognise myself and the world anew. Alḥamdulillāh. May Allah ﷻ grant you the best reward. Āmīn.
I do not know whether my question will reach you, but I will ask it nonetheless: When a person truly returns to the Dīn, what should they actually do in order to know themselves completely?”

Answer:
Wa ʿalaykum as-salām wa raḥmatullāhi wa barakātuhu.

The question raised by the respected reader is sincere and deeply meaningful, because in Islam the matter of “knowing oneself” is directly connected to knowing one’s Lord and understanding the purpose for which one was created.Click Here To Follow Our WhatsApp Channel

It must first be made clear that a person who is born to Muslim parents is a Muslim by default. Such a person remains within Islam unless they knowingly and openly declare disbelief or commit an act that takes them out of the fold of Islam. Islam is not lost due to weakness, sin, confusion, or periods of neglect. Therefore, many people who speak of “returning to Islam” are in reality returning to practising Islam more consciously and sincerely, not re-entering it from outside.

If, however, a person had clearly left Islam and then wishes to return, then the door of Allah’s mercy is always open. Their return begins with sincerely declaring the Shahādah: that there is no god worthy of worship except Allah, and that Muḥammad ﷺ is the Messenger of Allah. With this declaration, all that came before is wiped away by Allah’s mercy.

Whether one is born Muslim, returning to Islam, or newly embracing Islam, the obligation thereafter is the same. Every Muslim is required to worship Allah alone according to the way taught by the Prophet Muḥammad ﷺ. There is no separate path for converts and no special category for those who “returned”; there is only submission to Allah upon guidance.

To truly return to the Dīn and to begin knowing oneself, a person must first recognise their reality: that they are a servant of Allah, created, weak, dependent, and in constant need of their Lord. True self-knowledge does not lead to pride or self-admiration, but to humility, repentance, and awareness of one’s limitations. The one who knows himself realises how much he needs Allah at every moment.

The foundation of this return is the establishment of worship, beginning with the obligatory acts. The five daily prayers, fasting in Ramaḍān, zakāh when applicable, and ḥajj for those who are able are not optional spiritual exercises; they are the pillars upon which the heart and soul are built. Without these, claims of inner transformation remain fragile and incomplete.

Alongside this, the Muslim must learn the Qur’an, recite it, understand its meanings, reflect upon its verses, and strive to act upon it. The Qur’an is not merely a book of blessing or recitation; it is the primary means through which a believer comes to understand himself, his flaws, his responsibilities, and his destination. Through the Qur’an, Allah speaks directly to the heart of the servant, guiding, correcting, and nurturing it.

Equally essential is learning the Sunnah of the Prophet ﷺ and striving to follow him in belief, worship, character, and conduct. The Prophet ﷺ is the living example of what submission to Allah looks like in practice. Without his guidance, a person may worship with sincerity yet fall into error. Following the Sunnah brings balance, depth, and clarity to one’s religion, and draws the believer closer to Allah in a sound and protected manner.

As a person progresses upon this path, they must guard themselves against seeking validation from others regarding the quality of their īmān or the depth of their spirituality. No scholar, teacher, or community can truly assess the state of a person’s heart. The reality of one’s faith is known only to Allah ﷻ. Even the most righteous of the early Muslims feared hypocrisy for themselves, despite their great deeds.

Therefore, the believer continues upon the path of worship with both fear and hope: fear of Allah’s justice and accountability, and hope in His vast mercy and forgiveness. A Muslim does not claim certainty of acceptance in this life, nor do they despair of Allah’s mercy because of their shortcomings. They continue worshipping Allah, repenting sincerely, and striving to improve until death comes to them.

In this way, returning to the Dīn is not a single event but a lifelong journey of returning to Allah again and again. Whoever persists upon worship, learning, reflection, and humility has already begun to know himself in the truest and most beneficial sense.

May Allah ﷻ keep our hearts firm upon His religion, increase us in knowledge and sincerity, and grant us a good ending. Āmīn.

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Winter Student Retreat Explores Reason, Revelation, and Islamic Intellectual Renewal

by
Arabic Students

From 11 to 14 December 2025, Al-Salam Institute held its Winter Student Retreat in Leicester. The retreat was not a routine academic programme; it brought students together in an environment of focused reflection and serious inquiry into one of the most urgent issues facing Islamic thought today. These students came not only from across the United Kingdom but also from the United States, Canada, Australia, and other countries. They brought with them thoughtful questions and a deep-seated eagerness to learn.Click Here To Follow Our WhatsApp Channel

The faculty of Al-Salam Institute led sessions on various subjects. They offered academic training, engaged students in meaningful dialogue, and conducted the samāʿ of al-Muwaṭṭaʾ of Imām Mālik (in the narration of Qaʿnabī). This reminded us that our intellectual heritage is not just a collection of preserved texts but a living tradition, transmitted through oral narration.

I contributed to the retreat by teaching Sūrat al-Fatḥ and selected passages from Madārij al-Sālikīn by Ibn al-Qayyim. In addition to the teaching sessions, I delivered several talks. One of these addressed the relationship between fiṭrah (human nature), ʿaql (reason), and dīn (religion). I emphasised that the foundation of Islam does not rest on a faith that disables the intellect. Rather, the Qur’an calls for a kind of faith that depends on the awakening of reason, the clarity of understanding, and the responsible exercise of human consciousness.

I made clear that reason does not oppose human nature or divine revelation. Nature, reason, and religion all issue from the same divine origin. Each flows in its own course but leads the human being to the same essential truth.

During the session, one of the students raised an important question: Why do traditional religious institutions and circles often express anxiety, or even aversion, toward reason? Why does the mention of ʿaql evoke discomfort and suspicion?

I responded by saying that the problem lies not in reason itself, but in how schools of thought are treated. If we redirect the question from “Why is reason feared?” to “What is threatened by reason?”, the answer becomes immediately clear. Reason is not the enemy of religion. It cannot be, because Islam itself is founded on dalīl (evidence), ḥujjah (argument), and burhān (clear proof). The Qur’an speaks to human beings in the language of inquiry. It asks: “Do they not reflect?” “Have they not considered?” “Do they not use their intellect?”

Reason becomes threatening only when it begins to interrogate positions that lack evidentiary support. Rigid loyalties to schools of thought, which often rely on emotional attachment, inherited authority, or veneration of personalities, cannot withstand such interrogation. This is why the issue is not with reason, but with an approach to religion in which one’s school of thought becomes immune to question or critique. Reason asks questions. Questions demand answers. But the kind of religious culture built around unquestioned loyalty often lacks the intellectual resources to provide them.

Many of these rigid approaches developed precisely in contexts where the light of sound reasoning had faded. Often, the views that define one’s identity within a school of thought rest on arguments that cannot withstand even modest scrutiny. Reason, by its very nature, seeks coherence and justification. A school of thought, when it loses its openness to critique, begins to resist that very nature.

This fear of reason has deeply shaped the educational ethos of many madrasas. Students are taught that loyalty to a particular school is equivalent to loyalty to Islam itself. They learn to believe that questioning the views of established scholars is a violation of religious boundaries. But this is not the intellectual spirit we inherit from the early generations of Islam. In our scholarly tradition, the respect afforded to scholars was always conditioned by their adherence to evidence. The authority of proof never depended on the personality of the one presenting it.

Once this order is reversed, and evidence is made subordinate to personalities, reason begins to appear dangerous. To neutralise that danger, institutions erect barriers around critical thinking, discouraging students from asking precisely the questions they most need to ask.

One does not need to look far to observe this. A simple examination of the madrasa curriculum reveals the problem. The Qur’an, the central source of Islam, has been marginalised. Though it is the soul of Islam and its ultimate guidance, it is rarely taught in a way that brings light to the intellect and life to the heart. A brief and hurried commentary is no substitute for genuine Qur’anic education. That is merely a ritual.

Students are not encouraged to engage the Qur’an’s reasoning, its intellectual challenge, or its universal vision. As a result, they may read the Qur’an, but the Qur’an does not shape their thinking or their method.

The condition of hadith studies is even more troubling. The life of the Prophet ﷺ — his words, decisions, guidance, and example — becomes the subject of a rushed and mechanical review. Collections are completed within a few months, but no deep understanding of the Prophetic Sunnah emerges. No intellectual tradition anywhere in the world transmits knowledge in this way, yet here it is presented as formal instruction.

Meanwhile, disciplines such as fiqh and kalām are given a prominence that should rightly belong to the Qur’an and Sunnah. These disciplines are important tools. They are lamps, not suns. They help to illuminate, but they are not the source of light itself. When a lamp is mistaken for the sun, then darkness inevitably spreads.

This inversion leads to a more dangerous outcome. The sayings of later scholars begin to overshadow the statements of the Prophet ﷺ. These later views, often lacking strong evidence, are placed in such a sanctified zone that questioning them becomes an offence. Thus, inherited ideas are confused with the religion itself, and tradition replaces reasoned proof.

This misalignment explains much of the intellectual disquiet, confusion, and even alienation from religion that many Muslims experience today. When intelligent individuals encounter a religious discourse that cannot meet the basic demands of reason, they begin to suspect that the religion itself is irrational. But this conclusion is mistaken. The problem is not with Islam. The problem is with how Islam is being presented, filtered through inherited frameworks that were never meant to replace the primary sources.

What we need is a return: a reorientation of religious education toward the Qur’an and the Sunnah. We must teach the Qur’an with its full intellectual force and moral depth. We must present the Sunnah of the Prophet ﷺ not as a fragmented collection of reports but as a coherent and living guide. We must treat reason not as a threat but as a divine gift, an instrument given by God to recognise truth, not to avoid it.

Reason is not the enemy of revelation. It is its partner in the journey. The real threat lies in the inertia that, in the name of preserving religion, ends up stripping it of vitality. This stagnation extinguishes the Qur’an’s light, silences the Prophetic voice, and paralyses the thinking mind.

To restore the strength and relevance of Islamic tradition, we must recover the original harmony between nature, reason, and revelation. Only then can we renew our intellectual life and offer future generations an Islam that is grounded, coherent, and truly alive.

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Al-Salam Institute Graduation in Leicester Celebrates Faith, Sacrifice and Sacred Knowledge

by
Al-Salam Institute

On the evening of 13 December 2025, the city of Leicester bore witness to a deeply moving and memorable occasion: the graduation ceremony of Al-Salam Institute for its male and female students who had successfully completed the rigorous ‘Alimiyyah programme. Conducted in an atmosphere marked by dignity, warmth, and spiritual reflection, the event brought together graduates, their families, teachers, friends, and guests attending spiritual retreats. It was far more than a formal academic gathering; it was a celebration of faith, sacrifice, perseverance, and a lifelong commitment to sacred knowledge..Click Here To Follow Our WhatsApp Channel

As the winter evening settled over the city, the hall gradually filled with anticipation and quiet joy. A palpable sense of reverence accompanied the entrance of the graduates, whose faces reflected both relief and deep gratitude after years of disciplined study, personal struggle, and spiritual growth. For many families present, this moment marked the culmination of countless sacrifices: long nights of study, early mornings, financial strain, and patient endurance. Parents watched with visible pride as their sons and daughters reached a milestone that carried not only academic significance, but profound spiritual meaning.

The teachers observed the scene with a unique blend of happiness and humility. They recognised that their role had extended far beyond instruction; they had been mentors, guides, and companions on a demanding journey. Standing before them were not merely graduates, but individuals shaped to serve their religion, their communities, and humanity at large with knowledge, character, and sincerity.

The programme featured speeches from teachers and students alike, each contributing to the richness of the occasion. The teachers shared heartfelt reflections, expressing genuine pride in the perseverance and resilience demonstrated by the students throughout their years of study. They also acknowledged the families, whose unwavering support and trust had made this journey possible. Several graduates then took to the podium, offering sincere expressions of gratitude to their teachers and parents, and candidly recalling the personal challenges they had faced along the way. Their voices, often laden with emotion, served as a powerful reminder that the ‘Alimiyyah journey is as transformative spiritually as it is intellectually.

In my own address, I reflected upon a reality that is often difficult to confront: that the pursuit of Islamic studies does not usually promise a bright or lucrative career in the modern, materialistic world. Choosing this path represents a profound sacrifice, not only for the students themselves, but also for their families, who support them despite social expectations and economic pressures. Yet this sacrifice is made purely for the sake of God, and it is precisely this sincerity that grants it immense and enduring value.

I then narrated the Qur’anic story of the mother of Maryam (peace be upon her), who vowed to her Lord that she would dedicate her child to the service of religion. Allah accepted her vow, and from that devotion emerged one of the most honoured women in history. This timeless account served as a reminder that sincere intention, dedication, and sacrifice are never lost with Allah, even when their fruits are not immediately visible in worldly terms.

To conclude, I recited a Persian poetic verse and explained its meaning to the audience:
درآں دیار کہ گوہر خریدن آئین نیست
دکاں کشودہ ام وقیمت گہر گويم
“In a land where people do not buy diamonds, I opened a shop and sold diamonds.”

I explained that Al-Salam Institute embodies this very message. In a material world where sacred knowledge is often undervalued and overlooked, the institute has continued, with quiet determination, to nurture and graduate students of religious learning. While society may not always recognise or appreciate their worth, Allah appreciates them, and His appreciation is eternal and beyond measure.
Following the formal proceedings, a communal dinner was served, allowing everyone to relax and share in the joy of the evening. The atmosphere was filled with warmth and gratitude as laughter, heartfelt conversations, and moments of quiet pride unfolded throughout the hall. Graduates celebrated with their families, teachers exchanged affectionate words with their students, and guests expressed their honour at having witnessed such a meaningful occasion.

The graduation ceremony of Al-Salam Institute was not merely an academic milestone; it was a powerful affirmation of the enduring value of faith, knowledge, and sacrifice. It was an evening that left hearts full, spirits uplifted, and a renewed sense of purpose in all who attended, an enduring reminder that even in a world that may not recognise diamonds, their true value remains unchanged.

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