We often think of Islam as a tradition that tells us do certain “sacred” activities, such as going to hajj, and avoid other activities which trap us too much in worldly life. While this is true on one level, at a deeper level Islam teaches us to see all of life as a sacred activity.

I remember when I was a new father, and how a significant percentage of my waking hours was taken up with caring for my son. How much dhikr could I have made if I wasn’t changing diapers? How many texts could I have studied if I wasn’t taking him to the park in New York where we lived at the time. Probably like many new parents before me, both male and female, I felt a sense of struggle between my spiritual aspirations and my worldly responsibilities. But then I read the following hadith in the risāla of Grand Āyatullāh Taqī al-Modarressī, who was the marjaʿ for the shaykh leading the majālis at New York University:

وقال الصادق عليه السلام:
إن الله عز وجل ليرحم الرجل لشدة حبه لولده

Verily Almighty Allah will have mercy upon a man by the 
strength of his love for his son.

Even though I had studied Islam for 4 years at Brown University under Prof. Muhammad Qasim Zaman, 4 years at Princeton University under Prof. Hossein Modarressi and others, and with dozens of other shuyūkh and professors in a variety of settings, I had never heard this narration. It was as if God was waiting to share it with me at the right time, when I was ready to listen.

I was never someone particularly eager to have children, but when it happened, it was life changing. I had given sermons on the importance of caring for daughters, but I had never done it myself. Now that I was in the midst of this new life experience, I was ready to hear a single sentence from our tradition that completely changed my outlook. Loving my son, and showing that love through spending time with him, was now part of my search for the Eternal Mercy of al-Raḥmān al-Raḥīm, alongside facing Makkah in prayer and fasting in the month of Ramadan. I remember worrying about his safety while he was trying daredevil moves at the playground, and calling on Allah with a deeper level of need to protect him, in all the ways I could not.

It is often forgotten that of the four largest global religious traditions (Hinduism, Buddhism, Christianity and Islam) Islam is the only one that actively discourages monasticism. In a well-known hadith in the Sunnī canon, the Prophet Muhammad (blessings and peace upon him and his family) actually intervenes with some overzealous companions and tells them not to become vegetarian, sleep on the ground, and remain celibate. In this text he states, “I pray and I sleep, I fast and break my fast, and I marry women.” In short, I act like most normal human beings. Yes, he came to teach us how to worship, but his path of worship includes normal human activities!

The prophetic teachings include matters as mundane as normal bodily functions. ʿAllāmah Ṭabāṭabāʾi (may Allah have mercy on him) collected 4 pages of narrations on the etiquettes of using the bathroom in his book Sunan al-Nabī. This is the sort of thing that may go unnoticed by those raised as Muslims, but for a convert like me it is truly astounding. When I came into the religion, I had to learn a new way of cleaning my body, from ghusl to wudūʾ to even how to use a lota (the Urdu term for a pot of water near the toilet meant for cleaning oneself)! At first, I found it challenging, but over time I realized that it was a way to remember God even in the midst of the most mundane and private of daily tasks. Islam was not just when I went to the masjid and was surrounded by other Muslims – Islam was also there at times when I was completely in private, giving me guidance on how to turn the mundane into the sacred. All human beings have to clean themselves in one way or another, and so Islam provides guidance on how to transform these common human practices into reflections of our deeper desire to surrender our bodies, minds, and hearts to the Lord.

That transformation of the everyday into the sacred is at the heart of Islamic practice. When both my wife and I were working and needed to hire someone to spend time with our children, there were Islamic teachings that could be applied then as well. Imam al-Ṣādiq (peace be upon him) is reported to have said, “give the worker their wages before their sweat dries.” So if I was out while my son was with the babysitter, I would go to the ATM machine, remember al-Razzāq (The Generous Provider) when it spit out cash, and then bring it to the babysitter as an act of worship. I would make it a point to pay in cash immediately if possible, and felt that doing so was honoring her for her sacred work. The Qur’an states, “Allah raised some of you in rank above others so that Allah may test you in respect to what Allah has given you.” [6.165] Allah had given me wealth whereby I could employ another person to do a task that would otherwise be the responsibility of my wife or myself. But that did not make me better than the babysitter, but rather subject to Allah’s test to see how I would behave. Presumably the majority of humanity sees the parent-babysitter relationship simply as an economic transaction that takes place between an employer and the employed in capitalist terms, or between capital and labor in a Marxist framework. But for me it was a sacred relationship, and an act of worship, precisely because the Islamic tradition had provided the textual resources (nuṣūṣ) and lived tradition (turāth) to see it as such. Islam never asked me to flee from the world to find God, but to find God in the midst of all the myriad realities that are part and parcel of God’s creation.

When we read the words of an ʿārif (a knower of Allah) stating that all of creation are signs (āyāt) of Allah, we sometimes think this is a special and unique category that only a select few people have access to, such as the Imams (upon them all peace) and their closest followers. However, the practical teachings of Islam remind us that every single phenomenon in Creation is a path to God or away from God. Raising children is a way to God if we choose to see it in that light, and raising children can lead us away from God if we are obsessed with the worldly status that it provides us. Employing another person in a ḥalāl job can be an act of worship with the right mentality and intention, or it can simply be an economic transaction. Eating food can be an act of worship if we remember that it is ultimately, in the chain of causality, a gift from al-Razzāq, or it can just be an act meant to please our selfishness (nafs). Islam does not have a sign outside its gates that states, “everyday people need not apply,” but instead flings the doors of God-consciousness wide open to the stay-at-home parent, the wage labourer, the employer, and even the person who just has to go to the bathroom.

Given the trajectory of the 21st century, this aspect of Islamic teaching will need to be emphasized more than any other. Very few people want to flee the world – they want to embrace it. Ifthe the world’s vision is dominated by secular language and processes, then people will not be able to see the Divine hand that is present in every moment. They will see only biology and economics, and not realize that biology and economics are merely descriptions of what Allah is always doing in the natural world and human societies. If this Earth was truly made as a place where Allah “creates death and life to try [us] to see which of us is best in deed,” [Qur’an 67.2], then our understanding of what unfolds upon it needs to reflect that truth. The battle between truth and falsehood did not just happen at Badr and Karbala, but it happens every day in our hearts. Imam Khomeini wrote about this as a reality:

The [spiritual armies] related with the divine and intellectual powers attracts him towards the sublime, heavenly spheres, and summons him to the acts of virtue and goodness. The other [demonic army] is the ignoble and satanic, which attracts man towards the baser realms of darkness and shame, and invites him to the acts of villainy and destruction. There is always a state of conflict and strife between these two forces, and human existence serves as the battleground of these two bands. When the divine forces of good become successful, man emerges as a virtuous and blessed being, and attains the high station of angels, and is congregated under the category of prophets, saints and the pious. When the satanic forces of darkness dominate, man becomes a rebellious and vicious being, and is flocked with the fiendish group of the infidels and cursed.

This constant battle – between seeing existence as nothing but the material pursuit of finite ends, or recognizing the Eternal Mercy of Allah as flowing through our lives and extending beyond our deaths – happens every day in public and private ways. We might draw strength from Zaynab’s (upon her peace) vision of beauty on Ashura, and that is understandable, but should we not also assume that she had such a vision even in more “secular” moments of life? When she was pouring a glass of milk for her child, did she not see the Divine Beauty that never fades in that moment as well! When she embraced her husband, did she not thank Allah for such experiences! We too often restrict our vision of Islam to the masjid and the majālis, but the Qur’an intervened in world history to remind us that “wherever you turn, there is the Face of Allah.” [2.115] Our task as Muslims in the 21st century is to develop the eyes to see that for ourselves, and to share that vision with others as best we can. For that is humanity’s birth right.

Endnote

[1] Grand Āyatullāh Sayyid M. Taqī al-Ḥusaynī al-Modarresī, The Laws of Islam (Enlight, 2016), 364.

[2] “The Blessing of Daughters,” A Mercy Case (blog), November 17, 2014, https://amercycase.com/2014/11/16/the-blessing-of-daughters/.

[3] Abu Amina Elias, “Hadith on Balance: Sunnah Is Moderation in Acts of Worship,” August 1, 2012,https://www.abuaminaelias.com/dailyhadithonline/2012/08/01/sunnah-moderation-ibadah/.

[4] Allamah Sayyid Muhammad Husayn Taba’taba’i, Sunan Al-Nabi: A Collection of Narrations on the Conduct and Customs of the Noble Prophet Muhammad, trans. Tahir Ridha Jaffer (Kitchener: Islamic Publishing House, 2007), 119–22.

[5] “Islam And The Wage Labor Law,” May 23, 2021, https://www.al-islam.org/selections-labor-law-islam/islam-and-wage-labor-law.

[6] Imām Khomeinī, Forty Ḥadīths: An Exposition of Ethical and Mystical Traditions, trans. Mahliqā Qarāʾī and ʿAlī Qulī-Qarāʾī (Tehran: The Institute for Compilation and Publication of Imām Khomeinī’s Works, 2003), 36.

By Muhammad Muḥsin al-Fayḍ al-Kāshānī

Translated by Azhar Sheraze

Tafsīr al-Ṣāfī is a profound and multilayered tafsīr (exegesis) of the Qurʾan by Muhammad Muḥsin al-Fayḍ al-Kāshānī (d. 1090 AH/1679 CE). Al-Kāshānī was a prolific Imami Shiʿi scholar who studied and contributed to many of the various Islamic sciences, such as akhlāq (virtue ethics), hadith, and tafsīr. He was a student and son-in-law of Mullā Ṣadrā al-Shīrāzī, the renowned Shiʿi mystic-philosopher of the Safavid period.

In the introduction to his tafsīr, al-Kāshānī outlines his views in twelve sections, dealing with key issues related to the Qurʾan and Qurʾanic sciences. The third section, translated in summary fashion below, presents a number of aḥādīth to demonstrate that the Qurʾan is a written expression of the Ahl al-Bayt—the Family of the Prophet Muhammad. al-Kāshānī highlights how much of the Qurʾan directly–but not explicitly–references their lives and teachings, along with their adversaries. The text of the Qurʾan is neither solely historical nor abstract, but rather points to the living divine authority in every age, which in our case would be the Imams of the Ahl al-Bayt. As stated by the fifth Imam Muhammad al-Bāqir, If the meanings of the Qurʾan did not refer directly to an actual divine authority, its verses would have also “died” along with the people mentioned in them and “nothing would remain of the Qurʾan.” 

The Qurʾan apparently uses universal moral archetypes so that it can be applicable to all people and times. However, Allah ultimately intends to draw one’s attention to moral characteristics that can only be found in the awliyāʾ—the divine authorities chosen by God—who best embody these universal traits and archetypes, and whose example endures until the Day of Judgment. In this vein, al-Kāshānī quotes Imam al-Ṣadiq explaining al-ṣirāṭ al-mustaqīm in the first chapter of the Qurʾan in the following way: “We, the Ahl al-Bayt, are the straight path.”

According to al-Kāshānī, even though most Qurʾanic verses primarily typify Allah’s chosen authorities, the text remains universal and unrestricted. The parables, stories, and prescriptions of the divine text must apply to all of humanity, since everyone is meant to walk in the footsteps of those authorities. Allah did not limit His guidance to outlining humanity’s guides and demanding thoughtless obedience. Rather He provided the Qurʾan as humanity’s moral framework so they may better understand the principles their role-models utilize, and thoughtfully follow their role-models’ example. Therefore, Allah’s Book and the Ahl al-Bayt function in a synergistic relationship: the Ahl al-Bayt personify the universal principles located in Allah’s Book. In turn, this relationship allows us to deepen our own relationship with these divine representatives and provides us with some of the wisdom by which they operate. 

The relationship of humanity to Allah’s guidance is symbolized by the concept of wilāyah. If humanity ties its heart to the Ahl al-Bayt and strives to embody the Qurʾanic principles like them, it can join ranks with the Ahl al-Bayt in spirit. On the other hand, should humanity personify the spirit of Satan and walk in his path, then it would belong to Satan and his followers. This is not a metaphor: Wilāyah is a spiritual reality. This explains why the Qurʾan attributes the actions of the ancient people of Banu Isrāʾīl to those living during the time of the Prophet Muhammad: they did not perform those actions with their own hands, but their hearts are aligned and they are pleased with the evil their spiritual ancestors committed. Their spirits are therefore the same. Wilāyah is the explanation for why Allah identifies them with one another despite their physical and temporal distance. 

In line with this approach, the Ahl al-Bayt have explained to their followers: those whose hearts desire to be united with Allah’s beloved will be their companions across time and space. A narration mentions a man whose brother desired to be alongside Imam ʿAli at the battle of Jamal. The Imam responded, “Did your brother desire to be with us?… Then he was with us. Some members of our army currently exist only in their fathers’ loins and their mothers’ wombs. Time will bring them forth, and through them faith will be strengthened.” 

The Qurʾan gives us the universal principles that help us find and understand the divine authorities chosen by Allah. The Ahl al-Bayt are those same universal principles embodied in human form. And wilāyah is the profound spiritual connection that unites the lovers of Allah and the Ahl al-Bayt together, and the same connection that unites their enemies to each other. 

——————————————————————————————————

Imam Muhammad al-Bāqir once said: “The Qurʾan was revealed in four parts: a fourth about us, a fourth about our enemies, a fourth on sunan and parables, and a fourth on obligations (farīḍah) and commandments (ḥukm). The most precious parts of the Qurʾan are about us.” , Imam ʿAli once said: “The Qurʾan has three parts: One third relates to us and our enemies. Another third are sunan and parables. And the final third are obligations and commandments.”

In another narration, Imam al-Bāqir once said: “The Qurʾanic revelation has three sections: a third regarding us and those who love us, a third regarding our enemies and the enemies of those who came before us, and a third regarding the sunnah and parables. Nothing would remain of the Qurʾan if a verse were revealed solely about a people who later died, and the verse died along with them (and became irrelevant). However, the Qurʾan from beginning to end persists for as long as the skies and the earth remain. Every people have a verse they recite; and they are of that verse, whether for good or evil.”

The aforementioned aḥādīth are not mutually contradictory. They are not all dividing the Qurʾan based on the same criteria. Therefore, it is not problematic for one categorization to result in three parts while another to result in four, nor for certain categories in one schema to overlap with another category in another schema. 

Another narration from Imam al-Bāqir states: “We have a right to the muḥkam (clear) verses of Allah’s book. Therefore, it makes no difference if they try to erase [our right], then say ‘Allah had not revealed this’, or if they were unaware of [our right in the first place].”

Numerous aḥādīth specify that the taʾwīl of many Qurʾanic verses are about the Ahl al-Bayt, their awliyā, and their enemies. These aḥādīth are so numerous that some Shiʿi scholars have written entire books on this deeper interpretation of the Qurʾan, organizing them according to the sequence of Qurʾanic verses, and demonstrating that each verse is either about the Ahl al-Bayt themselves, their followers, or their enemies. I have personally seen one such book that was nearly twenty thousand lines long.

Many such narrations are found in al-Kāfī, Tafsīr al-ʿAyyashī, Tafsīr ʿAlī ibn Ibrāhīm al-Qummī, and the tafsīr heard from Imam Abu Muhammad al-Zakī (al-Hasan al-ʿAskarī). One such example is narrated in al-Kāfī regarding the Qurʾanic verse: “Truly it is the revelation of the Lord of all Being, brought down by the Faithful Spirit (al-rūḥ al-amīn) upon your heart in a clear, Arabic tongue so that you may be one of the warners.” Imam al-Bāqir clarifies what “revelation” here means: “It is the wilāyah of the Commander of the Faithful (Imam ʿAli).”

Imam al-Bāqir reportedly said: “O Muhammad! Whenever you hear Allah recount a people from this ummah with goodness, we are those people. Whenever you hear Allah mention the evil of a past people, they are our enemies.” In another narration, Imam al-Sādiq was asked about the verse of Qurʾan: “Say, ‘Allah suffices as a witness between me and you and the one who possesses the knowledge of the Book.” ʿUmar ibn Ḥanẓalah narrates: “When the Imam saw me looking into this verse and verses like it, he said: ‘Suffice it to know that everything in the entire Book (of Allah)—from its beginning until its end—like this [verse], is about the Imams.’”

The secret behind this type of interpretation can only be unveiled through a detailed discussion, which, by the grace of God, we shall undertake: Allah wanted to make Himself known to His creation so that they may serve Him. However, based on the causal system (sunnat al-asbāb) He created, creatures cannot know God except through the existence of prophets and awṣiyāʾ; only they can attain complete knowledge of God and perform perfect worship of Him. On the other hand, prophets and awṣiyāʾ cannot survive without the rest of creation providing them with companionship and their livelihood. So Allah created the rest of creation, commanding them to come to know His prophets and awliyāʾ, obligating creation to hold onto their wilāyah, and warning creation of their enemies and all that hinders creation [in fulfilling these commandments]. This allows creation to share in the blessings obtained by the prophets and the awliyāʾ. Allah has gifted everyone knowledge of Himself based on their knowledge of the prophets and the awṣiyā’: knowledge of them acquaints one with Allah, and their wilāyah is God’s wilāyah. Therefore, whatever they bring—whether it is news of Paradise and warnings of Hellfire, or commandments and prohibitions, or even advice and ethical admonitions—are all  from Allah for this purpose. 

Our Prophet Muhammad is the leader of all prophets and his waṣī is the leader of all awṣiyāʾ. Allah combined in them perfections of all the past prophets and awṣiyāʾ, and bestowed upon them additional virtues that are exclusively theirs. Since Prophet Muhammad and Imam ʿAli are from a single soul, one can attribute to both of them the virtues of all of God’s chosen. Both encompass the virtues and merits of all those past personages. Afterall, whatever is more perfect will doubtlessly also contain lower levels of perfection. Hence, the taʾwīl of Qurʾanic verses is exclusive to the Prophet Muhammad, Imam ʿAli , and the remaining Ahl al-Bayt from their offspring who “were descendants of one another.” In a word, it is wilāyah, a term that describes this comprehensive reality, comprising knowledge, love, obedience, and everything else that is necessitated for that rank.

Furthermore, Allah’s commands apply to universal realities and general categories, not to particular instances and individual cases. According to scholars and those possessing wisdom, whenever the Qurʾan speaks about a people or attributes an action to them, that message or attribution also applies to anyone of the same kind (sinkh) or nature (ṭinah). This is why whenever the Divine elite (ṣafwat Allah) are described with a particular honor or a noble quality, that honor can also be attributed to any of the prophets or the awṣiyāʾ of the same kind or nature. The same can be said of all the muqarrabīn (“those brought near”), unless that designation is exclusive to [the prophets and awṣiyāʾ] and no one else. 

Likewise, if their Shiʿa are described by a virtuous quality or a good attribute, whoever has the same nature as their Shiʿa is also included amongst them [and is described by those qualities and attributes]. And if their enemies who are described by some vice or some evil is attributed to them, anyone of the same nature or kind is also included as amongst these enemies, regardless of whether they are among the first generation of humans or the last. This is because everyone loved by Allah and His Messenger will also be loved by every believer from the beginning of creation until the end. Likewise, everyone hated by Allah and His Messenger will also be hated by every believer in the same way. And conversely, this enemy of Allah will have animosity toward everyone beloved to Allah and His Messenger. All believers across the world—whether in the past, the present, or until the Day of Judgment—is their Shiʿa. And all those who reject them (jāḥid) across the world—whether in the past, the present, or until the Day of Judgment—will be their enemies. 

This explanation is also reported from Imam al-Sadiq, as cited in the well-known narration of al-Mufaḍḍal ibn ʿUmar. Al-Mufaḍḍal once asked the Imam, “What does it mean for ʿAli ibn Abi Ṭālib to divide the Garden from Hellfire (qasīm al-jannati wa al-nār)?” The Imam responded, “This is because ʿAli’s love is true faith (imān) and ʿAli’s hatred is disbelief (kufr). The Garden was only created for the people of true faith, and Hellfire only for the people of rejection. This is why Imam ʿAli determines the inhabitants of the Garden and Hellfire. None enter the Garden except the those who love him, and none enter Hellfire except those who hate him.” Al-Mufaḍḍal then asked, “Oh son of the Messenger, did the prophets and awṣiyāʾ also love Imam ʿAli? Did the enemies of the prophets and awṣiyāʾ also hate ʿAli?” The Imam replied, “Yes.” Al-Mufaḍḍal asked, “Can you explain?” The Imam said, “Do you not know what the Prophet said on the Day of Khaybar: ‘Tomorrow, I will hand the flag [of the Muslim army] to a man who loves Allah and His Messenger, and Allah and His Messenger both love him. He will not return until Allah grants [the army] victory at his hands.’” Al-Mufaḍḍal said, “Of course.” The Imam continued, “Do you not know that when the Messenger of Allah was given  a roasted bird, he said: ‘Allah, send me Your most beloved creature to share this fowl with me…’ and that this occurred about Imam ʿAli?” Al-Mufaḍḍal said, “Yes, of course.” The Imam continued, “Is it possible for Allah’s prophets, messengers, and the awṣiyāʾ to not love a person who loves Allah and His Messenger and in turn is beloved by Allah and His Messenger?” Al-Mufaḍḍal said, “No, it is not possible.” The Imam said, “Is it possible for faithful believers from previous religious communities to not love the beloved of Allah, and the beloved of His Messenger and His prophets?” Al-Mufaḍḍal said, “No.” The Imam said, “Therefore all the prophets, messengers, and believers must love ʿAli ibn Abī Ṭālib. Likewise anyone who opposed the previous prophets and messengers also had hatred for ʿAli ibn Abī Ṭālib and all those who love him?” Al-Mufaḍḍal, “Yes.”’ The Imam said, “So, none—whether from the beginning of time or the end—enter Paradise except those who love him. Thus is he “the divider of the Garden and Hellfire”. 

Al-Mufaḍḍal said, “Son of Allah’s Messenger, you have granted me solace—May Allah grant you solace. Teach me more of what Allah has taught you.” The Imam said, “Then ask, al-Mufaḍḍal.” Al-Mufaḍḍal said, “Son of Allah’s Messenger, does Imam ʿAli bring those who love him into the Garden and those who hate him into Hellfire, or do Riḍwān and Mālik do this?” The Imam replied, “Al-Mufaḍḍal, do you not know that Allah sent His Messenger Muhammad to the past prophets while he and they were spirits (arwāḥ), two thousand years before all other creation?” Al-Mufaḍḍal said, “Yes, I am aware.” The Imam said, “Do you not know that Allah’s Messenger invited the past prophets to tawḥīd (God’s unicity), to obey Him, and follow His commandments, and that He promised them the Garden in return? And he threatened [with punishment] any who opposed what these prophets invited them to?” Al-Mufaḍḍal said, “Yes.” The Imam said, “Is the Prophet not liable for what he promises and what he threatens on behalf of his Lord?” Al-Mufaḍḍal said, “Definitely.” The Imam said, “Is ʿAli ibn Abi Ṭālib not the Prophet’s successor and the Imam of his religious nation (ummah)?” Al-Mufaḍḍal said, “Definitely.” The Imam said, “Is it not the case that Riḍwān and Mālik are among a group of angels who seek forgiveness for his Shiʿa and save whoever loves him?” Al-Mufaḍḍal said, “Definitely.” The Imam said, “ʿAli ibn Abi Ṭālib is therefore the one who divides the Garden and Hellfire by the authority of the Messenger of Allah, and the two angels Riḍwān and Mālik act by his command because Allah commanded them. Al-Mufaḍḍal, take heed of this, for this is among the secret treasures of knowledge. Do not reveal it to anyone except those who can bear it.”

This narration unlocks a gateway to knowledge that in turn unlocks a thousand more doors. This also explains why Allah attributes attributes the actions of the Israelites (Banī Isrāʾīl) from generations long ago to those who were the Prophet Muhammad’s contemporaries or holds his contemporaries to account for the blessings He bestowed on their forefathers. God saved the Israelites who lived generations before the Prophet from drowning as they fled the Pharaoh, miraculously gave them water to drink from a rock, and they in turn denied the signs of Allah, and so on. Yet Allah speaks as though these generations are all a single people, because they were of a single kind as their ancestors: they were content with whatever their ancestors were content with, and disliked what their ancestors disliked.  

Furthermore, the Qurʾan was certainly revealed in the language and custom of the Arabs, where they would attribute to one man the actions of the tribe he belonged to, even if he himself did not commit the act himself. When Imam al-Sajjād was asked about this [Qur’anic language], he answered in this way: “The Qurʾan is in the language of Arabs. The people of that language are addressed by it in their tongue. Do you not say to a man from the Tamīm tribe whose tribe attacks a city and kills someone, ‘You raided the city, and you committed such and such an act…’” 

What we stated above is the reason behind this Arabic linguistic usage. With this explanation, we are able to decipher how the Ahl al-Bayt interpreted (ta’wīl) the Qurʾan. Such an explanation also spares us from having to interpret each of these verses in detail: once this principle is understood, the wise can apply it to each and every verse. However, we will still provide a [deeper] glimpse into this type of interpretation when appropriate, if Allah wills. All praise is due to Allah for granting us this understanding and inspiring us.

Endnote

[1] In this context, referring to the Divine Authorities of Islam themselves, such as the Imāms of the Ahlal-Bayt, but may also refer to their followers who are spiritually connected to them.

[2] al-Sadūq, al-Ma’āni al-Akbhār, p. 35.

[3] Meaning the Ahl al-Bayt.

[4] “obligation” (fariḍah) and “commandment” (ḥukm) refer to the legal and ethical rulings that must be adhered to and respected by a Muslim.

[5] Al-ʿAyyāshī, Tafsīr al-Ayyāshī, vol. 1, p. 9 and Al-Kulaynī, al-Kāfī, vol. 2, p.628.

[6] Al-ʿAyyāshī, Tafsīr al-Ayyāshī, vol. 1, p. 9 and Al-Kulaynī, al-Kāfī, vol. 2, p.627.

[7] Or, “For every people is a verse which they recite.”

[8] Al-ʿAyyāshī, Tafsīr al-Ayyāshī, vol. 1, p. 10.

[9] muḥkam refers to verses that are straightforward in meaning. Often contrasted with mutashābih, which refers to those that are deeper in meaning.

[10] Al-ʿAyyāshī, Tafsīr al-Ayyāshī, vol. 1, p. 13.

[11] “deeper interpretation” as per the author's opinion that it refers to the Allah's intent for the verse based on narrations.

[12] Qurʾān, al-Shuʿarāʾ (26):192-195.

[13] Al-Kulaynī, al-Kāfī, vol. 1, p.412.

[14] Qurʾān, al-Raʿd (13):43.

[15] Al-ʿAyyāshī, Tafsīr al-Ayyāshī, vol. 1, p. 13.

[16] The Arabic word waṣi (pl. awṣiyā’) refers to an individual who is granted authority to act on behalf of another. Here it refers to those who continued the mission of Prophets.

[17] “steer clear” is a translation of the Arabic word tabarri, which means to disassociate, denounce, and be away from.

[18] This hierarchy of authority is alluded to in many places of the Qurʾān, such as in 48:10: “Those who swear allegiance to you [Muḥammad] swear allegiance only to Allah - the hand of Allah is above their hands...”

[19] This phrasing may be an allusion to Qurʾān Āl-ʿImrān (3):61

[20] This is a translation of the phrase Ṣafwat Allah i.e. chosen by Allah to represent Him.

[21] Such as the exclusive trait of the Prophet Muḥammad being the “Seal of the Prophets”, an honor no other being shares.

[22] Ridwān and Mālik are the two angels in Islamic sources responsible for maintaining Heaven and Hell, respectively.

[23] Al-Shaykh al-Ṣadūq, ʿIlal al-Sharāʾiʿ, vol. 1 (Qumm: Maktabat al-Dāwarī, 1427 A.H.), p. 161.

[24] See Qurʾān 2:50, 2:91

[25] Tafṣīr al-ʿAskarī, page 272.

Many of us have had our first conscious experience with AI through interacting with ChatGPT, that marvellous wonder of the postmodern world which writes stories, poems – and, yes, student essays. This is not to say we haven’t had less conscious experiences with AI, which have swayed our financial and political decisions, as well as flagged mistakes in our spelling and grammar, only that ChatGPT has changed the game in many ways. Including in education.

ChatGPT has, hence, been of serious consternation to many educators, including at the university level, who unknowingly started awarding A’s to essays written by The GPT. While some more broad-minded educators have now considered how ChatGPT may be used as an educational tool – for instance, as a conversational partner – many students (and, indeed, professionals of many stripes) are not at that level yet and simply want it to their job for them. While this has been decried as an assault on academic fairness, and an attack on the learning process, it also raises the question: what is higher education for?

If universities are perceived as vocational school, and one’s degree or grade point average directly correlates to their future salary, then – yes – using ChatGPT to write high-scoring essays is deeply unfair, because that student will reap decades of a higher salary, courtesy of ChatGPT. But is that the point of education? Is the sole point of higher education that students receive quantitative marks on written assignments, which then correspond to digits in their bank accounts? The Reign of Quantity indeed. While many people today do attend university for precisely that reason, it is worth considering that, even up until the 1980s, higher education was not just seen as a job track. Rather, the point of being educated was to develop the human and humanity – to nurture the individual, to explore new ideas, and to elevate the human race. Famous academies, such as that of Plato, did not even award degrees, let alone grades or marks. In contrast, today, in some places, universities have become factories; run along corporate agendas alongside student loan agencies, they churn out graduates, sometimes with a student-to-teacher ratio of 1:400; and the continued requirement to have a degree in order to get this or that job keeps them in business. It is no wonder that students would turn to ChatGPT – but that, perhaps, gives us an opportunity to rethink what higher education is for, how it is run, and whether or not it still needs to be quantitized. 

Here, it is now helpful to take a step back and look at the tradition of Islamic education. Historically, Islamic education – including the hawza system – has not centred on degrees or marks. While scholars awarded ijazas (licenses) in various matters, the idea that one completed one’s education – and had hence “graduated” – would have struck many historical Islamic scholars as ludicrous. Learning was, after all, from the cradle to the grave. Traditional Islamic education was democratic before democracy was in; effective teachers were, more or less, selected by their students, rather than on an institutional basis. (Exceptions apply.) Conversely, the rigors associated with study – such as travelling across the desert on foot or horseback on the proverbial “journey for knowledge” – weeded out the less dedicated students. Most importantly, learning was idealized as an act of worship, rather than a fast track to a job. Learning for any reason other than the sake of Allah – including fame, fortune, or just to win a debate – was looked down upon. (How far we have strayed in the era of social media!) 

Today, Islamic education is more complicated. Many places do have systems involving degrees, units, and passing marks. Teaching Islamic Studies in the West, under the system of the contemporary university, offers its own challenges; one has to respect the tradition while adapting it to how things have done. One advantage, however, is that, compared to fields such as marketing, there are far fewer students in Islamic Studies who are just in it for the money. (In fact, I have never met any, although once I did walk into a classroom where a student had scrawled, “What kind of job do we get with this afterwards?”) For that reason, there is less incentive to cheat.

This is not to say that students of Islam do not employ The GPT. Many do, in varying ways, ranging from upgrading droll paragraphs, to coming up with ideas, to translating, to writing entire essays, to writing about ChatGPT. Of the above, I have found that “writing entire essays” is rarer than the others (something that cannot be said about the world of professional academic publishing). Rather, there are many reasons that student use ChatGPT. 

One is that English is not a heritage language of the Muslim-majority world. As such, many students of Islam do not speak English as their first language, and may have learned it in adulthood. This particular cohort often has strong Islamic education (for instance, a hawza education) but has difficulty expressing themselves. It is therefore understandable that they may wish to use language tools. This, to me, does not bring up a significant ethical issue regarding authorship. However, it does bring up the question of language, environment, and thought. Languages are not merely mechanical tools, all otherwise the same. Rather, languages themselves have been shown to lead to different thoughts. What can be said and thought in one language is sometimes not said or thought in another. Even children speaking multiple languages have been shown to say different things in different languages – for instance, speaking only respectfully about their parents in Japanese, but disrespectfully in English. (Thanks, Nickelodeon.) While some people might assume that everything there is to be said about Islam has been said in Arabic, and so there is no need to go outside the Arabic-language conceptual zone, an enormous amount of new and interesting literature has been written by the 30% of Muslims who live outside the Muslim-majority world, much of which has grown out of grappling with the interaction between Islam and secular modernity. Furthermore – as any of the Muslim youth sent to “youth programs” will say – addressing the genuine needs of people in the West requires, literally, speaking the languages of the West – not only for communication, but to engage with the nuanced issues that people are facing. Therefore, using ChatGPT as a language tool is understandable, but circumvents a significant part of the pastoral process. 

Another is that some students, in the earlier years, did not learn to write. This is a particular problem in the United Kingdom, where many Muslim students do receive a substandard education, particularly girls, and are not expected to excel. This is also compounded by the overall lack of reading books in our time, insofar as books model writing better than Instagram. Therefore, a machine-wonder such as ChatGPT helps with structuring one’s ideas into coherent paragraphs and an organized essay. Is this such a bad thing?

It’s not a bad thing, if it is done as part of a learning process (such as learning how to write). However, there is also something to be said about the writing process – how the brain organizes writing, and how that relates to not only understanding and rehashing what one knows, but the discovery of new ideas. If you don’t believe me, write a paragraph about ChatGPT. Then add 5 sentences to that paragraph. Likely, you will have written some new things that you didn’t even know that you knew. 

And herein also lies the secret of writing. Writing is not only for communicating, or for passing exams. It serves that function, and that function is important for religious professionals, especially in Islam, since Islam is a textual religion, based on interpretation of the Word – just as the universe itself was created through the divine Word. One can know many things about Qur’anic exegesis or the narrations from the Prophet (S), but if one cannot convey them through speech or the written word, that knowledge will not help others.

Many Islamic scholars preach, verbally, and that is its own art.
Writing is another.

While preaching impacts the people in the here and now (or at least it did prior to the YouTube generation), writing persists over time, and thus has a certain eternality about it. Even today, it retains more complexity.

So communication is essential for people whose bread-and-butter is religion, and oftentimes, that is through writing. However, that is not all to writing. Rather, the secret is in the process of writing. As the author – including the student author – writes, understandings develop and form on the page, just as any other form of art takes shape. They may have had no idea what they were going to write – as, indeed, I did when I started this – but sometimes it just flows. In that, sometimes there is an inspirational quality, a spiritual aspect to the mechanical craft of writing. Here, it is not my aim to judge whether or not a digital being such as ChatGPT may enjoy a similar spiritual or inspirational quality, only to point out that, when it comes to educating a person, the important thing is that it happens to a person. This is what makes them their future self, the future scholar. Writing also teaches us what we know and what we don’t know, and forces us to confront the latter. Using a machine to circumvent that process stops the educational process and reduces it, at best, to the acquisition of facts – which may help a student pass a multiple-choice exam, but will not develop them further.

ChatGPT also has some quirks when it comes to Islam; possibly, this is another reason for the rarity of full-length essays generated by it. In the infrequent case when I see full-length essays on Islam generated by ChatGPT, they frequently fail. This is because ChatGPT does not do Islam well. First, despite the fact that ChatGPT has an enormous database in many languages, including Arabic source texts, it discusses Islam in a shallow manner. Any student training to be a specialist in Islam who opens an essay with something along the lines of “Islam is a major world religion practiced by over 1 billion people” is failing to specialize. Second, it frequently makes mistakes. Some of these mistakes are factual; for instance, confusing Abu Ali ibn Sina with Abu Ali Iyad because they both share the same kunya. Arabic, apparently, is ambiguous. Second, it cannot contextualize. If it thinks that democracy is good in the 21st century, then it is happy to praise democracy in the 7th century, especially since plenty of Muslim apologists have contributed to its dataset by arguing that 7th-century Islam was actually democratic. Part of the job of the historian and the scholar is to try to walk in the sandals of bygone generations, even if – as one historian once told me – we can never truly do so. 

Third, and most worrisome, it has biases. An expression in computer programming that says “garbage in, garbage out”. That is no matter how watertight your program is, if your input is faulty, your output will be garbage. Regarding Islam, ChatGPT has, unfortunately, been fed a lot of garbage. Not all of this garbage is by casual bloggers. Some of it is elite academic literature in the orientalist or neo-orientalist traditions, speaking about the clash of civilizations, the burden of the modern white man to civilize – i.e. secularize – the Muslim-majority world. Some of it also reflects intra-Muslim conflicts – for instance, writings by expats against various governments; the English-language bias will give a preference to writings in English – which represent certain social, political, and religious views – over those written in other languages in the Muslim-majority world. 

There is also the question of whose voice is loudest in the Muslim world; for financial and political reasons, Salafi interpretations of Islam have dominated the internet, and many publications on Islam in the present era. As a result, ChatGPT does not do Shi’ism well. Interestingly, it handles abstract issues – theology and philosophy – better than fiqh, making basic errors when discussing Shi’i fiqh. Therefore, there is an obvious issue with unreliability – but, more worrisome to me, are the root causes of this unreliability. Whose voices are wittingly or unwittingly prioritized by these corporations running our new world (to the point that Google is now investing in nuclear reactors)? This of course is not limited to essay-writing; many of us have noticed in recent months the censorship of news about current events on many social media platforms, and bots rather than humans propagating someone’s decision about what is right and true.

This should not be taken to mean that I, personally, am against ChatGPT. I find it fascinating and am inclined to think that historians (should we humans persist that long) will deem it as one of the most significant advances in human history. The development of artificial intelligence raises all sorts of interesting questions, not only about the purpose of higher education. However, here, the point is that just as machine learning occurs through practice, so too does human learning. And that practice is not just rote; it is not just quantitized. A scholar is not built merely through acquiring factoids; a scholar is built through reflection. Ceding that to the machine could, ironically, improve its ability to write essays on Islam, but would short-circuit the intellectual and spiritual aspects of writing that are its real purpose in higher education.

What follows is a virtue ethics approach to one incredibly telling incident in Shiʿi sacred history. This incident, read in a particular way, illustrates how we might consider the relationship between what we call “law” and what we call “ethics,” or, on another level, what we  might call “practical knowledge” and “divinely inspired wisdom.” The account is often recounted during celebrations of the birthday of the ninth Shiʿi imam, because it resolves a doubt that many held, namely, that a child could perform the functions of an imam. It occurs in al-Shaykh al-Mufīd’s (d. 413/1022) Kitāb al-irshād, which describes a scene wherein the caliph al-Maʾmūn responds to his family’s protests against his plan to betroth his daughter to the very young and inexperienced Abū Jaʿfar Muḥammad b. ʿAlī, or al-Imām al-Jawād. 

The sources tell us that the imam is only nine years old at the time—nine years and a few months. In general the caliph’s Abbasid kinsmen express concern about al-Maʾmūn’s interest in forging ties between the ninth imam and, before him, his father al-Imām al-Riḍā, ties that endanger their privileged position. Yet it is the issue of the ninth imam’s age that constitutes the caliph’s family’s key argument against the imam’s marriage to the princess Umm al-Faḍl, which they communicate using terms that I want to explore. My interest in those terms stems from my approach to the narrative itself through the dual lenses of virtue ethics and comparative mysticism.

The caliph’s familial inner circle complains that the young boy “even if his guidance impresses you, is still a young boy (ṣabīy).” They continue: “He has no cognizance (maʿrifa), nor any understanding (fiqh). So, give him some time to become educated (yataʾaddab) and acquire understanding in the religion (yatafaqqah fī al-dīn). Then, after that, undertake what you have conceived.” The caliph responds to them, “Woe unto you! I am more cognizant of this young man[‘s abilities] than you are! He is from the Ahl al-Bayt. Their knowledge (ʿilm) is from God, from divine subjects of knowing, and from God’s inspiration (ilhām).”

Thus, the caliph asks his family to test the child. They offer bringing in a third party, an expert, to ask him a question about the understanding of revealed commands, or fiqh al-sharīʿa. Structurally speaking, the format of this narrative is parallel to the incident between God and the angels in God’s nomination of Adam as His viceregent on earth. In that narrative, God also singles out someone for an exalted status, a special place. There ensues a protest or at least an inquiry that has to do with a possible lack of suitability. Therein follows a testing from which the hero emerges triumphant on account of divinely granted knowledge. The parallels between these two narratives to me hint at the sort of knowledge being highlighted in both. Thus, we will return to this parallel toward the end of this paper.

The young imam agrees to undertake the test. Nominated as examiner is a certain judge—the head judge of that day in fact— Yaḥyā ibn Aktham (d. 242/857). To explain what head judge or “judge of judges” (qāḍī al-quḍāt) signifies, consider that it represents to some extent the further institutionalization of the office of “judge” in Muslim-ruled lands.  In the Umayyad and earlier Abbasid periods, the capital town of each territory had a qāḍī who adjudicated cases based on his own knowledge, though sometimes in consultation with a team of jurists. After the time of Hārūn al-Rashīd, however, this became a hierarchy that resulted in the office of qaḍāʾ al-quḍāt, a court of courts housed in the capital, Baghdad, such that the holder of that office (the qāḍī al-quḍāt) became responsible for administering the other courts of the empire, as well as, nominating, evaluating, or removing other judges. Ibn Aktham, thus, is a judge of other judges.

In the account, the judge’s question to the imam is quite simple: “What do you say—may I be sacrificed for you—regarding the one in pilgrim sanctity (the muḥrim) who kills while hunting?” Hunting is, of course, one of the actions forbidden to a pilgrim in a state of iḥrām. The imam’s response is to offer a series of follow-up questions:

Did the person in question kill the animal inside or outside of the sanctuary? Was the pilgrim aware of these restrictions at the time, or unaware? Did he kill intentionally or unintentionally? Was this person free or enslaved? Young or old? Was he killing for the first time or practiced in that action? Was the hunted animal a bird or something else? Was it a small animal that was hunted or a big one? Was he brazen in that action or repentant? Did the kill happen at night or in the day? Was the pilgrim in a state of sanctity for the lesser ʿumra pilgrimage or the greater ḥajj pilgrimage?

The judge at this stage cannot respond and begins to stutter. So dumbfounded is the judge, that “the entire congregation attending the council realized what was the matter with him.” The caliph then praises God and addresses his family members, once again paralleling what we find in the Quran regarding Adam, “Do you recognize now [in him] what you once denied?” Following this is the marriage of the child imam to the caliph’s daughter, which will serve as our conclusion to the narrative.

My present interest in this story stems from a problem raised in a well-known article by Julia Annas, called “Being Virtuous and Doing the Right Thing.” Annas objects to the idea that ethics can provide us with a formulized way to determine right from wrong, what she calls “decision procedures.” In this formulized conception, ethics would be an almost technological enterprise, where a series of directives could determine what is moral or immoral in any particular situation. 

Annas argues that this is not the case because the decisions we actually make are far too complex and specific to rely on such systems. The proposed “decision procedure” ethical systems might be compared to a computer manual—a technical sort of knowledge that directs any person to the right answer at any time. In fact, however, no one can put decision procedures into action consistently and avoid ethical failures. Previous to Annas, the philosopher Gertrude Elizabeth Margaret Anscombe pointed to the most prevalent failure of the utilitarian ethical decision procedure system that predominated Western thought in the 20th century, namely, the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki in Japan.

To illustrate her criticism of ethics as a technical variety of knowledge, Annas has us imagine a child teach us how to use a computer, or to offer another example, children who are excellent at chess. Could you ask that child a question that would require what we might call wisdom? Would you ask a child to help you with your marriage or to make an important decision, such as those that might be placed before a judge? A child with technical knowledge might be what we call an idiot savant, but he or she would remain what Annas calls a moral idiot. This is also true for people who are more morally deplorable. Those we know to have very little ethical substance who have yet mastered ethical theory. Would you feel comfortable, she says, relying on them because of his theoretical knowledge or not? Is the decision procedure, in other words, reliable enough that it simply does not matter who uses it? Or does it in fact, matter? 

The reason that post-Enlightenment ethicists have offered such decision procedures at all, argues Annas, is that we want our ethics to be egalitarian and we want our ethics to be universal. We want a set of directives broadly applicable and determined by anyone, for such is what Enlightenment thinkers have argued is rational; and such is the basis of life in the modern state. 

Let us then apply this to the story of the imam. The imam’s extraordinary ability might be read in at least two ways, as he stands before the caliph, the caliph’s family, and the judge of judges. One possibility is that the imam provides them with a technical response, as one might expect from a detailed manual of jurisprudence, impressing them because he has asked an array of questions to extract a more precise answer. A person who has studied his or her fiqh well enough would appreciate that the imam alludes to varied questions that exist about the matter of hunting while in pilgrim sanctity. Another possibility is that the imam responds from a place of profound wisdom, so profound that—even though he is merely a child—his wisdom qualifies him as something far beyond that. His response points not to a complex and technical knowledge but, rhetorically, to a style of addressing such questions, a style that always caters to the specific circumstances of the questioner.

A technical answer certainly would paint the imam as the most knowledgeable person of his age, a genius in a way, because a child should not know so much. If, however, the imam is using these questions to point to an awareness he always has, an awareness he draws upon when it is time to make judgments, then it would seem to address even more directly the concerns about his lack of cognizance (his lack of maʿrifa). That is, the imam might be using these questions to point to the fact that his awareness reaches into particulars and responds to those particulars when making judgments. The way he approaches the judge’s question differs greatly from the way the judge expects—hence the judge’s dumbfounded inability to respond. The word fiqh, then, and the phrase fiqh al-sharīʿa would refer to a more intuitive, personal, and small-community model of judgment that required the ability to make manifest God’s commands in one’s determinations for others. This is the “context-specific” approach to fiqh one finds in Islam’s past, as discussed by Wael Hallaq.

Then there is the word that al-Maʾmūn uses to describe the imam’s knowledge—ilhām or inspiration. It signifies that the Ahl al-Bayt’s knowledge comes from God, but what does this mean? Does divine inspiration give a person a knowledge of the whole from which they derive particulars? Or does God give a person knowledge of the particulars directly and in detail? The Quranic model of the Prophet’s revelation and reception of the Quran on one night, elaborated over twenty-three years, would seem to indicate that there is initially an undifferentiated whole.

In the story of Adam that runs parallel to this account, Adam receives the names from God. That source of his knowledge seems at first to be a plurality. But if those names are the names of God, then they point to one unitary essence, and if they are the names of exalted beings, that is, the Prophet and his family, again, they are united by the one light embodied in all of them. Models of God-granted knowledge seem to point to a unified realization that brings with it a plurality, and this would apply to ethical knowledge as well. 

Of course, to say that multiple instantiations of knowledge might derive from one unveiled source of knowledge is not a new observation at all. It has been elaborated in the philosophy of Muhammad ibn Ibrāhīm al-Shīrāzī (d. 1045/1635–36), known as “Mullā Sadrā.” When he mentions the hereafter, the Prophetic heavenly ascent or miʿrāj, as well as other matters known exclusively through unveiling, he tells us that “most scholars and juristic authorities rely on imitation” in such matters, as they should, because “the intellects of those masters of contemplation and theory lack the capability to perceive such matters, for the tablet of these sciences cannot be written upon except through the school of ‘We taught him knowledge from ourselves.’” To know such matters requires a sort of unitary knowledge that evades study, books, and rational means. Instead, this model of knowledge is based on the episode of Khiḍr in Quran, whose knowledge comes to him directly from God and thus has value even for the exalted prophet Moses. Khiḍr’s knowledge in the various events he shares with Moses goes back to one luminescent source: God. 

This model of knowledge—and the model of ethical decision making resulting from it—mirrors  what Muḥyī al-Dīn ibn ʿArabī (d. 638/1240) described, when he traced his knowledge to one incident, an unveiling that happened to him as a youth, which became elaborated for him throughout his life. It is the model of unveiling and witnessing, or kashf and mushāhada, that I and others have discussed elsewhere. Lastly, it is the model of knowledge described by Abū Ḥāmid al-Ghazālī (d. 505/1111) in his story of the Chinese and Greek artists, the lesson of which is that knowledge is not an accumulation of forms of knowledge in the soul. Rather, it is the erasure of human qualities in the soul so that the soul can reflect the light of God.

Here let me clarify that I do not present any of this as a reconsideration of the way we study Islamic law, not at all. Rather, I would like to consider what is meant by this narrative and the complexity to which the ninth imam points. Is it meant that there should be a book or a number of books with multiple different scenarios answered therein—any possibility that might occur when a pilgrim in sanctity kills an animal? Or perhaps a database of rulings from which some incredibly advanced artificial intelligence could one day draw out the most pertinent response? In other words, is the imam advocating for a decision procedure that anyone could use with enough knowledge—in a technical way? 

Or is the imam saying that the wise judge would get to know the situation of the person asking them this question, and on a case by case basis every time, determine what that person would need to do? Bear in mind that the imam responds to is none other than the qāḍī al-quḍāt, the judge of judges, someone who evaluates other judges.

I prefer the latter. Still, jurisprudential wisdom can unite both of these possibilities. It might be that the imam’s wisdom becomes a model for the sciences that imitate his wisdom. The Quran seems to support this view—namely, that God grants a certain knowledge by which a pious person interacts with others, illuminating their manifold lives in the process. Thus in 6:122 the Quran states, “Is the person who was dead, so that We brought him to life and made for him a light with which he walks among the people, like the one whose example is like remaining in shadows without being able to exit from them? That is how we have embellished for the truth-coverers what they have been doing.” True knowledge and this light are synonymous, an interpretation supported by a hadith attributed to the sixth imam, Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq:

Knowledge is not through an abundance of study, but is instead a light cast into the heart of whomsoever God desires to guide. So, when you desire knowledge, then first seek the reality of servitude within yourself and pursue knowledge by acting upon it. And ask God for understanding—He will make you understand.

This light, the light that the hadith describe as being cast into any heart that God desires, is on display in the imam’s response to Ibn Aktham, the judge. He walks with that light among people by showing them the effects of that light on the imam’s decision-making, so that it can become for others what we would call moral reasoning. In other words, our moral and legal reasoning efforts are simulations of what those inspired with this light know through God’s direct teaching, the phenomenon of unveiling.

Certainly, jurisprudence, uṣūl al-fiqh especially, is one of Islam’s great contributions to global ethics. It has allowed the maintenance of a traditional way of life that has weathered changes that could have easily meant the abandonment of the Quranic ethos. Yet the story of the ninth imam as a wise child gives us a sense, when read the way I have suggested, that God’s connection to us is not through laws that are elaborated on paper or a series of rulings that can be offered as a kind of procedure, something that is technical, but rather, that God’s connection to us is through people, and that those people are wise—that they have a light that God has given them. 

That light comes to be understood by others, imitated by others, so that it is formulated in a predictable and one might say rational way. Mullā Ṣadrā would argue that through spiritual exertion and the elevation of the immaterial dimensions of the human soul one can perhaps also enjoy glimmers of that light on their own.

The narrative indicates that the imam is a paradoxically “wise child,” having gained through inspiration the wisdom that would—in normal circumstances—require experience. This would indicate that ethics, and indeed all forms of moral knowledge, are subject to revelation and inspiration. All forms of moral knowledge are cases of divine circumvention. If this is the case, this model suggests that one can receive directly and perhaps even at once the effect of experiences acquired over a lifetime that yield wisdom. This would render all of ethics a counterpart to inspiration. All of ethics is an imitation of the inspiration given by God to His friends.

Endnote

[1] al-Mufīd, al-Irshād, p. 2:283.

[2] al-Mufīd, al-Irshād, p. 2:282.

[3] Quran 2:30-33 and elsewhere.

[4] Tyan, “Kāḍī,” Encyclopaedia of Islam, Second Edition.

[5] al-Mufīd, al-Irshād, p. 2:283-284.

[6] al-Mufīd, al-Irshād, p. 2:284.

[7] Ibid.

[8] Annas, “Being Virtuous and Doing the Right Thing,” p. 63.

[9] Anscombe, “Modern Moral Philosophy.”

[10] Hallaq, An Introduction to Islamic Law, p. 166.

[11] Quran 2:31.

[12] Mullā Ṣadrā, Risāla-yi Sih aṣl, p. 42. See Quran 18:65.

[13] Quran 18:65-82.

[14] Addas, Quest for the Red Sulphur, pp. 35-44.

[15] Zargar, Sufi Aesthetics, pp. 11-30.

[16] Ghazālī, Iḥyāʾ ʿulūm al-dīn, p. 3:21.

[17] Ibn ʿAlī, Munyat al-murīd, pp. 149-150. This is even further supported by the Quranic language about learning: “Be wary of God, and God will teach you,” in Quran 2:282. 

Water is a fundamental need for every human being. However, it remains a distant dream for billions of people worldwide, where access to clean, safe drinking water is severely limited. The Ali Asghar Water Appeal (AAWA) is named in honour of Ali Asghar (a.s.), the youngest son of Imam Hussain, and the youngest martyr of the Battle of Karbala. This appeal represents the poignant symbolism of his story to raise awareness and mobilise resources to tackle clean water scarcity in underdeveloped countries.

The humanitarian arm of The World Federation (WF-AID) has long been involved in addressing critical needs in disaster-stricken regions. At WF-AID, the project life cycle is designed to ensure the effective and efficient delivery of humanitarian initiatives. The process typically begins with the identification of needs through assessments and consultations with local partners. This is followed by detailed project planning, which includes setting clear objectives, budgeting, and resource allocation. Once the project is initiated, WF-AID closely monitors progress to ensure timely and impactful delivery. Regular reporting and evaluations are conducted to assess outcomes and sustainability. Finally, the project concludes with a review phase, where lessons learned are documented to improve future efforts.

Through AAWA, WF-AID addresses the immediate need for potable water, but also seeks to generate sustainable solutions to provide long-term opportunities and growth for entire communities.

Allah says in The Qur’an, “And We made from water every living thing”. (Surah Al-Anbiya, verse 30)

This verse sets forth the idea that the life of all living things, whether referring to plants, animals or humans, depends on water. An Islamic report explores a conversation with Imam Sadiq (a.s.) when asked about the taste of water. The Imam replied, “The taste of water is the taste of life” (al-islam.org, 2014). This report implies that when someone who has tolerated the feeling of thirst takes the first few sips of fresh water, they feel the spirit of life blown into their body. It is for this reason that it is so important that vulnerable communities have secure access to water.

The urgency to provide clean water is underscored by staggering statistics – according to a report by UNICEF and The World Health Organisation (WHO) in 2019, approximately 1 in 3 people globally lack access to safe drinking water, amounting to a total of 2.2 billion people (UNICEF, 2019). Additionally, 4.2 billion people lack access to safely managed sanitation services (UNICEF, 2019). The Ali Asghar Water Appeal aspires to take strides towards reducing the number of people without access to potable water. This article will examine the methodology and impact of the Ali Asghar Water Appeal, offering insights into the effectiveness of water projects and exploring opportunities to enhance future projects.

Ali Asghar at Karbala

On the Day of Ashura, with the scorching sun overhead and the blazing sands of the desert understood, the family of Imam Husayn was in desperate need of water. Access to the Euphrates River had been cut off by the opposing army of Yazid ibn Muawiyah. Imam Hussain’s 6-month-old son, Ali Asghar, was suffering from severe dehydration. 

In a final plea for sympathy, it is narrated that Imam Hussain cradled Ali Asghar in his arms, and approached enemy lines. He hoped, by appealing to the hearts of the soldiers in Yazid’s army, they would provide water for his dying child. He implored them, stating that if they believed he would consume the water himself, they could at least come and quench Ali Asghar ‘s thirst themselves. However, instead of receiving water, Harmalah, one of the archers in Yazid’s army, was ordered by the commander Umar ibn Sa’d to silence the Imam’s plea. Hurmala aimed and fired a three-pronged arrow, striking Ali Asghar and fatally wounding him as he lay in his father’s arms (Al-Islam.org, n.d.).

This heart-breaking story holds a deep symbolic connection with water. Ali Asghar’s life unfolded under the harshest conditions of deprivation. This moment is etched in the collective memory as the ultimate emblem of innocence and vulnerability confronted by heartless denial. The refusal of water to Ali Asghar and the subsequent tragic martyrdom it inflicted painfully underscores the essential sanctity of water as a gift of life that should never be withheld.

The narrative of Ali Asghar at Karbala is not just a story of tragic suffering; it serves as a continual reminder of the struggles many still face in securing access to clean water. It is a call to action, symbolising the duty to ensure that no individual ever suffers from a lack of water. AAWA is a direct response to this call, embodying the values of compassion, justice, and human dignity. It stands as a beacon of hope, striving to alleviate the suffering of those who are most in need, ensuring that the water is made accessible to all as both a right and a sacred trust.

Objectives of The Ali Asghar Water Appeal

The main goal of the Ali Asghar Water Appeal is to provide accessible, clean and safe drinking water to vulnerable communities worldwide. In 2024, WF-AID is focusing on sustainable water solutions to transform lives in Turkey, Bangladesh, Tanzania, Kenya, Pakistan, and India. Providing clean water that is easily accessible has the direct effect of improving health, but this also has indirect effects on two fronts: education and economic development.

Health

First, access to clean water dramatically improves health outcomes in impoverished regions. According to the WHO, safe water supplies and sanitation are essential for preventing waterborne diseases, which remain a concerning issue in underdeveloped countries. Contaminated water is responsible for nearly 1.7 billion cases of childhood diarrheal disease every year, killing around 443,832 children under 5 annually (World Health Organization, 2024). Studies have demonstrated that improving a community’s water sources, sanitation and hygiene could reduce the global diarrheal disease burden by 9.1% and reduce mortalities by 6.3% (Meki, Ncube and Voyi ,2022). A reduction in disease is significant in low resource settings for the future of a community. In addition to combating health defects, providing clean water will also free up time, especially for women and children, who often carry the burden of traveling long distances to find easy access to water.

Education

The linkage between water accessibility and education is profound. UNICEFs 2019 report highlights that children in regions with poor facilities often miss school to fetch water, affecting their educational progress, particularly for girls (www.unicef.org, 2023). There is not enough time in the day for children to go to school, while also fetching the water. The access points for clean water are very sparse, not to mention the buckets to carry the water are very heavy. It will take many hours for a child to travel to the access point and back home. This takes a severe toll on the community’s long-term development and sustainability; students will not be able to develop the skills required for higher paying and more advanced jobs in the future. Jasper, Le and Bartram (2012) found that schools with adequate water and sanitation facilities saw an increase in student attendance, with the greatest impact among female students. The need to improve the access to clean water is evident, with the objective of increasing attendance in school across all ages.

Economic Development

The economic advantages of water accessibility extend beyond immediate health and educational impacts. The provision of clean water can also have significant impacts for a community’s economic development. In 2013, it was found that developing countries lose $260 billion annually due to a lack of basic water and sanitation (Hutton, 2013). However, The World Bank has calculated that every dollar invested in water and sanitation yields a fourfold return in terms of reduced healthcare costs and increased productivity (Hutton, 2013). One of the approaches to these increased productivities comes in the form of agricultural farming, through which a large proportion of people in underdeveloped countries earn their income. Reliable irrigation increases agricultural yield by stabilising production and enabling year-round farming, which boosts food security and income (Namara, Core and Talbi, 2023). Additionally, communities which exhibit robust water infrastructure will naturally be more appealing for both local and foreign investment, which is crucial for sustained economic growth.

Providing access to clean water is a transformative intervention that catalyzes improvements in health, education and economic development in underdeveloped countries. This multidimensional impact demonstrates that water is not merely a basic human need but a foundational element for comprehensive and sustainable development. The continued investment in water infrastructure is not just beneficial but essential for breaking the cycles of poverty and enabling communities to thrive.

Mapping the Waters: Harnessing Sustainable Solutions

In efforts to provide sustainable solutions to water scarcity, a variety of water projects are implemented across different geographical regions, each tailored to meet the environmental conditions and community needs. However, all water projects fall into at least one of the three key functions: extraction of water, purification of water and storage of water. Through these three functions, water projects play a crucial role in addressing global water scarcity.

Extracting Water from The Earth

The extraction of groundwater is a crucial process in providing clean water solutions, most of the world’s drinking water most likely comes from groundwater sources. The need for groundwater solutions is even more important in areas where surface water is scarce or contaminated. 

Groundwater exists in the cracks, pores and spaces of rocks and soil below the earth’s surface. The water is stored in natural stores of water known as aquifers (National Geographic). These aquifers can be accessed through several methods commonly used in underdeveloped countries. Often, the method used to access these aquifers will depend on the depth of the aquifer that it targets. For example, shallow wells might access water just below the ground surface. On the other hand, deep wells can go several hundred meters below the ground to access deeper aquifers. During construction, a drill is used to create a path for the water to travel through. This path is drilled until the water table is hit. The water table refers to the level below which the ground is saturated with water (National Geographic). Groundwater wells come in the form of traditional water wells, boreholes, tubewells, and submersible pumps.

Purifying Groundwater

Groundwater is often viewed as a cleaner alternative to surface water due to the natural filtration in the soil and rock layers. However, this still requires purification due to possible contamination through natural processes and human activities. These contaminants are harmful to human health if consumed in excessive amounts. Therefore, it is crucial to effectively purify the water before it can be consumed. At WF-AID, there are three strategies commonly used to ensure beneficiaries are receiving clean drinking water from a potable source.

• Reverse Osmosis: this process removes dissolved inorganic solids by forcing water through a semipermeable membrane that only allows certain water molecules to pass, while blocking the large molecules and ions, such as salts, heavy metals and organic contaminants. This strategy is very effective in regions where the groundwater exhibits high levels of salinity or dissolved chemicals (Helmenstine, 2022).
• Filtration: filtration passes groundwater through several filters to remove particles, microorganisms, and dissolved impurities. The water will be passed through several layers that have various levels of permeability. This process will allow contaminants and unwanted particles to be filtered out, and for the clean water to pass through. 
• Chemical Treatment: this involves the addition of chemicals to the groundwater to achieve disinfection. Chemical treatment plants often use chlorine, chloramines and ozone to kill viruses, and other pathogens (Brandt et al., 2016). This strategy is most useful in eliminating biological contaminants. In addition, some chemicals are utilized to remove suspended particles, encouraging them to clump together in the water. This eases the process of filtration (Brandt et al., 2016).

Water Storage

Water storage provides communities with the opportunity to ensure the availability of water during off seasons and periods of scarcity. This will maintain the balance in the water cycle. The planned storage of water allows communities to mitigate the mismatch between supply and demand of clean water for drinking, hygiene, or agriculture. During rainy seasons, large amounts of water can be collected and stored and then released for use in the dry seasons. 

Water is stored in different forms, each suited to different needs and environmental conditions. In regions where the volume of rainfall is dependent on the season, traditional water storage solutions are important for facilitating stable water supply throughout the year. For example, in Kenya, water pans are a traditional solution to the arid lands, while water tanks are a more innovative and universal solution that can be used in various landscapes.

Water pans are shallow depressions in land, designed to collect and store rainwater. These styles of water storage are more common in rural areas, where water is essential for agricultural, as well as domestic, use (Centres of Health & Education Programmes, 2024). The water pans are constructed by excavating soil that creates a basin to capture any water runoff during the wet seasons. Water pans are lined with impermeable rocks or materials to prevent water penetrating the soil and forming an aquifer below the surface (Centres of Health & Education Programmes, 2024). The advantage of utilising water pans for water storage is its low-cost nature due to utilisation of natural materials, requiring non-external energy sources or complex terminology. However, in hot climates, water stored in the pans can be susceptible to high levels of evaporation. Additionally, it is common for water pans to get filled with sediment over time, which reduces the storage capacity and effectiveness of storing clean water. Like groundwater, water held in water pans will need to be purified from any contamination before it can be used as a source for agriculture, sanitation, or consumption.

Water tanks are large containers that store water, which can be used in any climate. Water tanks provide a more controlled environment for storing water, because it is protected from any contamination and the risks of losing water to evaporation. Similar to water tanks, water coolers are a universal solution for water storage and for the provision of chilled drinking water in various settings such as offices, schools, public buildings and homes. This type of water storage is extremely useful in hot climates, where access to cool water increases hydration.

Effective water storage is crucial for ensuring water storage and sustainability, especially in regions vulnerable to fluctuations in water availability due to seasonal changes or changes in climate. From traditional water pans in rural Kenya to sophisticated water tanks and energy-efficient water coolers, each storage system offers unique benefits tailored to specific environmental and societal needs. While water pans provide cost-effective storage in wide-open areas, tanks offer reliability and scalability in diverse settings, and coolers deliver convenience and enhanced water quality in communal spaces. The successful implementation of water storage systems not only supports the direct needs of communities but also contributes to broader goals of ecological preservation and sustainable water management. 

A Case Study of North Gaza, Palestine

The regions of Izbat Beit Hanoun and Al Jamarek in North Gaza, characterized by severe infrastructural deficits and socio-economic challenges, have long faced acute weather scarcity (Al-Adham Association for Development, 2020, 2021 & 2023). The complexities of the local context, exacerbated by prolonged Israeli aggression and restrictions on resource flow, make these areas emblematic cases for studying the impact of innovative water provision projects. Initiated by WF-AID in 2020, this comprehensive water project aimed to tackle the pressing need for clean, accessible water through sustainable solutions. 

Project Background

Izbat Beit Hanoun and Al Jamarek are among the poorest and most densely populated areas in the Gaza Strip, which has an overall population just above 2 million people, with a significant number of residents living in substandard conditions, primarily relying on agriculture and livestock for their livelihood (Al-Adham Association for Development, 2020, 2021 & 2023). The Israeli blockades have severely restricted material supplies, crippling the ability to repair damaged water infrastructure or develop new water sources, compounding the water crisis driven by natural resource depletion and contamination (Al-Adham Association for Development, 2020, 2021 & 2023). Prior to 2020, virtually no water in the region was potable water, creating a serious risk to health and everyday life (Al-Adham Association for Development, 2020, 2021 & 2023).

Project Description & Implementation

WF-AID’s project was designed as a multi-faceted intervention comprising three main components:

1. Water well construction – a deep water well was drilled to a depth of 65 metres below the Earth’s surface to tap into the underground aquifers. For this project, groundwater was the primary source of water extraction in Northern Gaza.
2. Solar-powered desalination plant – following the extraction of groundwater, due to the high level of salinity and unwanted minerals, a solar power desalination plant was built to purify the water and make it potable. Recognising the frequent electricity outages in Gaza, solar power was utilised to ensure a consistent and eco-friendly purification process.
3. Water Distribution System – finally, post-purification, the water was stored in large, sanitary tanks and then distributed via water trucks. This mobile distribution was particularly effective in reaching a wider population in North Gaza. Each benefiting family received a personal water tank, significantly reducing their daily struggles for clean water.

Closing the Tap: Final Thoughts

The Ali Asghar Water Appeal, inspired by the poignant story of Imam Hussain’s youngest son, stands as a beacon of hope in the face of global water scarcity. By addressing the critical need for clean and accessible water in underdeveloped countries, AAWA has translated a symbolic meaning into tangible action.

Through its multi-faceted approach of water extraction, purification, and storage, AAWA is tackling the water crisis head-on. This comprehensive strategy ensures that the impact of these water projects extends far beyond the immediate provision of water by also providing long-term benefits in health, education and economic development. The case study in North Gaza exemplifies AAWA’s innovative, tactical and adaptive approach, demonstrating how tailored solutions, like the utilisation of solar-powered desalination, can make a significant difference even in the most challenging environments.

The success of projects like those in Turkey, Bangladesh, Tanzania, Kenya, Pakistan, Palestine and India offers a roadmap for addressing water scarcity globally. Looking to the future, WF-AID can build on AAWA’s success and expand its impact even further. The areas for potential growth include:

1. Collaborating closely with more local governments and organisations to increase AAWA’s reach and ensure projects align seamlessly with regional development plans.
2. Given AAWA’s success with solar-powered desalination, further investment in cutting-edge water technologies could yield even more efficient and sustainable solutions.
3. As climate change intensifies water stress globally, AAWA will look to play a pivotal role in helping communities to adapt through climate-resilient water management strategies.

These areas for growth represent exciting opportunities for WF-AID to enhance its already significant impact through AAWA. The organisation’s track record of success provides a strong foundation for these future endeavours.

The story of Ali Asghar reminds us that water is not just a resource – it’s a fundamental right and a sacred trust. As we face the global water crisis, let us draw inspiration from AAWA’s mission. Each of us has a role to play in ensuring that no community suffers from lack of water. You can make a difference by donating to http://www.donate.wf or get in touch with the team at WF-AID to find out about other ways your can use your skills to make an impact! Together, we can turn the tide on water scarcity and create lasting change for generations to come.

By supporting initiatives like the Ali Asghar Water Appeal, we can help ensure that this life-giving resource reaches those who need it most, creating ripples of positive change that will be felt for generations to come.

The following is a translation of Sayyid Musa al-Shubayrī al-Zanjānī’s response to a question regarding the authenticity of the widely-recited Ziyārat ʿĀshūrāʾ. The version of the ziyārat that Sayyid al-Zanjānī speaks to, and that is found in by Shaykh ʿAbbās al-Qummī’s Mafātīh al-Jinān, is originally cited in Shaykh al-Ṭūsī’s compilation of prayers, entitled Miṣbāḥ al-Mutahajjid. This response is particularly noteworthy for the expertise and nuance brought to bear on questions of authenticity, which simultaneously establishes a place for spiritual validity. The translation was provided by Shaykh Haziq Sheikh, and has been emended for clarity.

In His Name, The Exalted

Setting aside the spiritual evidence derived from reliable sources that supports the reliability of Ziyārah ʿĀshūrāʾ, the chain of transmission mentioned in Shaykh al-Ṭūsī’s Miṣbāḥ al-Mutahajjid following the Ziyārah is sound (sanad^un ṣaḥīḥ^un).

To explain further, after transmitting the Ziyārah of Sayyid al-Shuhadāʾ (ʿa) from ʿAlqamah, the following is mentioned in Miṣbāḥ al-Mutahajjid:

Muḥammad b. Khālid al-Ṭayālisī narrated from Sayf b. ʿAmīrah, who said: I traveled to al-Gharī ((al-Gharī is an alternative name for the city of Najaf, Iraq)) with Ṣafwān b. Mihrān al-Jammāl and a group of our companions. When we finished our ziyārah ((This first ziyārah would be of the first Imam, Imam ʿAli, in Najaf)), Ṣafwān turned and faced toward the direction of Imam Husayn (ʿa). He told us, “You are to perform the ziyārah of Husayn (ʿa) from this place, near the head of Amīr al-Muʾminīn (ʿa). It was from this very place that, while I was accompanying him, Imam al-Sadiq (ʿa) pointed towards the Imam (Husayn).” Then Ṣafwān performed the ziyārah that ʿAlqamah b. Muḥammad al-Ḥaḍramī narrated from Imam al-Baqir (ʿa) on the Day of ʿAshuraʾ… ((al-Ṭūsī, Muḥammad ibn al-Ḥasan, Miṣbāḥ al-Mutahajjid (Beirut: Muʾassassat al-Aʿlamī, 1998) pg. 539-40))

It is understood from this excerpt that Imam al-Sadiq (ʿa) pointed towards the Prince of Martyrs (Sayyid al-Shuhadāʾ, ʿa)  and performed the very same ziyārah that ʿAlqamah narrated from Imam al-Baqir (ʿa).

As for the chain of transmission, there is no dispute in the reliability of Sayf b. ʿAmīrah and Ṣafwān b. Mihrān. Only two issues remain: the first is the chain of transmission to Muḥammad b. Khālid al-Ṭayālisī, and the second is in regard to the reliability of Muḥammad b. Khālid himself. As for the chain to al-Ṭayālisī, there are two ways to establish its reliability:

The first method: the expression “Muḥammad b. Khālid al-Ṭayālisī narrated” instead of “it is narrated from Muḥammad b. Khālid” evidently indicates that Shaykh al-Ṭūsī had personally verified the attribution of this narration to Muḥammad b. Khālid. This suffices in confirming the reliability of this aspect of the chain.

The second method: this hadith was taken from the book of Muḥammad b. Khālid al-Ṭayālisī, to whom Shaykh al-Ṭūsī has attributed a book in his bibliographical index al-Fihrist. He narrates the book from: Ḥusayn b. ʿUbaydallāh al-Ghaḍāʾirī—from Aḥmad b. Muḥammad b. Yaḥyā al-ʿAṭṭār—from his father—from Muḥammad b. ʿAlī b. Maḥbūb—from Muḥammad b. Khālid al-Ṭayālisī. These narrators are all major scholars of the Imami Shiʿis, and reliable authorities. As for Aḥmad b. Muḥammad b. Yaḥyā al-ʿAṭṭār, he is from the shuyūkh al-ijāzah, scholars regarding whom it is established—through considerable research—that their trustworthiness does not depend on a testimony to their reliability (al-tawthīq).

What remains is the trustworthiness of Muḥammad b. Khalid al-Ṭayālisī himself. A number of factors attest to this:

First: Muḥammad b. ʿAlī b. Maḥbūb, one of the pillars of the community, narrates al-Ṭayālisī’s books. This indicates his reliance upon [al-Ṭayālisī].

Second: al-Ṭayālisī is the narrator for certain esteemed and trustworthy scholars and is their source to the books of particular individuals, among which are (the books of) Sayf b. ʿAmīrah and Muḥammad b. Maʿrūf. Muḥammad b. Jaʿfar al-Razzāz, one of the most well-regarded teachers of the sect, narrates both books (of Sayf and Muḥammad) from al-Ṭayālisī. This indicates that al-Razzāz relied upon (and trusted) al-Ṭayālisī.

Included in this group (of books is that of) Ruzayq b. al-Zubayr. ʿAbdullāh b. Jaʿfar al-Himyarī narrates from Muḥammad b. Khālid al-Ṭayālisī from Ruzayq. Also Ḥumayd b. Ziyād—who both Shaykh al-Ṭūsī and al-Najāshī have deemed trustworthy despite his being wāqifī—narrates many primary aḥādīth from Muḥammad b. Khālid al-Ṭayālisī.

Third: a number of esteemed trustworthy narrators transmitted from him. In addition to those already mentioned are the following individuals: Saʿd b. ʿAbdullāh; Salmah b. al-Khaṭtāb (who is certainly trustworthy); [al-Ṭayālisī’s] own son, ʿAbdullāh b. Muḥammad b. Khālid al-Ṭayālisī; ʿAlī b. Ibrāhīm [al-Qummī]; ʿAlī b. Sulaymān al-Zurārī; Muḥammad b. al-Ḥasan al-Ṣaffār; Muḥammad b. al-Ḥusayn b. Abū al-Khaṭṭāb; and Muʿāwiyah b. Ḥukaym.

These are some of the strongest indicators supporting Muḥammad b. Khālid al-Ṭayālisī’s trustworthiness. He has also not been disparaged by anyone, not even by Ibn al-Ghaḍāʾirī, from whom there are reports wherein he incorrectly disparages many trustworthy narrators. Therefore, Muḥammad b. Khālid al-Ṭayālisī’s trustworthiness should not be doubted.

From the preceding evidence, we can conclude this chain of transmission for Ziyārat ʿĀshūrāʾ is sound.

The following reflection expresses the depth of the spiritual walk from Najaf to Karbala on Arbaʿīn. These personal expressions of sacrifice serve as crucial landmarks in a believer’s journey to become proximate to God (swt) through devotion to the Ahl al-Bayt, particularly Imam Husayn (ʿa).

From a well-known narration by Imam Hasan al-ʿAskarī (ʿa) delineating the five signs of a believer, the one recalled foremost is to perform ziyārah of Imam Husayn (ʿa) on the 40th day following his martyrdom, known as Arbaʿīn.((Al-Majlisi, Biḥār al-Anwār, vol. 98, pg. 329.)) This day is also significant for reportedly being the first time Imam ʿAli Zayn al-ʿĀbidīn (ʿa) and Lady Zaynab (ʿa) along with the other captives returned to Karbala to perform ziyārah of the martyrs. The difference between reading these accounts and acting on them by being physically present in Karbala on the day of Arbaʿīn is the difference between theoretical and practical knowledge, the difference between knowing and doing. The annual commemoration of Arbaʿīn in Karbala is more than a mere page of recitation from the Mafatīḥ al-Jinān; it is an entire volume of sensory expressions of love for Imam Husayn (ʿa). Those who have been privileged to participate know and understand this. Those who have not yet had the opportunity to partake in this honor can only imagine. Arbaʿīn is a veritable journey of the heart that can be called the miʿrāj, or spiritual ascension, of a mourner.

Although I had already performed ziyārah in Iraq and had some idea of what to expect, Arbaʿīn was a ziyārah on an entirely different level. Upon arrival in Iraq, we were immediately faced with repeated delays, as though Allah (swt) wanted to further purify us, testing our patience and the extent of discomfort we were willing to embrace for the chance to kiss the shrine of our Imam (ʿa). No amount of research could prepare me for the sheer number of people gravitating toward the Prince of Martyrs—Sayyid al-Shuhadāʾ (ʿa)—for Arbaʿīn from all over the globe. We first went to Najaf to pledge our love and allegiance to the Commander of the Faithful, Imam ʿAli (ʿa). However, amid the millions of bodies and feet, finding even three square feet to pray was a struggle. This was not the leisurely ziyārah of my past; this was a glimpse of the future, of the Day of Judgment when everyone will be begging for Imam ʿAli’s (ʿa) intercession in Allah’s (swt) court. Acknowledging my own insignificance in the presence of the brother (ʿa) of the Best of Creation (ṣ) was at once awe-inspiring and ego-deflating, a necessary ablution for proceeding on this path.

Our few days in Najaf flew by, and the time came for shifting the qiblah of our hearts to Karbala, to Abū ʿAbd Allah al-Husayn (ʿa). I had heard tales of the miraculous nature of this walk, and as I set out to unearth its secret, I discovered it in plain sight. Everywhere I looked, I would see a manifestation of Love. Mourners of all ages and races marching to the same beat, the beat upon and within their hearts that throbbed the name “Husayn”. The Iraqi hosts and their immeasurable hospitality, giving anything and everything without hesitation to the visitors of Imam Husayn (ʿa). Even the very dust at our feet billowed and settled on our clothes, as though it too wanted to serve us, by covering us with that divinely-promised intercession for the sake of Imam Husayn (ʿa). I have never seen a love this tangible, pervading everything. Just as congregational prayers multiply the rewards of a single prayer, millions of souls ardently seeking a sole beloved multiplied the love exponentially, until it completely encompassed us in layers of brotherhood and security. We were not individuals on that Walk; we had merged into a single black-clad, moving mass that only knew Husayn and hastened towards him.

Walking 50 miles over two or three days affords plenty of time to reflect, and there is plenty to reflect upon. I was touched by the eagerness of young children, the elderly, and even the disabled to serve the pilgrims—echoes through time of the loyalty and passion for Imam Husayn (ʿa), first demonstrated by the elite 72. I was grieved to recall Lady Zaynab (ʿa) and the first pilgrims on this same path centuries ago, to compare the circumstances in which they traveled to the freedom and relative luxury of our wayfaring. I was humbled by the kindness of hosts, by the faith of strangers, by the ailing woman in a mawkib who painstakingly made her way to me, to plead for a prayer for her health, sincere in her belief that a sayyid’s prayers held greater sway with Allah (swt). I was struck by the ubiquitous images of martyrs, taped on poles and pinned with pride to family members’ bags—a distant possibility to those of us living in the West, but a definite reminder that every one of us will taste death; and blessed are those who will find it honey-sweet. And then there were the recurring reminders of Imam Mahdi (ʿa), the unseen imam of this mobile congregation. Many pilgrims wore signs pledging every one of their steps to his Reappearance. I have no doubt that these incalculable steps of millions did in fact move us closer to the dawn of Reappearance. However, I felt ashamed to think of how little we are prepared, and how content we are with the darkness of the night. Just as out of love for Imam Husayn (ʿa), we took action and began walking towards him, getting closer and closer with each step, we need to do the same to affirm our love for Imam Mahdi (ʿa), and take active steps to move closer to him. The number of miles walked or poles crossed began to lose all meaning as I lost myself in the depths of this Walk.

Several prayers and reflections later, the moment came when we reached Karbala and beheld the glorious shrine of Abū al-Faḍl al-ʿAbbas (ʿa). The beauty of that moment is such that you forget all your blisters and cramps, and the tears you shed completely energize and revive you. Such is the suffusing strength of the Standard-Bearer (ʿa) that even Death is powerless to restrain it. Now that we were so close to our goal, I became restless to reach the shrine (ḥaram) of Imam Husayn (ʿa). After stopping briefly at the hotel to drop off my bag, I continued onwards to the ḥaram of Abū al-Faḍl al-ʿAbbas (ʿa). Unaccustomed to the physical exertion of the past couple days, I was audibly whimpering with every step my right leg took, but my ears could not hear because my heart’s cry of “Labbayk Ya Husayn” was so much louder. I entered Abū al-Faḍl al-ʿAbbas’ (ʿa) shrine in time for Fajr prayer. In this short prayer, we recited Duʿa al-Faraj three times—first between aẓān and iqāmah, then in qunūt, and after the final salām. As everyone chimed in the recitation, the words would reverberate throughout the ḥaram; it seemed as though Abū al-Faḍl al-ʿAbbas (ʿa) himself were exhorting us to always be faithful to the Imam of our time, just as he had been to the Imam of his time. I pledged my servitude and turned my broken heart and body to face the mecca of Karbala. Bayn al-Ḥaramayn was a black sea of tears, yet the Captain of Salvation (ʿa) who had been with me since I set off on this course expertly guided me into his shrine, to the winding, clamoring line which would ultimately lead to him. Minutes turned into an hour, and as the crowd inched forward, my mind raced backward with recollections of that tragic day. I desperately tried to gather my thoughts and prepare for the treasured few seconds I would be granted to connect with my beloved Imam (ʿa).

At last, that long-awaited moment arrived when I was finally pressed against the blessed ḍarīḥ. Gone from my mind were the lists of wishes and prayers for family and friends. Gone were the crowds crushing from all sides. At that final moment of union, it was only Imam Husayn (ʿa) and me, in the presence of Allah (swt), in heaven on earth. All my Muharrams had culminated in this honor, and then time stopped as I stood suspended between sorrow and hope. With my fingers laced in the ḍarīḥ, I looked up with blurred eyes into the glittering dome “under which answers to supplications are guaranteed,” and called out aloud to Imam Mahdi (ʿa), begging Allah (swt) to hasten his return. The prayer ascended, and I was pulled away by the keepers of the shrine.

The physical journey came to an end, but this Arbaʿīn ziyārah continues to linger in my mind. I pray it stays with me for an eternity, because so long as the memory remains, the motivation for improving myself and performing greater acts of worship will also remain. Prophet Muhammad (ṣ) said, “Prayer is the miʿrāj of a believer.” Through private conversation with our Creator (swt), we have the potential to elevate our worship and spiritual state. Likewise, for one who weeps over Imam Husayn (ʿa), visiting him on the day of Arbaʿīn has the potential to elevate our connection with him, and in turn raise our rank with Allah (swt). Ziyārah truly is a journey of love with the power to transform us, to polish us into a better version of ourselves, so that, upon our return, we can reflect the light of our Imams (ʿa) wherever we go. However, other people’s stories cannot do Arbaʿīn justice. This is a journey that everyone needs to make for themselves. May Allah accept our efforts and grant us the opportunity to visit those sacred lands and holy personalities (ʿa) time and time again.

Saiyeda Zehra Hussain graduated from University of Chicago with a degree in Economics. She currently resides in the Chicago suburbs with her husband and 4 children.

This is the second installment of the two-part article by Syed Rizwan Zamir, which explores how Sayyid Ali Naqi Naqvi attempted to revive South Asian Shi’i Islam in the 20th century through the ethical and mytho-theological example of Imam Husayn. Here, we learn of Imam Husayn’s role in the sacred and eternal story of Islam, a sacrifice that transforms not just Muslims and their moral consciousness, but indeed, all of humanity. The first part of the article may be accessed here.

PART II: A MYTHO-THEOLOGICAL UNIVERSE

The discussion thus far makes clear that Sayyid Naqvi approaches both Husaynology and the broader Islamic sacred history with the same interpretive lens. Yet the parallels between Sayyid Naqvi’s Husaynology and his telling of Islam’s sacred story do not end with hermeneutical similarities; quite crucially, they extend to the narrative itself, where, narratively speaking, Imam Husayn becomes a crucial figure within Islam’s sacred history. This narrative intersection between Husaynology and Islam’s sacred history is crucial to understanding why Imam Husayn is ascribed the all-important role of “illuminating Islam” for Sayyid Naqvi’s contemporary Muslim and non-Muslim audience. Though not always made explicit, Husayn’s heroic act is situated within an underlying mytho-theological story of Islam. I will now turn to situating Karbala and Imam Husayn within the broader narrative of Sayyid Naqvi’s presentation of Islam’s sacred story.

The Mythical Backdrop

History of Islam (Tārīkh-i Islām) covers the historical terrain that begins from “the beginning,” and ends with the death of the Prophet. What is predominantly a work on the life of the Prophet opens with the creation story, under the section “Beginning of Creation” (Āghāz-i āfarīnash):

This mytho-theological story continues until the jinns, angels, and eventually Adam appear on the scene (4). Despite God’s command, ʿAzāzīl—a jinn who was accepted into the company of angels in Sayyid Naqvi’s telling—refuses to prostrate to Adam, God’s representative on Earth. He was banished from the company of angels, but asked for permission to explore the fate of humans and possibly mock God’s claim of human superiority over angels. God responded: “You can strive your hardest but some sincere and virtuous humans will live such that they will not succumb to your instigations, and will not deviate from the path of truth and virtue.”(4)((Here Sayyid Naqvi is referring most probably to Qurʾan, al-Isrāʾ (17):64-65: “Rouse whichever of them you can with your voice, muster your cavalry and infantry against them, share their wealth and their children with them, and make promises to them—Satan promises them nothing but delusion—but you will have no authority over My [true] servants: Your Lord can take care of them well enough.”)) Humanity until today then is caught between upholding God’s covenant and the machinations of ʿAzāzīl, now Satan.

Eve is born as Adam’s mate, and together Adam and Eve inhabit the Garden. Eve was tempted by Satan, who in turn convinced Adam to taste the fruit of the forbidden tree. Adam and Eve were banished to Earth—where they had to reside anyway—and regretted and repented for their disobedience. Their repentance was accepted. Now it was their task to cultivate the Earth into a dwelling place through having progeny. God granted Adam knowledge of all that was necessary for sagacious living. Since marriage among brothers and sisters needed to be prohibited, houris descended from Heaven for that purpose. Seth became the successor of Adam’s mission on earth, while the story of Cain and Abel—the other two sons—is presented as the archetypal story of humanity caught between the forces of light and darkness. (5-6)

…[A] historical lens cannot really carry the burden of the subtleties of reality’s depth. The reality which is called “Islam” has always existed…

At this junction, Sayyid Naqvi makes a statement that is key to his discussion. He introduces Islam as the perennial religion in the following words:

The next section is titled “Abraham the Friend of God and His Islamic [Heroic] Deeds (kārnāmay),” where Abraham is recounted heroically fighting three battles: 1) against idolatry; 2) against the worship of celestial objects, idols, and humans—i.e., worshipping Nimrod—; and 3) his personal sacrifice and willingness to die as the “first one offered to Islam.” (8-13) Given the special destiny of Abraham in the Divine plan, “In the end, He protected Abraham and his martyrdom did not occur.” (13) Yet these heroic deeds did not lead to faith for the community, and when all levels of arguments did not overcome unbelief, “The missionary of Islam chose emigration so that other parts of God’s Earth can be illuminated with the invitation to truth. There were only two people of faith who accompanied him: one his honored wife, Sarah, and the other his nephew, Lot.”((He cites Qurʾan, al-ʿAnkabūt (29):26 here: “Lot believed him, and said, ‘I will flee to my Lord: He is the Almighty, the All Wise.”)) Arriving in Syria from Babylon as “the first emigrants of Islam,” they settled in Palestine. Lot was called to preach to Jordan, but yet again, “The only answer his people gave was to say, ‘Expel Lot’s family from your town, for these are a people determined to be pure.’” (Qurʾan, al-Naml (27):56) And they were driven out: “These are the earlier traces (nuqūsh) of Islamic history that have turned events of affliction (maṣāʾib), pain (takālīf), torment [from others], homelessness, and exile, into the treasured beginnings of Islam.((As the reader may have noticed, this is the context for the quote cited earlier in this essay.)) While Lot’s community was punished, except for Lot’s wife, his family was saved: “His wife, who was exempt of qualities of faith and virtue was separated from him and met with divine punishment. A lesson to ponder, O people of insight.”((See Qurʾan, al-Ḥashr (59):2, a clear evidence again for Sayyid Naqvi’s underlying ethical aims for his historical pursuits.)) (15)

The story then takes a turn from battling the world to an inward family battle. With growing age and no children, Sarah herself suggests marriage with Hagar; yet with the birth of Ishmael—and Abraham’s natural affection for Hagar for that reason—Sarah wished both to be taken away from her presence.

At this stage, he recounts the legendary thirst of Ishmael and Hagar’s seven rounds of running between hillocks of Safa and Marwa in search of water, and the miraculous gushing of the stream of Zamzam. Echoing the same ethos of Islam that set the stage earlier, he sums up in a nutshell the deeper currents that define and make sense of the historical unfolding of Islam as the perennial religion:

The next section recounts the well-known sacrifice of Ishmael. That the memory of this event was kept alive ritually and communally both in the pre-Muhammadan and Muhammadan eras are presented as confirmation of why it was Ishmael, and not Isaac—as the Jews and Christians claim. The episode is discussed at some length, and as usual various ethical and theological points are highlighted all along. For the purposes of this discussion, what’s most significant is the concluding passage((Why this passage is so significant should become clear in the ensuing pages.)):

The ensuing section, “Construction of the Kaʿbah,” then discusses Abraham and Ishmael’s collaborative building of Islam’s Holy Temple. Citing the Qurʾanic passage, “the first House erected for people was the one at Bakka, a blessed spot and guidance for the worlds (hudan li-l-ʿālamīn),”((Qurʾan, Āl ʿImrān (3):96.)) Sayyid Naqvi notes that “to call ‘House’, a ‘guide for the worlds’ indicates the existence of some [beings] who are of this House (ahl al-bayt—the People of the House) who shall be the source of Divine mercy and guidance for the worlds. The most perfect among them was spoken to [by God in the following words]: ‘We sent you [O Muhammad] not, but as mercy to the worlds.’”((Qurʾan, al-Anbiyāʾ (21):107.)) (22)

God commands Abraham to invite people to the pilgrimage. Instituting the Hajj as his final act, Abraham leaves the scene for his progeny to carry his mission forward. Rewarding Abraham’s tireless strivings and special prayer (“Our Lord, I have settled some of my progeny in a valley where no vegetation grows, near your Sacred House, our Lord, that they may perform the prayers. Make people’s hearts turn toward them.”((Qurʾan, Ibrāhīm (14):37.))) God declares the Sacred House the center of pilgrimage for all, as a means to the end of turning “people’s heart toward Abraham’s progeny.” (23)

Beginning from page 24, Sayyid Naqvi traces the Prophet’s Ishmaelite lineage. In the process he underlines a special role for this lineage, “the guardianship of the Sacred House,” (34-5) and certain duties: to never accept an idle life; avoid discord within the community; and “to the furthest extent, be strivers on the path toward unity and accord.” (32-33) In tracing the lineage, only one historical event is narrated at length: the event of the Elephant. Abraha—the monarch of Yemen—built a cathedral which he sought to make the center for pilgrimage that will replace the Sacred House in Mecca, which he then sought to raze to the ground. When Abraha’s army detained his camels, ʿAbd al-Muṭṭalib complained to Abraha. Abraha’s army mocked him for being worried about camels, when he should have been more worried about the Sacred House from which Quraysh drew all of its honor. ʿAbd al-Muṭṭalib responded in the following words: “I was the owner of the camels, so I spoke about them; the House belongs to Someone Else who will protect it Himself.” (39) Asking all to move outside Mecca, ʿAbd al-Muṭṭalib, along with his chosen people spoke to God at the Sacred House: “Everyone must defend his house, so must You.” (39) Leaving the Sacred House in His Owner’s hands, ʿAbd al-Muṭṭalib awaited the outcome. The Owner of the House intervened through miraculous feathered flocks, “hurling at the army stones from the hell-fire and left them like worm-eaten leaves.”((Qurʾan, al-Fīl (105).)) The event became legendary among the poets of Arabia who kept its memory alive. In one confrontation and opposition with Quraysh, ʿAbd al-Muṭṭalib felt helpless and prayed for being gifted ten sons, and if heard, he pledged to sacrifice one. The prayer was heard, and he remembered the burdensome task of offering one of his sons as a sacrifice. Lots were cast and it turned out to be ʿAbd Allah, the father of Muhammad. People advised him to sacrifice camels instead. He kept casting lots with ten camels added to the offering, and only at a hundred was the burden lifted from him.

This mytho-theological prelude to the “history of Islam” told in the first 41 pages sets the stage for the coming of the Prophet of Islam and his prophetic career. Inevitably, the Prophet Muhammad is carrying forward—according to the Divine plan—the unique mission of his patriarch, Abraham. The next 500 pages are then the telling of Muhammad’s life till his departure from the world. Without this grand narrative within which is embedded all that Muhammad is supposed to perform in his role and function, his life and prophetic career would barely make sense. It was Muhammad’s inescapable burden to carry forward the special role and duties of his Ishmaelite lineage.

Is the History of Islam “Historical”? The Hermeneutical Circle of Mytho-Theology, History, and Ethics

So what kind of historian is Sayyid Naqvi, and what kind of history is he writing? The discussion thus far makes it clear that Sayyid Naqvi’s historical narrative is embedded within a mytho-theological universe, in other words, the mytho-theological universe of Shiʿi Islam. Since for Sayyid Naqvi—and the wider Muslim tradition as well—Islam is a perennial religion (in fact, the only religion according to the Qurʾan) an account of Islamic history could not begin with the Prophet of Islam in the 7^th century, but with “the beginning”, the creation story. That is why early sections of the book trace Islamic history from creation to Adam, from Adam to Abraham, and then, Abraham through to the Prophet of Islam. Jewish and Christian prophets and revelations are, therefore, an integral part of this story. Although humans do make choices in history that have good or bad consequences, history is not independent of the Divine Plan. Recall Sayyid Naqvi’s observation that, “Divine wisdom saw an opportunity for a huge nation;” Abraham was needed to execute the Divine plan. History does not operate independent of the Divine Will, a clear indication of the mytho-theological universe that is driving the lens of history.

Just as the ethical is intertwined with the historical, the historical in turn is intertwined with the mytho-theological. History as “narration of what happened at a given moment in historical time” is thus embedded within a “sacred mythology” that sets the backdrop for the meaning of these events. Mytho-theology and history thus meet within an interpretive circle which makes it impossible to separate them, or point out a clear hierarchy between the two. Even when he seemed to be historicizing mythology—and ran into serious controversies—the historical analysis was an extension of this mytho-theology that undergirds the vision of history itself.

History does not operate independent of the Divine Will, a clear indication of the mytho-theological universe that is driving the lens of history.

But what is the meaning of history, of this sacred story? What is this story about? The answers are found right within Sayyid Naqvi’s writings and speeches on Husaynology and Islam’s sacred story; it is performed on almost every page. The meaning is the lessons learned from the story. Meaning is ethical. It is an ethical story, and that of an ethical human life. The mytho-theological, historical, and the ethical are clearly intertwined and united. Yet, this strong sense of the underlying unity of Islam’s historical narrative is a result, not of historical analysis itself, but the mytho-theological framework that sets its backdrop.

In the final analysis, the interpretive circle encompasses within it the ethical, historical, and the mythological. Though a rational and critical lens is brought to particular historical details all throughout, the exercise in history draws its own vision and raison d’etre from the mytho-theological, and is simultaneously guided—and restricted too—by the quest for the ethical. In sum, the intellectual enterprise of “history” as narration of “what happened” is informed by the mytho-theological story that makes history possible on the one hand, and on the other, by its intended goal: the ethical well-being of human beings and human societies. In support of this reading, Islām kī Ḥakīmānah Zindagī provides an even more elaborate comment:

Altogether then, the exercise in historical research is about preserving stories that are worth reflecting over. Why preserve the story of Husayn? Why tell it? So the human beings could live a virtuous life and form virtuous communities. If that is not the intent, why bother!

In concluding the discussion, one more point needs to be highlighted: The question of the sources of the mytho-theological-historical story. In Sayyid Naqvi’s telling, accounts from past historians such as al-Ṭabarī are intertwined with the ultimate source of Islam’s story: the Qurʾan. We have seen examples of how the Qurʾan is employed again and again to buttress claims about pre-Islamic history, and the word “Islam” is extended to all the previous prophets. Reason sifts through these accounts, probes them, tries to understand them, collaborates in telling them, accounts for contradictions; yet it takes the previous and scriptural tellings seriously. The trust put in the authority of the various versions is related quite directly to the mytho-theological framework itself.((The role of reason in both experiencing, telling, and navigating this story, although significant, remains beyond the scope of this paper.)) That is why to the extent the Qurʾan tells the details, or the plot, it is invoked as the definitive account.

Husayn’s Place within Islam’s Sacred Story

So where is Husayn located in this grand narrative? Since both strands (History of Islam and Husaynology) originate from the same theological vision, History of Islam provides important keys to understand Sayyid Naqvi’s writings on Husaynology. Whereas the particular Shiʿi mytho-theological backdrop was often invoked in his discussion of the various aspects of Husaynology, it largely remained scattered, and was hardly ever presented systematically. History of Islam fills in this lacuna and clarifies the underlying mytho-theological story fully, embracing both the sacred prophetic history and the place of Husayn in it.

From within the sacred story, Husayn can be discovered first right at “the beginning of it all,” and then as a successor to the Ishmaelite lineage with all its glory and burdens. In other words, Husayn appears in two-ways:

1. In reference to thirteen lights (see above) right at the origins of all things. In the mytho-theology of Shiʿi Islam, the first light is the Muhammadan light, and the rest of the thirteen lights, of Fatima and the twelve Shiʿi Imams; together the Fourteen Pure Ones. (Husayn is the third Shiʿi Imam.)
2. As inheritor of the Ishmaelite lineage, its nobility,((In Shahīd-i Insāniyat [Martyr of Humanity], Sayyid Naqvi enumerates nine unique points that make this family special in their nobility and honor. See pages 36-37.)) duties,((The reader may recall the discussion of these duties earlier in this essay.)) but most crucially, the special role((The roles inherited from Abraham would include: the guardianship of the Sacred House, propagation of the primordial religion of Islam, and readiness to sacrifice all that is necessary in fulfilling the Divine call.)) this lineage has within the Divine script.

Yet that is not all. Within this sacred story, there is a lingering unfinished plot. Recall his comments: “If Ishmael’s sacrifice had been the supreme model of sacrifice before God, it would not have been postponed, nor would it need substitution [of a lamb]. In Divine knowledge, the most perfect and complete sacrifice was yet to come from within Ishmael’s progeny.” As the new Ishmael,((And as carrier of the mantle of his forefathers, he is the also the new Noah, Abraham, Joseph, Jesus, and Muhammad.)) Husayn comes on to the scene to offer the most perfect and complete sacrifice.

There is even more. I have had the occasion to point out Sayyid Naqvi’s critical hermeneutical move of plotting the ethical side-by-side with the historical, and his hierarchic view of the virtues. Recall also his categorical statement about ethical life: “In fact, all commandments, callings, and the entire code of religious conduct rest on demanding sacrifice from humanity, and the sole purpose of appointing prophets, messengers, and religious leaders is to offer its lofty illustrations.” Sacrifice thus becomes the highest ideal of virtuous life. If sacrifice is the highest ideal, then the one enacting “the most perfect and complete sacrifice” becomes the supreme exemplar for a virtue-seeking community. Carrying the mantle of his sacred lineage and covering the expanse of a huge flow of time, this luminous being from among the fourteen lights in “the beginning” appears onto the plains of human history towards its end, and offers the utmost and final example for the most virtuous ideal of sacrifice. He becomes thus the decisive hero of Islam’s sacred story. (The sacred story of Islam of course does not end here. No Shiʿi mytho-theology is complete without the final act of the “Awaited One”, the messianic savior, the Mahdi.)

If sacrifice is the highest ideal, then the one enacting “the most perfect and complete sacrifice” becomes the supreme exemplar for a virtue-seeking community.

In understanding why in Illuminating Islam there could not be a better historical reference than Husayn—the opening quote of this essay—we have had to cover a lot of ground. It is time to forestall a potential misunderstanding. Given the context of modernity and crisis of religion that led to the re-imagining of Islamic tradition on the part of Sayyid Naqvi—a problem most Muslim scholars and thinkers of the last two hundred years have had to grapple with—can Illuminating Islam be construed as “apologetic”, an attempt to defend Islam in the face of criticisms from within and without the tradition?

A gentle “yes”, but a much stronger “no” in response! Unless our author has managed to fool us completely, the mytho-theological underpinnings and its accompanying ethical intent imply that this concern can be gauged through the same interpretive circle. Without delving too deeply into the question—the lack of space prevents that—I refer you to Sayyid Naqvi’s statement regarding why Islam needs to be protected as a religious tradition: “If there is a religion [i.e., Islam], which with respect to its teachings is a supporter of peace and harmony, and of generating a milieu of tranquility and concord, then such a religion deserves to be preserved for renovation (iṣlāḥ) of the world.” (200)((Lā Tufsidū fī al-Arḍ.)) If the thrust of Islam’s mytho-theology is ethical, the thrust of Islam is ethical as well. Since in its encompassing Islam stretches both within space and time (and beyond both as well!), and because it is simultaneously perennial and global, the concern to protect Islam is an ethical concern. In other words, to protect Islam as a religious tradition is to protect the possibility of virtuous life for humanity. In sum, Sayyid Naqvi’s concern for defending Islam is not apologetic; it is again ethical:

Just as they intersect in narrative, ethical thrust, and message, the mission of Husayn and that of Islam profoundly intersect. Just as Islam is perennial and universal, Husayn as its ultimate hero is too. That is why Sayyid Naqvi prescribes, not just to Muslims but even non-Muslims who were familiar with the Karbala episode, to reflect on that episode and derive moral and social implications from it. In Ḥusayn kā Payghām ʿĀlam-i Insāniyyat kay Nām [Ḥusayn’s Message to Global Humanity] Sayyid Naqvi invokes the voice of Imam Husayn speaking to his non-Muslim audience as follows:

Seen from the mytho-theological lens and the hermeneutical circle it becomes clear that while the universality of Husayn’s message can serve numerous other purposes, for example, demonstrating the truth of Islam to the modern world, these concerns could only be peripheral. But a more significant task faced Muslims: “the real struggle for rectification (iṣlāḥ) will be the spreading (tarwīj) of the teachings of the [Islamic] religion and the attempt to turn people into its adherents.”((Lā Tufsidū fī al-Arḍ, 201.)) In the task of spreading “the ethical vision of Islam” and winning more adherents, Sayyid Naqvi finds Husayn, and his heroic act at Karbala the best resource. Humanity needed to be invited to Islam through introduction to its ultimate hero. Notice the title and opening passage from the treatise Husayn’s Message to Global Humanity((Ḥusayn kā Payghām-i ʿĀlam-i Insāniyyat kay Nām (Lucknow: Sarfarāz Qawmī Press, 1959).)):

An interesting short treatise in this regard is “What does Commemorating Husayn Demand from Free India?”((“Ḥusayn kī Yād kā Āzād Hindūstān say Muṭālbah,” (Lucknow: Sarfaraz Qawmi Press, 1950).)) He critiques the post-Christian Western obsession with materialist power, an obsession which was a consequence of the underlying materialistic worldview (mādda parastī) that had come to dominate Western thought and culture. In his view, this materialistic worldview had led Western writers to study Islam’s political history from the point of view of only those who appear to be “the conquerors”, regardless of the ethical-spiritual criteria of these conquests. That is why, says Sayyid Naqvi, the Karbala episode has altogether been ignored by such writers and thinkers. He contrasts this view with Eastern or Indian spirituality which sees warfare from a spiritual point of view, and therefore has always appreciated the endeavor of Husayn as witnessed in the writings and sayings of major Indian leaders and intellectuals such as Gandhi and Nehru, among others. In conclusion, Sayyid Naqvi notes that:

By the time Sayyid Naqvi puts together his magnum opus Shahid-i Insānīyat [Martyr of Humanity] on Husayn, the supreme martyr-hero of Islam had transitioned into becoming the martyr par excellence of humanity—the title of Sayyid Naqvi’s definitive biography of Husayn. The mytho-theological story of Islam and Husayn with its full thrust toward the ethical was now re-imagined in a global modern context, and an exceptional figure of human history was universalized to become the martyr par excellence of global humanity:

…[B]ut events gain universality and depth through attributes and outcomes that relate to the whole of humanity [transcending] the distinctions of religion, race, or nation.

Sayyid Naqvi is convinced that the one who appears on the pages of history seemingly leading a political revolution against a mighty ruler is in fact driving a revolution of an entirely different order. He wants the human community of the world to recognize that unlike other revolutions, Husayn did not seek the destruction of an empire; instead his sacrifice was for the cause of sculpting the moral and intellectual consciousness of humanity:

When recognized from within Islam’s sacred story, Imam Husayn carries the noblest prophetic lineage and ancestral duties that come with it. He is the new Ishmael who has come to offer, willingly and with patience and gratitude, the most complete and perfect sacrifice. Above all, he is a light among the fourteen primordial lights that came to not only illuminate Islam, but also to illuminate through Islam’s rays the ethical and moral norms for all of humanity. And that is precisely why he needs to be shared with the global human community, not just as hero of Islam, but that of humanity.

In view of our discussion it is hardly surprising then why Sayyid Naqvi would claim that in “illuminating Islam” he could not find a historical figure more fitting and compelling than Husayn. That is why, fully aware of this indebtedness to Husayn and his heroic deeds, he was never tired of praising him:

Syed Rizwan Zamir is an associate professor of Religious Studies at the department of religion at Davidson College in Davidson, NC, where he teaches introductory and advanced courses in the area of Islamic studies, specializing in Islamic thought and spirituality. Dr. Zamir’s Ph.D. dissertation was on the religio-intellectual thought of Sayyid ʿAlī Naqvī and his profound influence on the religious and social landscape of the Shiʿi community in South Asia. He received a B.A. from the University of Punjab and also James Madison University. Dr. Zamir earned his Ph.D. from the University of Virginia.

This is the first installment in a two-part article on the historical thought of Sayyid al-ʿulamāʾ, Sayyid Ali Naqi Naqvi. The article explores the attempts of Sayyid Ali Naqi Naqvi to revive South Asian Shi’i Islam in the 20th century through the ethical and mytho-theological example of Imam Husayn. In this installment, the author first presents Sayyid Naqvi’s lifelong goal of “illuminating Islam” for his South Asian Muslim audience. Then he examines the historical thought of Sayyid Naqvi, wherein the ultimate goal of history is not simply knowing the past, but rather to present ethical lessons that must inform our lives today, and to manifest the ultimate sacred story of Islam. The second installment of this article is available here. 

Introduction

“Illuminating Islam” underlies Sayyid Ali Naqi Naqvi’s((In communal memory, known with his honorific titles “sayyid al-ʿulamāʾ” and “naqqan sāḥib”, Sayyid Ali Naqi Naqvi (1905–1988), is arguably the most prolific (we are looking at over 250 works in Urdu, Persian, and Arabic), widely popular, and revered Indian Shiʿi scholar of the twentieth century. Justin Jones describes him as “one of the subcontinent’s most prominent ʿulamāʾ in the 1930s-1940s,” “the final great mujtahid of South Asia,” and that “after independence he would remain the most well-known, widely published and widely quoted Shiʿa ʿalim in the country for four decades.” (Shia Islam in Colonial India, p. 247) Decades earlier, S. A. A. Rizvi had called him “a very impressive and lucid orator.” (A Socio-Intellectual History of Shiʿi South Asia, vol. II, p. 152) One must also mention Simon Fuchs’ recent study of Shiʿism in Pakistan, where the influence of Sayyid al-ʿulamāʾ on the Shiʿi intellectual and religious landscape of Pakistan have been observed on several occasions. See his In a Pure Muslim Land: Shiʿism between Pakistan and the Middle East (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina, 2019).)) entire intellectual corpus. He strove to illuminate Islam for his South Asian Muslim audience—especially the Shiʿi—so that they may successfully survive, even thrive. But survive what? Various attacks and critique from without, and doubts from within regarding the worth of a seemingly declining if not altogether obsolete religious tradition; simply put, a deep “crisis of religion”((For a fuller account of this “crisis of religion” and its reception and articulation by Sayyid Naqvi, see chapter 1 of Syed Rizwan Zamir, “Rethinking, Reconfiguring and Popularizing Islamic Tradition: Religious Thought of a Contemporary Indian Scholar” (PhD diss., University of Virginia, 2011). See also footnote 4.)) for South Asian Muslims. This was during what many have called the “modern age” of Islam, an era defined by not only the prevailing conditions of modernity, but more importantly, the dominance of a modern Western worldview.((Given the complexity of the subject, it is extremely inconvenient to attempt here a robust description of modernity and modernism, i.e., the underlying worldview of modernity. The best that can be offered is a general sense of their relevance to our purposes. Through the direct rule of Western colonial powers in the 18th, 19th, and the first half of the 20th centuries, Muslim thought and cultures came into serious contact with Enlightenment-inspired modern Western thought and institutions. Throughout these centuries—and the trend continues to this day—Muslims have grappled with these ideas and institutions, and have continuously assessed their viability for Muslim thought and culture. It is this grappling with modern Western ideas, values, and institutions in colonial times that scholars and Muslim thinkers like Sayyid Naqvi deemed modernity and modernism as significantly new challenges for contemporary Islamic civilization.)) This “crisis of religion” was articulated clearly quite early in his intellectual career, especially in his 1935 speeches titled La Tufsidu fī al-Arḍ; in fact, beginning in the early 1930s and lasting until his death in 1988, Sayyid Naqvi’s writings and preaching from the venue of Muharram-commemoration gatherings was his partial response to what he saw as a grave “crisis of religion” faced by his Shiʿi community, the larger Muslim population of India, and in fact, all religious communities. This crisis of religion according to Sayyid Naqvi was a result of two broader intellectual and social currents:

1. The undermining of Islam by Christian and Hindu missionaries;
2. The undermining of Islamic or religious foundations of any religion through rationalistic, scientistic, and materialistic philosophies.

While the missionaries undermined the religion of Islam, the new philosophies inspired by post-Christian modern Western thought had begun to reduce “religion”—not any religion in particular (Islam or Christianity), but “religion” as such (madhhab)—to an outdated “thing” of a bygone era, with no relevance whatsoever to the modern world. According to Sayyid Naqvi, these new attacks on religion-as-such had made it extremely difficult for the lay piety—whether Sunni, Shiʿi, or of any other religion for that matter—to uphold its basic religious commitments, therefore drawing its adherents often to an “indifference toward religion”, even atheism (lā dīnīyat). Although Sayyid Naqvi acknowledges various other serious crises Muslims faced during the British Raj—i.e., economic, political, social, and cultural—for him this “crisis of religion” was by far the most formidable challenge for the well being of Indian society, a challenge which again was not simply confined to Muslims.

But how does Ḥusayn (ʿa) and the battle of Karbala help him illuminate Islam? Was he simply paying lip service to pious Shiʿi sensibilities? Not really. If his seven-volume Qurʾanic commentary is excluded, almost one-third of his writings relate to the theme of Husaynology((I borrow this term from Justin Jones, “Shiʿism, Humanity and Revolution in Twentieth Century India: Selfhood and Politics in the Husainology of ‘Ali Naqi Naqvi,” Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society 24 (3) 2014, pp. 415-34.)) directly. Even those writings whose main subject-matter is not Husaynology contain ample allusions to and reflections on it.((It must be noted, for example, that the quote that opens this essay comes from one such text, namely, La Tufsidū fī al-Arḍ.)) If one surveys his entire corpus, it becomes clear that he meant what he said. A few other facts corroborate this point: 1) The theme of Karbala is with Sayyid Naqvi from the beginning of his intellectual career.((The earliest work was written in Arabic during his seminary studies in Najaf, Iraq, to defend what were seen as extreme forms of Shiʿi mourning against criticisms from certain ʿulamāʾ, especially Ayatullah Muḥsin al-Amīn, the author of the well-known Aʿyān al-Shīʿa. See “The Flagellations of Muharram and the Shiʿite Ulama’” in Der Islam, 55 (1978), p. 19-36. Upon his return from Iraq, the first book he authored was again related to the subject of Ḥusayn (ʿa) and Karbala. Coincidentally it is also Imamia Mission Publication House’s first publication. Qātilān-i Ḥusayn kā madhhab (Lucknow: Manshurah Imamiyah Mission and Sarfaraz Qawmi Press, 1932).)) 2) From among the first hundred volumes of his work that were published by Imamia Mission Publication House (the idea of it was Sayyid Naqvi’s inspiration), thirty-four dealt with Husaynology, and only Husaynology-related texts were translated into languages other than Urdu.((For example, Ḥusayn awr Islām (1935) was immediately translated into Hindi and English. This work was followed by Ḥusayn kā Atam Balaydān and The Martyrdom of Ḥusayn (1936) in the same year.)) 3) There are ample occasional allusions to this theme in texts that do not deal with it in any direct way.((La Tufsidū fī al-Arḍ, for example, includes the theme of Karbala and martyrdom of Ḥusayn (ʿa). It occurs in the context of a discussion on how a muṣliḥ is often accused by people of being a mufsid: “Earlier I had said that religion and state, even if separate from one another, could cause a [complete] destruction of the world. But if religion is subsumed by power, there will be no limits to corruption (fasādāt). The greatest example of this is the sultanates of Umayyads; here religion and political power—the two things that can be great sources of corruption in the world (fasād fī al-ʿarḍ)—were merged. What was the result of this? Could there be an illustration of fasād fī al-ʿarḍ greater than [what happened in] the event of Karbala?… Was there anyone more muṣliḥ of the world than Ḥusayn ibn ʿAli? Absolutely not…Imam Ḥusayn and his followers are blamed for fasād fī al-ʿarḍ. Ḥusayn presents his defense by action, and through this action the result is made clear [regarding whether he was a mufsid or a muṣliḥ?]” (86-88) )) 4) Sayyid Naqvi was somewhat unique for someone of his stature in his willingness to speak from the pulpit during Muharram and throughout the year, a forum generally attributed to preachers of limited scholarly training. And finally, 5) Sayyid Naqvi continued writing on this subject throughout his life without any noticeable gap, extending his reflections and analysis in both depth and breadth. His reflections on the Karbala narrative were thus not simply an inevitable burden carried by a Shiʿi ʿālim and religious leader. Rather, they were crucial to Sayyid Naqvi’s lifelong struggle to revive Islam in 20^th-century South Asia for his modern audience, restoring it to its once-privileged societal status.

Yet a consistent interpretive pattern underlies all of Sayyid Naqvi’s intellectual engagements with the Karbala narrative((For example, see: Mujāhidah-i Karbala (1933); Ḥusayn awr Islām (1932); Maʿrakah-i Karbalā (1935); Maḥārabah-i Karbalā (1936); Banī Umayyah kī ʿAdāwat-i Islām kī Mukhtaṣar Tārīkh (1928/1963); and Khilāfat-i Yazīd kay Mutaʿalli Āzād Ārāʾīn (1953).)) and wider Islamic sacred history:((Sayyid Ali Naqi Naqvi, Tarīkh-i Islām, 4 vols (Islamabad: Imāmīya Dar al-Tablīgh, 2000).)) First, grounding historical details within historical sources to set the historical record straight; and second, drawing out and explicating the ethical meaning both from the broader historical narrative and its very concrete moments. In other words, though historical accuracy is a huge concern for Sayyid Naqvi, the goal of history is not history itself. Rather, it is the lessons learned therein. Generally, these lessons are ethical and are drawn out to edify his religious audience. For Sayyid Naqvi, accuracy of the historical narrative, though quite crucial in its own right, would be incomplete if it does not tend toward the ethical.

This paper illumines how in engaging narratives of Karbala—and by extension, Islam’s sacred (read: prophetic) mytho-history—Sayyid Naqvi was drawing on the Islamic tradition’s symbolic and mythical sources. Use of the term “myth” here needs to be contrasted clearly from its popular conceptions as a “false, fictional, fantasy story”. Myth as used in the academic study of religion (and utilized here) refers to an “orienting tale”, that is, a sacred story which is at the heart of a religious tradition. It provides to its believers an overarching account of life and the world, their origins (i.e., “In the beginning was…”), the arc and flow of history through time—and significant historical events within—and finally an account of the end of it all. These myths are “orientational” because they orient for those inhabiting the myth almost every aspect of human life, its purpose and day-to-day religious rituals, ethical principles, and practices. It is in view of these observations that one notices that Sayyid Naqvi’s telling of Islam’s sacred origins and unfolding of prophetic history through the ages has both mythical and historical character.

…though historical accuracy is a huge concern for Sayyid Naqvi, the goal of history is not history itself. Rather, it is the lessons learned therein.

Just as Sayyid Naqvi draws on the uṣūlī-intellectual framework to “re-imagine”, “translate”, and “re-present” Islamic theology and praxis for his 20^th-century Muslim audience,((See chapter 3 of Syed Rizwan Zamir, “Rethinking, Reconfiguring and Popularizing Islamic Tradition: Religious Thought of a Contemporary Indian Scholar” (PhD diss., University of Virginia, 2011).)) he also draws on Islam’s symbolic and mytho-theological((Akin to “mytho-history” discussed earlier, the term “mytho-theology” highlights the intertwining of mythic and theological underpinnings of the narrative. The ensuing discussion should make this point clearer.)) sources for the same purpose. If the former represents reviving Islam through its intellectual tradition, then the latter represents this revival through Islam’s mythological tradition.((Though not the subject of this essay, it is also pertinent to note that in taking up the pulpit (and the impactful preacher-scholar role for which Sayyid Naqvi became so popular) was also for the task of religious preservation and revival. And in doing that he also revolutionized Shiʿi preaching. Put simply, Sayyid Naqvi’s Husaynology and preaching in its various dimensions was his simultaneous act of “preaching Shiʿi revival” and “reviving Shiʿi preaching”.)) Together and complementing one another, they complete Sayyid Naqvi’s religio-intellectual project. This paper discusses Sayyid Naqvi’s engagement with the foremost mythological source of the Shiʿi Islamic tradition, the figure of Ḥusayn (ʿa) and his heroic act on the plains of Karbala. Discussing at length first Sayyid Naqvi’s Husaynology, I will proceed to show how in Sayyid Naqvi’s Husaynology, the historical continually meets the ethical, without collapsing the integrity of either.

Yet, to stop our analysis at the purely ethical is to miss an even more crucial aspect of Sayyid Naqvi’s Husaynology and his presentation of Islam’s sacred history: the mytho-theological worldview that underlies—and inevitably configures—the historical narrative. We can only appreciate his statement that opens this essay by, first, appreciating the close connections between the historical, ethical, and the mytho-theological; and second, by understanding how they all inform and together play out in Sayyid Naqvi’s Husaynology and mytho-theology—within which Ḥusayn (ʿa) becomes the ultimate hero of Islam and humanity. Finally, the essay will also note that Sayyid Naqvi is a “contemporary Muslim historian”, who on the one hand, enacted the long-standing tradition of Muslim histories through the hermeneutic of his mytho-theology, while on the other, was responsive to the intellectual challenges of the twentieth century by highlighting an ethical framework.

PART I: THE HERMENEUTICS OF HISTORY

The Overlap of the Historical and the Ethical in Sayyid Naqvi’s Husaynology

A clear statement regarding this close connection between the historical account and its ethical implications is found in Uswa-i Ḥusaynī, where Sayyid Naqvi notes the following:

A few pages later, he states:

The ethical thrust of Husaynology is even more clearly illumined by Shahīd-i Insāniyat, a 584-page volume published in 1942 upon the 1300^th anniversary of the martyrdom of Ḥusayn (ʿa), and still the most comprehensive work on Husaynology in the Urdu language.((Sayyid Ali Naqi Naqvi, Shahīd-i Insānīyat (Lahore: Imāmīya Mission Pakistan Trust, 2006).))  The text is dedicated to a historical reconstruction of the complete life of Ḥusayn (ʿa) from his birth leading up to his martyrdom and its immediate impact afterward. The historical sources are drawn from both Sunni and Shiʿi sources among which Tabari’s history was overwhelmingly given the foremost status.((In La Tufsidū fī al-Arḍ, while discussing Ḥusayn’s (ʿa) mission as muṣliḥ, Sayyid Naqvi notes: “I will present to you proofs (shawāhid) in which Imam Ḥusayn has rebutted this misunderstanding, and shows how [historical] outcomes have supported Ḥusayn…I have only this book in my hand, called Tarīkh-i Ṭabarī. On such an occasion, I do not use any work other than this. That is why I will present proofs only from this [work], ones that are relevant to my subject.” (87-88) This special status accorded to al-Ṭabari’s history by Sayyid Naqvi is due to its authoritativeness for the wider Muslim community.)) This engagement with historical sources was intended to provide an historical account that would be acceptable to most Muslims, regardless of their sectarian affiliations. After devoting over five hundred pages to a rigorous historical reconstruction of events leading up to Karbala, its implications, and the historical aftermath—in other words, the historicizing of the Karbala mythology—he turns to the various ethical implications of this event for contemporary Muslims. Without delving into too much detail, I list here the various lessons Sayyid Naqvi cites under sub-headings that capture in a summary fashion the wide range of his many ethical reflections in the context of Husaynology:

1. Change of mindset (tabdīl-i dhahnīyyat) (536);
2. demonstration of the power of religion and spirituality (539);
3. affirmation and propagation of Islam’s veracity (540);
4. moral and cultural teachings such as freedom (543);
5. perseverance (544);
6. collective discipline (546);
7. dignity (ʿizzat-i nafs) (548);
8. patience (550);
9. sacrifice for others (553);
10. empathy (555);
11. good dealings with others (555);
12. sympathy for human beings (558);
13. truthfulness (559);
14. peacemaking and tolerance (564);
15. and sacrifice (573).

The section concludes with “miscellaneous” other teachings that included: veiling (574), arranging for a will before death (578), reverence for Divine laws (581), and remembering forefathers and nobility (581).

The list provided in Shahīd-i Insānīyat is far from being exhaustive of the various lessons Sayyid Naqvi derived from his reflections. Interspersed in all his writings, be those on the Karbala-narrative explicitly or on another subject, are found numerous other lessons. Unsurprisingly again, in closing the book, Sayyid Naqvi reiterates how the true purpose of mourning is neither to seek intercession, nor to simply lament Ḥusayn’s (ʿa) death, but to apply his teachings to one’s life. A clear proof that the true intent of telling the narrative is ethical is the fact that the long historical narrative itself converges onto the various “lessons learned” from that narrative.((In passing, it should be mentioned that Sayyid Naqvi’s historicizing of the Karbala mythology obviously did not occur without controversy and pushback from pious Shiʿis. These controversies have been discussed at length in Justin Jones’s article cited earlier.))

The Overlap of the Historical and the Ethical in Sayyid Naqvi’s Study of Islamic Sacred Prophetic History

The strong connection between the historical and the ethical is also evident in Sayyid Naqvi’s presentation of Islamic history from his later years, in his well-known four-volume Tārīkh-i Islām [History of Islam].((Sayyid Ali Naqi Naqvi, Tarīkh-i Islām, 4 vols (Islamabad: Imāmīya Dār al-Tablīgh, 2000). )) Again, History of Islam is not history for history’s sake. It is not intended as a text that would simply lay out a detailed account of “what happened”. Akin to his Husaynology, moral and spiritual lessons are intricately woven into the historical narrative. Let me illustrate this through Sayyid Naqvi’s discussion of the prophetic career of Abraham.

In Sayyid Naqvi’s telling, the story of Islam begins with trials, suffering, patience, and sacrifice. Commenting upon the Qurʾanic verse of Sūrat al-Anbiyāʾ (21):68,((“They said, ‘Burn him [Abraham], and help your gods, if you would do aught.’” Qurʾan, Sūrat al-Anbiyāʾ (21):68.)) which describes Nimrod’s tyranny toward Abraham that ultimately led to his emigration, Sayyid Naqvi remarks that Divine Wisdom did not intervene at this stage. It waited until the brutality of the oppressor and the patience of the oppressed both reached their final limit. Divine Wisdom lets events take their course, to a point where the oppressor could not argue that “we did not intend to burn, we were simply threatening,” and where the oppressed Abraham’s patience and loyalty to God in the face of threats of fire are also tested to their utmost limit. Human choices were not obstructed; rather, they were allowed freedom to be exercised fully so there is neither confusion nor doubt as to the brutality of the oppressor and the trial of the oppressed. It is only after Abraham was thrown into fire that the Divine Will intervened and saved Abraham. Since God had other aims for Abraham, he did not become a martyr. A perfect embodiment of “the sacrificing ethos” of Islam’s foremost guides and exemplars, Abraham in this exposition becomes the first person to have made sacrifices for Islam. With Lot and Sarah, he also becomes the first emigrant of Islamic history. (12-13) This telling of the historical account begins to reveal its ethical thrust, and also brings to light a hierarchic view of virtues, whereby sacrifice and patience in the face of trials to emerge as the crowning virtues a human being can achieve.((We will turn to the discussion of the “hierarchy of virtues” again later in the essay. It must be pointed out here though that the intertwining of ethics, history, and sacred mytho-theology in the telling of the episode of Abraham is quite emblematic of the general trend in Sayyid Naqvi’s writings and speeches.))

…a hierarchic view of virtues, whereby sacrifice and patience in the face of trials to emerge as the crowning virtues a human being can achieve.

The Islamic history of affliction, suffering, and sacrifice continued with prophets that succeeded Abraham. For example, Lot suffered at the hands of his community, which had refused to follow divine injunctions and eventually drove him out of the area. He writes: “These are the earlier traces (nuqūsh) of Islamic history that have turned events of affliction (maṣāʾib), pain (takālīf), torment [from others], homelessness, and exile into a treasure. That is why the Prophet of Islam said, ‘Islam began with exile.’” ((Tarīkh-i Islām, p. 14. The hadith reads as follows: “Islam began with exile, and returns to being with exile. So there are glad tidings to those in exile.” (badā al-islāmu gharīban wa sayaʿūdu gharīban fa-ṭūbā li-l-ghurabāʾ). See al-Ṣadūq, Kamāl al-Dīn wa-Tamām al-Niʿmah, vol. 1, p. 200. )) But there is clear contemporary import to these lessons; they come as ethical injunctions to his community, reminding them that as a prophetic community, suffering is destined for them. And faced with suffering, the community should not lose heart: “How then could it be apt for Muslims that they are troubled, or lose hope with the occurrence of afflictions (maṣāʾib) or extreme difficulties (shadāʾid)? They should understand these things as part of their communal character and should always be prepared to bear them,” he added.((Tarīkh-i Islām, p. 14.)) In other words, Sayyid Naqvi is responding to the anxieties and deep angst that the turbulences of the colonial era had afflicted upon his Muslim audience. His reading of history thus becomes an exercise in finding inspiration and igniting hope for the anxious South Asian Muslims of the modern colonial period.

An even more interesting hermeneutical move presents itself at this juncture. One observes Sayyid Naqvi plotting the ethical side-by-side with the historical. The occasion is Abraham’s pleading with God in the context of Lot’s story. Yes, the prophet-guides of Islam had always suffered in the hands of their community; the community rebelled and disobeyed them, yet the prophets never cursed them nor took revenge. They, in reality, went beyond simply being patient with their communities. They went out of their way to protect their communities, through prayers, through intercession with God, and at times, even by arguing with Him. Abraham’s efforts to protect Lot’s community is presented as a key example in this regard. Through Qurʾanic references, Sayyid Naqvi notes how when the Divine Wisdom found no room for rehabilitating Lot’s community (and it sent angels to punish them) Abraham argued with them and with God to protect them (14).((Here, he is making reference to the following Qurʾanic verses: Hūd (11):74, al-Sharḥ (94):6, and Āl-i ʿImrān (3):19. Making sure that the incident is not read as Abraham’s disobedience toward God’s Will, Sayyid Naqvi notes that Abraham’s act of dissent is his special privilege as the intimate friend of God, and therefore a friendly and frank quarrelling that only friends could do. (14-15) ))

They, in reality, went beyond simply being patient with their communities. They went out of their way to protect their communities, through prayers, through intercession with God, and at times, even by arguing with Him.

One final instance of the edification of his audiences should suffice. The context is Abraham’s building of the House of God in Mecca:

In pointing out the centrality of Mecca to the story of Islam, the opportunity for highlighting the significance of hard work was not neglected either.

One more point needs to be made regarding the theological underpinnings of this intertwining of the historical and the ethical: the overarching theological vision that provides the parameters and criteria by which particular events of history are assessed and commented upon exhibits an unmistakable Shiʿi coloring. Sayyid Naqvi’s subtle and repeated stress that “Islam is a religion of the oppressed” in these early pages is, in orientation, quite clearly Shiʿi: The history of Islam—which includes all previous prophets—is the history of an oppressed and suffering community. If the message of the various prophets is one with the message of the Prophet of Islam, they also share a common fate: that they will be misunderstood, their teachings will be forgotten by most, and the prophets will always suffer at the hands of their communities. It is obvious how this particular lens through which Sayyid Naqvi looked upon history could easily be extended to the life of the Prophet on the one hand, and to the household of the Prophet on the other. It is also clear how Sayyid Naqvi would tie this view of history to the sufferings of Ḥusayn (ʿa) and his companions on the planes of Karbala. Like the episode of Abraham, the events of Karbala revealed the extent of Umayyad oppression and Ḥusayn’s forbearance in the face of that oppression. This view of history is clearly distinct from the usual Sunni version of a triumphant and victorious Islam.

Syed Rizwan Zamir is an associate professor of Religious Studies at the department of religion at Davidson College in Davidson, NC, where he teaches introductory and advanced courses in the area of Islamic studies, specializing in Islamic thought and spirituality. Dr. Zamir’s Ph.D. dissertation was on the religio-intellectual thought of Sayyid ʿAlī Naqvī and his profound influence on the religious and social landscape of the Shiʿi community in South Asia. He received a B.A. from the University of Punjab and also James Madison University. Dr. Zamir earned his Ph.D. from the University of Virginia.

What do the Qurʾan and aḥādīth teach us about knowledge and wisdom? What role does knowledge play in our religious life? And what can we learn from the lives of our ʿulamāʾ, in devoting our lives to seeking deep and critical knowledge, and striving for a life of taqwā and God-consciousness? We sat down with Sayyid Munīr al-Khabbāz to gain insights into these questions and more.

Sayyid al-Khabbāz is among the senior ʿulamāʾ and teachers of the Qumm seminary. Originally from Qatif, Saudi Arabia, Sayyid al-Khabbāz began his seminary training at the young age of 14, and has studied with some of the most eminent scholars of our time, including Sayyid Abu al-Qāsim al-Khūʾī, Sayyid Muḥammad ʿAlī al-Sīstānī, and Mīrzā Jawād al-Tabrīzī. Currently, he teaches the subjects of uṣūl al-fiqh (Islamic legal theory) and fiqh (Islamic law) at the highest level (al-baḥth al-khārij) in the Qumm seminary.

Al-Sidrah: How do our revealed religious texts define knowledge (ʿilm) and wisdom (ḥikmah)? How are the two distinct from one another?

SMK: In the discipline of logic, knowledge is traditionally defined as a concept that is present in the mind. It is divided into two types: simple apprehension (taṣawwur) and ascension (taṣdīq). Linguistically, knowledge is defined as the unveiling of reality or truth for a person. But our religious texts do not use the word “ʿilm” (knowledge) in a particular way (ḥaqīqah sharʿiyyah) that is distinct from its lexical meaning.

Some aḥādīth describe knowledge as a light that God bestows upon the hearts of whomever He wills among His servants. Others state that knowledge is better than wealth because wealth depletes as it is spent, whereas knowledge grows when it is used; or that those who collect and guard wealth are overcome and defeated even while they are still alive, whereas scholars (ʿulamāʾ) persist forever; or state that knowledge calls to action, and if it finds action [then it stays], otherwise it departs. The apparent sense of these texts appears to describe knowledge as the presence of God in the soul (nafs) of a person. When a person is able to perceive God as present in his own soul, he has attained this knowledge that the aḥādīth indicate, a knowledge that protects one from hypocrisy, that is more valuable than wealth, and that allows a person to attain the good of this world and the hereafter. This spiritual presence of God is the light (nūr) which he puts into the hearts of His servants, a reality He alludes to in the verse, “God guides whom He pleases to His light.” ((Qurʾan, al-Nūr (24):35.))

As for the term “wisdom” (ḥikmah), linguistically it refers to situating things in their proper place. If a person has this ability, he is characterized as wise (ḥakīm) because his action are coherent and “firm” (muḥkam), for he places things where they ought to be. A number of verses of the Qurʾan speak about the effects of wisdom. For example, the Qurʾan states: “Whoever is given wisdom, he has been given abundant good;”((Qurʾan, al-Baqarah (2):269.)) “God bestowed upon you the book and wisdom and gave you knowledge of that which you knew not. The grace of God upon you is of great magnitude.”((Qurʾan, al-Nisāʾ (4): 113.)) Ḥikmah is in fact juxtaposed or paralleled to the divine Book (kitāb): “It is he who sent forth to the ummīyīn, from among them, a messenger who recites to them His signs, purifies them, and teaches them the Book and wisdom.”((Qurʾan, al-Jumuʿah (62): 2.))

Thus, wisdom refers to that totality of virtues that come as a result of the dominion of the intellect over all other faculties of the soul.

From the apparent sense of these verses—with the first verse equating wisdom with the divine Book, the second stating that wisdom is something taught and bestowed, and the final stating that whoever is bestowed with ḥikmah is bestowed with “abundant good”—we can understand wisdom to be the sum total of what it means to have righteous conduct, what we call practical wisdom (al-ḥikmah al-ʿamaliyyah). Ḥikmah refers in reality to the totality of virtues. The faculties of the soul are usually divided into three main categories: anger, lust, and intellect (al-ghaḍabiyyah, al-shahwiyyah, and al-ʿaqliyyah). Wisdom is when the soul’s intellectual faculty has dominion over the other faculties, a state in which every action that emanates from a person emanates from the balance that the intellect creates within that person’s soul. Thus, wisdom refers to the totality of virtues that result from the dominion of the intellect over all other faculties of the soul.

Al-Sidrah: What role does knowledge play in a person’s piety and spiritual growth? Is knowledge a necessary element in this growth?

SMK: There is no doubt that knowledge is necessary for a person to attain true piety. We read in the Qurʾan that, “It is only the knowledgeable (ʿulamāʾ) among God’s servants who fear Him.”((Qurʾan, Fāṭir (35):28.)) The apparent sense of this verse signifies delimitation and exclusivity, that the [singular] path towards true piety and fear of God is knowledge. A second verse states, “Is he who supplicates in the watches of the night, prostrating and standing, apprehensive of the Hereafter and expecting the mercy of his Lord [like someone who is not such]? Say: Are those who know equal to those who do not know? Only those who possess intellect take heed.”((Qurʾan, al-Zumar (39):9.)) Prostration and standing in prayer are succeeded by a reference to knowledge; in other words, these actions are fruitful only by virtue of the presence of knowledge. [The verses commands:] say that these acts of worship are only fruitful with and by the presence of knowledge, that only a knowledgeable person can benefit from this worship. Therefore, knowledge is the path to piety, to real and true fear of God, Sublime and Holy is He.

However, only knowledge that is connected to the Divine, to Allah, can fulfil this role. Other types of knowledge cannot do so, even if that knowledge is itself intrinsically valuable. Sometimes a person commits an act because it contains an intrinsic value; at other times, he acts in a utilitarian way, to receive some other benefit. Sometimes, a person seeks to use the sunlight, or he wants to utilize water from the sea, or whatever other blessing that God has bestowed. This person aims to benefit from those objects in themselves. At other times, a person may approach an object to gain something else. It is this second case that is relevant to knowledge; in other words, divine knowledge is when a person sees all the beings of this world as simply signs of God and emanations of the Divine. If he sees all these things as means to an ultimate end, then he has traversed the path of knowledge that will convey him to true piety and fear of God.

In this respect, the following hadith is narrated from Amīr al-Muʾminīn (ʿa), “I have not seen anything except while seeing God before it, after it, with it, and within it.”((قال امير المؤمنين: ما رأيت شيئاً إلاّ ورأيت الله قبله وبعده ومعه وفيه.)) It is also reported from the Imam, “Even if [all] veils were to be lifted, my level of certainty would not be increased.”((لَوْ كُشِفَ اَلْغِطَاءُ مَا اِزْدَدْتُ يَقِيناً. Muḥammad Bāqir al-Majlisī, Biḥār al-Anwār, vol. 40, p. 153.)) This type of sacred ʿAlawī soul does not see any being except as a means, as a manifestation of God and a mirror reflecting God. He is, in effect, an instance of the verse, “We will show them our signs in the horizons and in their own selves such that it becomes manifest that it is the truth. Does it suffice not that your Lord is witness over all things?”((Qurʾan, Fuṣṣilat (41):53.))

Al-Sidrah: Whenever we hear the phrase “religious sciences” we often think of fiqh and tafsīr. How do we differentiate between religious and non-religious sciences? What is the criteria for this distinction?

SMK: A report is transmitted from Imām al-Ṣādiq (ʿa) in which he says, “Teach your children from our knowledge what will avail them.” What is meant by “our knowledge” mentioned in this hadith? Religious knowledge, or in other words, the knowledge of the Ahl al-Bayt, is every knowledge that is relevant to the realization of God’s aims and goals on Earth. Every science or field that has a share in accomplishing this final aim is considered “religious knowledge”, because it is a means of actualizing religion and its realization on Earth. We read in the Qurʾan: “By God! We have most certainly sent our messengers with clear signs and sent down with them the book and the scale so that the people establish equity.”((Qurʾan, al-Ḥadīd (57):25.)) The entire purpose of sending messengers was to establish equity. Thus, every knowledge or science that shares in establishing equity is properly classified as “religious knowledge.” We also find in the Qurʾan: “I created not the jinn and mankind except that they worship me.”((Qurʾan, al-Dhāriyāt (51):56.)) [This verse states that] another goal of the creation of jinn and humankind is worship. All knowledge that allows for the realization of worship is properly “religious knowledge.”

Therefore, the religious sciences are not limited to fiqh, uṣūl, ḥadīth, the Qurʾanic sciences, etc. Rather, any knowledge that allows for the realization of the goals of religion is religious knowledge or science. This is what separates the religious sciences from the non-religious sciences.

Al-Sidrah: …So some human sciences or social sciences could also be considered religious science or knowledge.

SMK: Yes, even some social and natural sciences can fall under the category of religious sciences, if they are a means to the realization of those religious ends.

…any knowledge that allows for the realization of the goals of religion is religious knowledge or science.

al-Sidrah: The curriculum of the ḥawzah and that of universities is different both in the topics that they study and in the amount of time they spending acquiring the necessary competencies. What are the reasons for and benefits of the traditional ḥawzah curriculum?

SMK: The traditional curriculum of the ḥawzah is, from one perspective, beneficial and praiseworthy, but from another, open to criticism. The traditional curriculum of the ḥawzah has a special property, namely that it cultivates in the student the capacity to think and engage with issues critically but productively. The ḥawzah is based on quality, not quantity, meaning that it focuses on cultivating a person’s mind to critique and produce, to meticulously analyze information and present new theories. This is the difference between a curriculum that focuses on induction and one that focuses on reasoned argument and deduction.

This does not mean, however, that the seminary curriculum is free of any criticism. In many standardized texts of the seminary, the information that is taught may be from a previous era. For example, one of the best texts on legal theory and hermeneutics (uṣūl al-fiqh) is al-Kifāyah.((Kifāyat al-Uṣūl is a textbook on legal theory and hermeneutics written by al-Ākhūnd Muḥammad Kāẓim al-Khurāsānī (1839-1911). It is currently taught as a foundational textbook in the field of legal theory (uṣūl al-fiqh).)) This book represents a particular level of legal theory that was present at the author’s time. As for the contemporary state of the field of legal theory, a student has to struggle to learn and understand it himself. The same is true in Islamic law (fiqh) wherein the standard texts that are studied, by al-Shaykh al-Anṣārī, al-Shahīd al-Awwal, or al-Shahīd al-Thānī, reflect the state of the field during their time. This is also the case with the study of philosophy. Today’s textbooks—the Manẓūmah of al-Sabzawārī, the Asfār of al-Mullā Ṣadrā, Bidāyat al-Ḥikmah and Nihāyat al-Ḥikmah of al-ʿAllāmah al-Ṭabāṭabāʾī—reflect the state of philosophy of previous eras. Today, however, it has become necessary for the student to read and compare the philosophy that is studied in the seminary to that of the West, and to become acquainted with how later philosophers have critiqued previous thought and further developed these fields.

So the seminary’s curriculum is better in the sense that its trains its students to critique and produce, whereas the academic curriculum is beneficial because it stays abreast of current developments in various fields.

al-Sidrah: Many religions in Western society do not place the same emphasis on religious law [as Islam does.] How do we explain to our society the importance of Islamic law to a Muslim?

SMK: Fiqh is a means of assembling and constructing life. Fiqh in this sense is not just the fatāwā that are listed by jurists in their legal manuals; rather, it is composed of religious rulings and general directives to society. More importantly, fiqh is not limited to the individual, rather it also contains laws for the collective. Collective or societal fiqh looks at the general state of society and is not directed at the individual.

For example, we admit that society has many necessities, such as creating a political system. Muslims in the West, in order to bring Islam to life in this society, need to enter into the political sphere in whatever way they can, so as to ensure Muslims have a say and a presence in these Western countries. As a result, the delineation of particular methods by which Muslims can establish their status in society through engagement in the political system is among the concerns of fiqh. Thus, fiqh is not limited to the issues of personal or individual religious practice; we should not think of fiqh simply as a set of rules for the individual regarding his canonical prayers, his individual worship, or his personal transactions.

Sometimes when we read the following in religious legal manuals: “It is obligatory upon every responsible adult to be a mujtahid, follower of a mujtahid, or precautionary actor in all his actions and restraint,” it is as though we interpret fiqh as just focusing on the individual alone. Rather, we must see fiqh in an intimate way, such that it reveals itself as that complete system that is constitutive of life. This is only possible if fiqh is both societal and individual. So, when we look at the fiqh of judgeship, family, roads, etc. with this big-picture view, we are able to present fiqh as a path for structuring life [as a whole], as we see in the verse, “O you who believe! Respond to God and the Messenger when they call you to what gives you life.”((Qurʾan, al-Anfāl (8): 24.))

Al-Sidrah: A few years ago, a question was posed to Sayyid al-Sīstānī about why today’s youth are so quick to forgo their faith and fall into religious and spiritual crises. In his response, Sayyid al-Sīstānī focused on the need to bolster a sense of pride and care for our religious identity, and to try to direct that innate human sense of pride from a young age towards religion and religious identity. Why did Sayyid al-Sīstānī focus on the issue of “religious identity” when answering this question?

SMK: The question posed to him was about a psychological issue, and that was: Why is it that when many Muslim youth face a doubt or question about their religion, they quickly fall into an existential and religious crisis and a loss of faith? What is the root psychological cause for these sudden crises and the resultant loss of faith? The question was asking what these psychological causes are. For this reason, Sayyid al-Sīstānī gave an answer from a psychological standpoint attempting to identify the latent weakness which leads to this quick defeat. He responded that it is part of human nature to have pride for one’s own identity. Sometimes it is pride in a person’s national identity—for example, when a person states [proudly], “I am from such and such country”—or his tribal affiliation—“I come from such and such a tribe,”—or even a linguistic identity—for example, “I am Arab, Persian, etc.” Every human carries within him a deep-seated sense of pride for his identity. It is this psychological element of pride in one’s identity that we must utilize to strengthen a deep sense of religious identity. Therefore, the question was not about responding or resolving these intellectual doubts and deviations, for him to respond scientifically or theoretically, or for example, for him to mention the economic problems, or even the social and sociological issues that cause this religious crisis. It was about the internal psychological issues that cause a person to so quickly lose his faith. The issue [Sayyid al-Sīstānī] identified was that the person does not consider his religion to constitute a part of his identity. Were a person to understand his religion as a part of his identity, he would take the same amount of pride and care regarding his religion as he does for his nation, his language, and so on.

al-Sidrah: We often focus on the intellectual side of the life of ʿulamāʾ—their research and detailed analyses. do you have any stories of the role of piety in the intellectual and academic upbringing of scholars?

SMK: Religious sciences are different from other scholarly fields, insofar as the goal of religious sciences is to create a scholar that is a representative of the religion, which is different from [goals of] other intellectual pursuits. The goal of those [fields] is not for the person to become a symbol or representative of a particular belief [within society]. Because this is the goal of religious knowledge—to create a scholar that represents the religion—it is therefore impossible to separate knowledge from piety, to have religious knowledge without a firm relationship with worship and acts of piety. For this reason, we see that ʿulamāʾ believe that among the established means for a scholar to become a means of reaching God, and a sign from among the signs of God, is for him to pair knowledge with piety.

It is reported that Sayyid Hādī al-Mīlānī—one of our highly-esteemed scholars and marājiʿ—said that one of the conditions of ijtihād is ṣalāt al-layl. This does not meant that it is impossible, as a matter of fact, for a person to reach the level of ijtihād if he is not a performer of tahajjud. What he intended was that ṣalāt al-layl, by its very existential reality, creates a state of sincerity and humility towards God, and allows a person to reach the blessings and graces of the knowledge of Ahl al-Bayt (ʿa). After all, the aḥādīth of the Ahl al-Bayt are not simply just scattered reports. Rather, their narrations contain symbols and secret treasures which a person will not understand without combining knowledge with piety, and truly fearing and humbling oneself towards God.

…ṣalāt al-layl, by its very existential reality, creates a state of sincerity and humility towards God, and allows a person to reach the blessings and graces of the knowledge of Ahl al-Bayt (ʿa).

This is what our ʿulamāʾ have devoted themselves to. Thus, for example, it is reported that al-Shaykh al-Anṣārī((al-Shaykh Murtaḍā al-Dizfūlī al-Anṣārī (1214-1281 A.H./1781-1864 C.E.) was the foremost marjiʿ of his time, completely transforming the fields of Shiʿi law and legal theory of his time. He is widely recognized as both an exemplary scholar, a pious sage, and a teacher of the greatest scholars of succeeding generations. His effect on modern Shiʿi intellectual and religious history can hardly be overemphasized.)) would go to the shrine of Amīr al-Muʾminīn (ʿa) and weep in view of the public for a long time. This was at a time when he was the sole marjiʿ of the Shiʿa. He was setting an example: that the reason he had reached that status—he was the sole marjiʿ of his time and continues to be a pillar of juridical thought to this very day—was because he paired and connected his knowledge with piety.

This is what we have observed of our ʿulamāʾ and marājiʿ, among them our own teacher Sayyid ʿAlī al-Sīstānī, may he prosper for a long time to come. From the beginning of the time I spent with him, even before he became a marjiʿ, we saw that he was a [truly] spiritual person. His relationship with worship was on par with his relationship with knowledge and studying. His love for worship was equal to his love for knowledge and study. It was to such an extent that some colleagues tried to dissuade us from his courses, saying things like, “This man is a dervish…preoccupied with other things, just sitting on his prayer mat with his rosary…He spends hours sitting in the mosque of Kufa and sitting in the mosque of Sahlah,” and other things of this nature. This is how they thought about him, as if he was not qualified for juridical thought.

However, he was following the guidance of Amīr al-Muʾminīn (ʿa), pairing his knowledge with action, his knowledge with asceticism, distancing himself from worldly manifestations. When speaking to his students, he would also cite the example of Shaykh al-Anṣārī, explaining that [Shaykh al-Anṣārī] was the prime example of a scholar who had combined asceticism with knowledge, and knowledge with action.