There was a time when jazz filled my days—when a well-placed horn solo or a smoky bass line felt like a conversation between soul and sky. It wasn’t just music. It was movement, emotion, prayer without words. But somewhere along the path, I let it go. As I became more serious about my faith, I started questioning everything I consumed. Like many Muslims navigating their journey, I came across debates around music: is it haram? Is it a distraction? Does it serve the ego more than the soul? These questions echoed loud enough to drown out my jazz collection. Slowly, I stopped listening—not out of conviction, but out of uncertainty. But silence has its own way of inviting reflection. And in that quiet space, I began to wonder: Was I really abandoning something harmful… or something sacred? That question led me down a path I hadn’t expected—a deep dive into the history of jazz, and more specifically, the legacy of Muslim jazz musicians. What I found was both humbling and inspiring. This post is a tribute to those artists. To the ones who found God in rhythm, who made space for both saxophones and sujood, who turned improvisation into a kind of worship. It’s also an invitation—to look again at what we consider spiritual, and to remember that the soul doesn’t always speak in words. Sometimes, it swings. The Historical Connection: Islam & Jazz in the 20th Century To understand why so many jazz musicians embraced Islam, you have to step into the rhythm of the 1940s and beyond—when segregation still choked the streets of America, and Black artists were carving out space for identity, dignity, and soul. For many, jazz was already more than music. It was resistance. It was expression when the world tried to silence you. But something else was happening beneath the surface—a spiritual hunger. Amidst the chaos of racial injustice and the shallowness of fame, Islam offered something deeper: discipline, brotherhood, and a direct line to God. The Nation of Islam and the Ahmadiyya movement were especially influential during that time. These weren’t just fringe ideas—they were lifelines for Black men and women who had been denied their humanity by dominant Western systems. Islam gave them new names, new purpose, and a language of peace that matched the purity they longed to hear in their music. Artists like Art Blakey, Yusef Lateef, and Ahmad Jamal weren’t just converting—they were transforming. Their spirituality didn’t compete with their music; it sharpened it. You could hear it in the way they played—intentional, contemplative, soulful. In many ways, jazz and Islam were a perfect match. Both rely on improvisation within structure. Both ask you to listen closely. Both demand sincerity. In a time when the world treated Black identity like noise, Islam and jazz together became a symphony of self-respect. Art Blakey (Abdullah Ibn Buhaina): The Beat Behind the Belief When Art Blakey sat behind a drum kit, it wasn’t just about rhythm—it was about revelation. Every hit, every roll, every explosive solo felt like a heartbeat echoing with purpose. He wasn’t just playing jazz. He was preaching through it. Born in 1919 in Pittsburgh, Blakey came up in the golden era of jazz, and by the 1940s, he was already a force. But in 1947, a trip to West Africa changed everything. While touring with the legendary Billy Eckstine Band, Blakey spent time in Nigeria and Ghana, and it was there that he embraced Islam—taking the name : Abdullah Ibn Buhaina. Blakey didn’t talk much about the details of his conversion, but those close to him said Islam brought him a kind of grounding he hadn’t known before. In a world where Black artists were often exploited, Islam gave him dignity. In an industry known for chaos, it gave him order. And yet, Blakey didn’t separate his faith from his music. He poured it into his work—especially through his legendary group, The Jazz Messengers. That band wasn’t just a showcase of talent; it was a training ground, a spiritual school for generations of musicians who would go on to change jazz forever. Under Blakey’s leadership, The Jazz Messengers became a sanctuary of sorts. He held his players to high standards—not just musically, but ethically. Many say he was like an elder, guiding younger musicians not just through chord changes, but through life. Blakey himself once said : Music washes away the dust of everyday life. And for him, that dust included racism, injustice, spiritual restlessness—the grime of a world that too often forgot God. His drumming was thunderous, but it came from a place of calm. A place of faith. So when we talk about jazz as a spiritual path, we have to start with Art Blakey. Not just because he was a genius behind the drums, but because he showed us what it looks like when rhythm becomes remembrance—when belief lives in the beat. Yusef Lateef: The Seeker of Sound and Spirit If Art Blakey brought Islam to the drum kit, Yusef Lateef brought it to the cosmos. Born William Emanuel Huddleston in Chattanooga, Tennessee in 1920, Lateef was already a gifted musician by his teens. But it was in 1948 that he embraced Islam and took the name that would become iconic in both jazz and spiritual circles: Yusef Lateef. What set Lateef apart wasn’t just his skill—though he was a master of the tenor sax, flute, oboe, bassoon, and more—it was his relentless curiosity. He didn’t see jazz as a fixed form. To him, it was a vessel. A way to explore culture, history, and the divine. Lateef was one of the first jazz musicians to openly and intentionally incorporate non-Western instruments and scales into his music. He drew from Middle Eastern maqams, Asian folk traditions, African rhythms, and—crucially—Islamic spiritual concepts. His 1957 album "Prayer to the East" wasn’t just a title—it was a statement. A sonic turning toward Mecca. He saw music as an extension of adab’—Islamic etiquette, refinement, and inner discipline. He once said: My music is about reaching people with sound that comes from a pure place. Music should heal, not harm. That intention bled into every note he played. His compositions weren’t about impressing people with technical skill; they were about affecting the heart. In that way, his jazz felt more like dhikr—a remembrance of the Divine. Yusef Lateef taught us that Islam doesn’t limit creativity—it expands it. That jazz doesn’t have to be secular to be sacred. And that sometimes, the holiest sound is not a spoken prayer, but a flute played with sincerity. Ahmad Jamal: The Sound of Stillness In a world that often equates greatness with volume, Ahmad Jamal taught us that less can be more sacred. Born Frederick Russell Jones in Pittsburgh in 1930, Jamal converted to Islam in the early 1950s and took the name Ahmad Jamal. Like Blakey and Lateef, his journey into Islam wasn’t just a name change—it was a lifestyle, a philosophy, a code of presence and purpose that deeply shaped his music. Jamal’s playing was quiet, intentional, and precise—almost minimalist. But don’t let that fool you. Beneath the space and silence was a *force*. Miles Davis once said Jamal was one of his biggest influences, and if you listen close, you’ll hear it: the way Jamal played with time, with tension, with breath—it was like listening to someone meditate through melody. His album “Ahmad Jamal at the Pershing: But Not for Me” became a huge success in 1958, but Jamal never chased fame. Instead, he focused on integrity—refusing to let ego hijack his art. He was known for running a tight band, for avoiding the club scene drama, and for living a life rooted in spiritual discipline. Jamal once said in an interview: The philosophy of Islam has been so beautiful to me. It’s a religion of peace. It’s a religion of cleanliness. It’s a religion of tolerance. That calm strength? You can feel it in every recording. In many ways, Jamal’s music was a reminder that faith doesn’t always shout. Sometimes, it whispers with elegance. To be continued :

Lost in Finding Religion: A Journey Beyond Borders For those who seek truth, the path can feel like a paradox. We search for spiritual enlightenment, only to find ourselves enclosed within walls built by the very teachings that once opened our hearts. Each religion, with its beauty and wisdom, also seems to hold an unspoken rule: that the light you have found must remain within its shell, never to be shared beyond its borders. I have walked this journey myself. I was raised without a certain faith. It shaped my childhood, gave no rhythm to my days, weeks, months or years, and offered me a hollow, empty sense of belonging. Finding Islam, the familiar call to prayer, the rituals of Ramadan, the sacred stories passed from generation to generation—these are all part of my current foundation that holds me. And yet, as I grew older, a quiet restlessness stirrs within me. My heart begins to lean toward broader horizon, to ask questions that do not have easy answers. I ain't looking to leave anything behind; I am simply seeking more. When I red about the Bahá'í Faith, it wasn’t in a moment of rejection—it was in a moment of expansion. The teachings of unity, the oneness of humanity, and especially the concept of "progressive revelation" opened a new dimension of understanding for me. The idea that all prophets—Muhammad, Jesus, Moses, Buddha, Krishna, Bahá'u'lláh—brought the same divine light in forms that suited their time... it made sense. It wasn’t in conflict with what I knew from the Qur’an—it added to it, deepened it. Not a new religion for me, but a broader lens through which to appreciate the wisdom I already held. Still, I didn’t want to abandon Islam. So I did not. The daily rhythm of Salat, I am supposed too, keeps me focussed and awake, the five prayers, anchors me. They bring me back to myself, and to God. They are not just rituals—they are a kind of homecoming. In those moments of silence, of surrender, I find clarity. And when I open the Qur’an, I find reminders that reinforce my path: “Indeed, this Qur’an guides to that which is most upright and gives good tidings to the believers who do righteous deeds that they will have a great reward.” — Surah Al-Isra (17:9) And another verse that always speaks to my soul when I start to feel pulled in too many directions: “And do not be like those who forgot Allah, so He made them forget themselves. Those are the defiantly disobedient.” — Surah Al-Hashr (59:19) In Sufi thought, I found a bridge—a way to explore deeply without losing my roots. Ibn Arabi wrote: "Do not attach yourself to any particular creed exclusively... The object of your search should be the Truth itself, and not any particular embodiment of it." That line gave me permission to learn from many places while staying devoted to my own. But Sufism doesn’t only encourage openness—it also emphasizes the depth of one’s own well. Rumi, another master of the inward path, once said: "You were born with wings. Why prefer to crawl through life?" And yet, he also reminded: "The way of the Sufi is the way of devotion. You must stay in one place long enough for the truth to enter you." That speaks to me now more than ever. Because the truth is—religions, in their earthly forms, can sometimes discourage followers from looking beyond. They can become protective, fearful of influence, concerned with boundaries. But the soul is not built for confinement. It is built for longing, and for flight. Even so, I’ve learned that while openness is essential, so is rootedness. You can explore other mountains, but you need one to climb. You can taste many waters, but you need one well to draw from daily. Spiritual growth takes time. It takes return. There is a beauty in continuity. Just as a tree grows deeper roots by remaining planted, so too do we, by sticking with the path that grounds us. You can open your windows to the world, but you still need a home to return to. So perhaps the real challenge is balance. To stay faithful, without becoming closed. To stay open, without becoming scattered. To allow the light from many traditions to illuminate your path, while walking it with both feet planted in your own. The Light Beyond the Walls I built my house in the garden of prayer, Five times a day, I returned there. The wind would knock, carrying songs From temples, churches, foreign tongues. I listened—not to betray my roof, But to know if all flames came from one truth. A voice said: “Drink where the river runs, But do not forget where your well begun.” I met the traveler with many names, He spoke of Prophets as one flame. I saw no war in his reflection, Only mirrors of divine connection. Yet still, I missed the scent of my dawn— The call to prayer, the peace of Qur’an. For though I’d tasted other skies, It was this moon that steadied my eyes. Ibn Arabi whispered through silence deep: Don’t marry form; seek what it keeps. But Rumi touched my heart more still: Stand in your love. Let the world refill. O seeker—yes, roam, but don’t uproot. Let your branches stretch, but guard your root. The Truth is vast, but so is the Way That brought you here, that taught you to pray. One lamp may light a thousand more, But it must remain on the prayer room floor. Dance with the stars, wander the sea— But return to the ground where you learned to be.

The Intellectual and Historical Foundations of Imam al-Nawawi’s Riyadh al-Salihin Imam Yahya ibn Sharaf al-Nawawi (1233–1277 CE) was a towering figure in Islamic scholarship whose contributions to hadith, jurisprudence, and spirituality remain influential. This post explores the intellectual background of al-Nawawi prior to his compilation of Riyadh al-Salihin, tracing his formative years, scholarly influences, and the socio-religious climate that motivated him to produce this seminal work. By examining his methodology and objectives, this study elucidates how Riyadh al-Salihin was conceived as a response to ethical and spiritual challenges in the Muslim community of his time. Introduction The study of hadith literature and its role in shaping Islamic ethical and moral philosophy has long been a cornerstone of Islamic intellectual history. Among the scholars who significantly contributed to this field is Imam al-Nawawi, whose work Riyadh al-Salihin (The Gardens of the Righteous) is one of the most widely studied hadith collections. To understand the motivations and intellectual trajectory that led to its compilation, it is crucial to examine al-Nawawi’s formative years, his scholarly environment, and the prevailing social and religious circumstances of 13th-century Syria. Al-Nawawi’s Early Life and Educational Development Born in the town of Nawa in the region of southern Syria, al-Nawawi exhibited an extraordinary inclination toward knowledge from an early age. At approximately 18 years old, he moved to Damascus, a leading center of Islamic learning, where he enrolled in Madrasa al-Rawahiyya. Under the tutelage of some of the most distinguished scholars of the time, he immersed himself in an intensive study of the Islamic sciences, particularly hadith, fiqh (jurisprudence), and Arabic linguistics. Al-Nawawi’s scholarly methodology was characterized by rigorous study habits and asceticism. Historical reports suggest that he would study up to 12 lessons daily, covering multiple disciplines. His engagement with both textual sources and oral transmission of knowledge cemented his reputation as a polymath deeply rooted in the classical traditions of Islamic legal and ethical thought. The Socio-Religious Context of 13th-Century Syria The period in which al-Nawawi lived was marked by political instability and moral decay in certain segments of the Muslim society. The Mongol invasions had left parts of the Islamic world in disarray, while within the Mamluk-controlled regions, scholars were grappling with the challenge of preserving religious knowledge and moral conduct amidst political turbulence. Al-Nawawi was particularly concerned with the decline of personal piety and ethical consciousness among Muslims. His writings often emphasize the necessity of reviving core Islamic values, such as sincerity (ikhlas), patience (sabr), and humility (tawadhu ), as mechanisms for spiritual and communal renewal. The Intellectual Motivation Behind Riyadh al-Salihin Al-Nawawi’s decision to compile Riyadh al-Salihin was driven by a desire to produce an accessible yet comprehensive guide to ethical and spiritual development. Unlike other hadith collections primarily focused on jurisprudential rulings (ahkam), Riyadh al-Salihin centers on the refinement of character (tazkiyat al-nafs). The collection is systematically arranged into thematic chapters covering virtues such as sincerity, patience, gratitude, and benevolence, with hadith selected to offer practical moral guidance. His methodological approach in compiling this work reveals an intent to bridge the gap between theoretical knowledge and applied ethics. By selecting hadiths that emphasize moral conduct and personal discipline, al-Nawawi sought to create a text that was not only scholarly but also practical for the general Muslim population. The arrangement of hadiths follows a pedagogical structure designed to cultivate a gradual internalization of Islamic virtues. Part one in a nutshell The intellectual and social forces that shaped al-Nawawi’s scholarly pursuits culminated in the compilation of Riyadh al-Salihin as a response to both the ethical shortcomings and spiritual needs of the Muslim community of his time. His work remains an enduring testament to the interplay between hadith scholarship and ethical philosophy, serving as a cornerstone for Islamic moral instruction across generations. Understanding al-Nawawi’s motivations provides deeper insight into how classical Islamic scholarship was not merely a theoretical pursuit but a lived engagement with the moral and social realities of the time. References - Al-Nawawi, Yahya ibn Sharaf. Riyadh al-Salihin. - Makdisi, George. The Rise of Colleges: Institutions of Learning in Islam and the West. - Ibn Hajar al-Asqalani. Al-Durar al-Kamina.