finding the Prophet in his people
Last night, my son had an ikhtibaar (exam) at the jami'yyah -- he was being tested for the portion of the Qur'aan he has learnt so far. His ustaadh took him and a couple of other kids from his neighbourhood halaqah to the (bigger) masjid where the exam was being held.
After the exam, he brought the kids back and on the way he played them a cassette of anaasheed on his car stereo.
It made a huge impression on my son. ''He played the cassette especially for us, Umma,'' he said.
At other times, I've heard my son narrating ahaadeeth and stories his teachers have told him, and even personal anecdotes from the ustaadh's childhood. Once, the teachers herded all the kids together in their personal cars and took them to a playground to play football, another time they were taken on a trip to an amusement park and plied with their favourite snacks.
Needless to say, their kindness makes a big difference to their students. Mind you, these aren't their regular schoolteachers but part-time teachers who are probably students themselves, who've taken up the enormously daunting task of keeping unruly bunches of young schoolboys in one piece through the long summer hours and helping them revise their Qur'aan.
After picking them up, there was still time for salah, so we headed back home and stopped at the masjid that's right in front of our home to pray 'isha. I sent my sons off to the men's section, and they popped right back looking a bit worried, saying there's no one there except the mu'aththin.
Not wanting them to kill time, I sent them back and asked my elder son to ask the mu'aththin if he would allow him to say athaan just this once.
He came back looking a bit crushed, cheeks and ears aflame: ''He said no.''
From my other son, I gathered that the mu'aththin had been a bit...umm..brusque in his refusal.
I could understand the mu'aththin's point of view -- he had the rules to think of, and the masjid committee and possibly other worshippers who could ask him why he'd relegated his duty to a child.
What I couldn't understand was the brusqueness, the lack of kindness in his refusal.
At times like these, I miss Rasoolullaah صلىالله عليه وسلم .
How can the followers of the Prophet صلىالله عليه وسلم who took bay'ah in all seriousness from a group of children in his masjid, who said man laa yarham, laa yurham of the man who hadn't ever kissed any of his children, who patted children on the head as he passed them on the street neglect to follow his primary sunnah of kindness, while scrupulously sticking to all others?
It reminded me of something I'd read by Dr. Ingrid Mattson, on Finding the Prophet in his People, where she recounts her experiences as a new Muslim, and later as a Muslim mother.
Definitely worth a read, and a pause for thought.
After the exam, he brought the kids back and on the way he played them a cassette of anaasheed on his car stereo.
It made a huge impression on my son. ''He played the cassette especially for us, Umma,'' he said.
At other times, I've heard my son narrating ahaadeeth and stories his teachers have told him, and even personal anecdotes from the ustaadh's childhood. Once, the teachers herded all the kids together in their personal cars and took them to a playground to play football, another time they were taken on a trip to an amusement park and plied with their favourite snacks.
Needless to say, their kindness makes a big difference to their students. Mind you, these aren't their regular schoolteachers but part-time teachers who are probably students themselves, who've taken up the enormously daunting task of keeping unruly bunches of young schoolboys in one piece through the long summer hours and helping them revise their Qur'aan.
After picking them up, there was still time for salah, so we headed back home and stopped at the masjid that's right in front of our home to pray 'isha. I sent my sons off to the men's section, and they popped right back looking a bit worried, saying there's no one there except the mu'aththin.
Not wanting them to kill time, I sent them back and asked my elder son to ask the mu'aththin if he would allow him to say athaan just this once.
He came back looking a bit crushed, cheeks and ears aflame: ''He said no.''
From my other son, I gathered that the mu'aththin had been a bit...umm..brusque in his refusal.
I could understand the mu'aththin's point of view -- he had the rules to think of, and the masjid committee and possibly other worshippers who could ask him why he'd relegated his duty to a child.
What I couldn't understand was the brusqueness, the lack of kindness in his refusal.
At times like these, I miss Rasoolullaah صلىالله عليه وسلم .
How can the followers of the Prophet صلىالله عليه وسلم who took bay'ah in all seriousness from a group of children in his masjid, who said man laa yarham, laa yurham of the man who hadn't ever kissed any of his children, who patted children on the head as he passed them on the street neglect to follow his primary sunnah of kindness, while scrupulously sticking to all others?
It reminded me of something I'd read by Dr. Ingrid Mattson, on Finding the Prophet in his People, where she recounts her experiences as a new Muslim, and later as a Muslim mother.
Definitely worth a read, and a pause for thought.
Labels: milk of human kindness, muslim kids, thinking aloud, wishful thinking
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