Voice of British Muslim Women

Yusra Dahri, Tilford

*Huzoor is the term Ahmadi Muslims use to refer to His Holiness, the fifth Caliph/Khalifa of the Ahmadiyya Muslim Community*

There’s no denying that family can often influence your relationship with faith, especially growing up in a religious family. As a child, the way you see your most religious relatives can affect the way you view religion itself – for better or for worse.

Only when we are older, and we understand Islam, can we discern the difference between the actions of Muslims and the pristine teachings of Islam. As a result, we might endeavour to become better than those who came before us.

However, I grew up watching someone who I quickly recognised as following Islam as truthfully and sincerely as perhaps is humanly possible: Hazrat Mirza Masroor Ahmad (may Allah be his Helper), the fifth Caliph of the Ahmadiyya Muslim Community, and my grandfather.

Throughout my life, I have been sure of this:

Huzoor’s integrity.

I do not say this lightly, because I do not believe there is a better measure of a person’s character than how they behave when they believe no one is watching. When there is no reason to believe that what they say or do will be recorded, or even remembered. And yet, Huzoor’s example has always been unforgettable to me.

I do not speak of sweeping events of grandeur or glory, but the quiet moments of humility and kindness, where I believe a person’s true character can be found. Those are the moments I know best.

Huzoor’s humility – as is all true humility – is silent. He is silent when he wipes something off the floor that nobody has seen or bothered to clean. He is silent when he washes the fruit that arrives at the door, before anyone has realised to help. He is silent when he picks vegetables from the garden, or lifts heavy bags, or clears out the hoover. I have come to memorise his footsteps, to listen for the silence – where there is not one word or reproach, only patience.

But Huzoor speaks out at injustice. He speaks out when someone has said an unkind word. He speaks out at the cruelty countries dole out to their citizens. He speaks out at the suffering of Ahmadis around the world. Not only in Friday Sermons, but he frequently mentions this at the dinner table. It is a constant thought. Yet, he never complains of any personal suffering, major or minor. I ask Huzoor how he is, and he smiles and says, “Alhamdulillah.”

Huzoor’s kindness has shaped my life, and I am grateful for the opportunity to say this openly. It may surprise some people who have read other blogs that I have written, that as a younger teenager, I used to be very shy about my writing, especially my poetry. Huzoor and my grandmother discovered this and encouraged me to share my poetry with them, which I tentatively did. Encouraged by this, I shared a second and a third poem. At the fourth poem, Huzoor took my poem and began reading it. Out. Loud. That day, I hid under the dining table for a good five minutes until my embarrassment died down. Once I came back to the surface, I felt my lifelong shyness begin to subside.

Huzoor encouraged me to give my poems to Lajna to publish, so that it could empower other girls my age. So, I began to write more, and share more. After one Jalsa, Huzoor’s example inspired me so much that I wrote a poem to him, about him. After I gave it to him, I ran away. Later, he simply told me that he didn’t know what to say. I won’t publish this poem, partly because I really would die from embarrassment, but also because Huzoor never encouraged me to share it. I don’t think that’s what he would want. Huzoor doesn’t ask for praise, which only makes him deserve it more. It’s the things that are left unsaid that often need to be said the most.

Other examples of Huzoor’s kindness are sprinkled throughout my life. Last winter when it snowed, I stopped building a snowman because my fingerless gloves made my hands too cold. Huzoor noticed that I had stopped and so gave me his gloves instead. When I was about 11, I, for some reason, really wanted to play chess with Huzoor. He came back at around 11:30 that night from his office, and at that age, I guess I lacked the sensitivity to consider that he could be tired from working so late. I realise this now looking back, but at the time, Huzoor never said a word to make me feel as though I was being ridiculous or that it wasn’t the best time. He simply played with me, and told me I had gotten better at chess. When the mood is low, and everyone is preoccupied with their own weariness, Huzoor’s humour always lightens the room. There are times when I have felt sadness creeping up on me, but Huzoor’s cheerful demeanor has brought me back to reality.

Perhaps most obvious of all, I have learnt so much from Huzoor. He has taught me that, say, when a handle falls off a cupboard, a person should rely on their own strength to fix it, rather than asking for outside help. Though dinner isn’t necessarily the best time for a theological discussion, Huzoor always answers my questions about Islam with clarity and acuity. And, how to pray.

When I hear Huzoor pray, my heart feels both heavy and light at the same time. Heavy, because of my slight understanding of the responsibilities he carries. Light, because God has chosen this person to be our Khalifa.