Voice of British Muslim Women

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

Yusra Dahri, Tilford

Last year, I wrote an article entitled ‘Our Khalifa in the Quiet: the Greatness of Humility’ about His Holiness Mirza Masroor Ahmad – my grandfather. It was my first time writing an article of that nature, and I was dually anxious about accidentally misrepresenting someone I love not only as a granddaughter, but also as an Ahmadi.

But I needn’t have worried. The sincerity that I prayed would come across in the article, already existed within the hearts of every Ahmadi who read it. In truth, my writing did nothing. It was the pre-existing love between Ahmadis and Khilafat that prevented me from being misunderstood.

It is this mutual love that has given me the courage to write once again:

It was the last Friday of Ramadan. Huzoor* had finished his Friday Sermon and had just led the Friday Prayers. I often pop in to visit my grandparents at lunchtime during Ramadan, though of course there’s not really a ‘lunch’, per se. 

I remember meeting Huzoor at the foot of the stairs. He was going to the upper portion of the house. Huzoor is quite a fast walker, whereas I am – well – not, so I was a little bit breathless suddenly going up the stairs. I was expressing how I had found that day’s sermon, especially the part about attaining pleasure in your Prayers, really thought-provoking. In turn, Huzoor asked me if I hadn’t found the sermon too difficult to understand. This is because, like my legs, my Urdu vocabulary is less than extensive.

I admitted that I had to ask my mother the meaning of certain words, such as lazzat and suroor. Huzoor nodded when I said that I now knew that they meant something along the lines of enjoyment and delight. When Huzoor asks me questions like that, I realise that he is also silently teaching me something: do not do something in name only. It may be harder for you, but you must still try.

To Huzoor, it didn’t matter as much if his words reached my ears, or if I even praised those words. It mattered if those words had been understood. By my mind, by my heart, by my soul. Step by step, word by word, meanings slowly open up for you, and your perception of life changes.

We reached the top of the stairs. I love that part of the house, because of how stunning the Islamabad sunsets are. But sunset was a long time away, so it wasn’t the time I usually go up there. I saw no sunsets, but I saw the steady line of Ahmadis walking out of the mosque, down the lane.

I lifted my eyes from the window to look up at Huzoor, who I was standing next to. I saw how he smiled and his face glowed as he watched the worshippers leaving together. He mentioned to me that as the world returns to normal, more Ahmadis would be able to offer Prayers together, God Willing. I turned back to the window, watching the Ahmadis walk along the path.

As I leant against the windowsill, I felt a smile rise up in my own chest, feeling that this was a moment that I would remember. I was standing next to the best person I know, our beloved Huzoor, whose first instinct is not to rest, despite delivering a one hour sermon while fasting. Instead, he looks out the window with so much warmth in his eyes, unknown to the Ahmadis below, and he hopes that they’ll have more chances to pray together. It is the purest thing I have ever seen.

I realised something that day: Huzoor loves us, even when we are not looking. Our Khalifa after Khutba (sermon), is the same Khalifa we see whilst it is being delivered. The same one, who still thinks about us once we finish our congregational Prayers or turn off MTA. If ever, we are the ones who close our eyes to his care and attention.

But, God Willing, it is God alone who opens our eyes, and guides our hands.

When we look again, it is a rope that we hold. When we try again, it is a rope that we can climb:

Step by step.