May 27th, 2018, a night that lingers in the folds of my memory like the scent of musk on a traveler’s cloak. It was the 12th night of Ramaḍān, and I was not yet a student at Darul Qasim, yet it was then when I first found myself within its walls. I was on a journey throughout my late teen years, a seeker, wandering about America’s mosques and institutions. I wanted to see first-hand what each place had to offer, what it preserved of the Prophetic inheritance, and if I could recognize a trace of what it was my heart longed for. I had heard little of Darul Qasim then, its name was a faint echo carried by the winds, but what I experienced that night changed the trajectory of my life. As soon as I entered, my heart, so often restless, was seized. I could recognize that something special was happening here. There was a weight in the air, a heaviness not born of stone or earth, but of knowledge, as if tangible, living, breathing, resting gently upon the shoulders of those who walked its halls. The campus at the time was beautiful, but not as refined as it is now. It was pre-expansion, with no grand prayer hall yet. Prayer was performed where classrooms are now, and yet, in Chicagoland, a land crowned with magnanimous mega-mosques, towering minarets, and luminous domes, I had never beheld a place like this in the Western Hemisphere. There were no elaborate ornaments, glittering chandeliers, razzle dazzle, and bells and whistles, only substance. Pure and undiluted. Those I met that night felt like minarets unto themselves, dignified and luminous, each carrying their own radiant dome burning bright within their hearts. I could not name what created such an atmosphere. I could only see its effects, the humility, the discipline. I left that night completely perplexed. As I drove six hours back home to Minnesota, tears blurred the road before me, and I pleaded with Allāh ﷻ to facilitate my way back.
A few years passed, and in 2022, after a series of events, Allāh ﷻ opened that door, and I was now at Darul Qasim once again, this time not as a visitor, but as a full-time student. Since then, Ramaḍān belongs to this place. Chicagoland is also known as Tarāwīḥ Disneyland, you can find any pace, length, or flavor you want. If you flick a stone in the air at any given location, it may land on a ḥāfiẓ, and yet, there is simply no equal to tarāwīḥ here. As you step into the building, a deep, enveloping salām washes over you. There is no chaos here, no bickering, no commotion, no theater, only stillness, not born of silence, but of order. Every detail speaks of it. Even the shoes, every pair resting neatly upon the racks, without the need for signs or announcements to impose this. It is simply what is done, a testament to the culture at Darul Qasim. These signs are the marks of a civilization that knows what it means to live with adab, where discipline is not mere rule, but a value passed from heart to heart.
You perform your wuḍūʾ and step softly into the prayer hall, named after the greatest imām, Imām Abū Ḥanifah. Those around you are standing in prayer or sitting and whispering dhikr under their breath, their fingers gliding over their prayer beads. As people trickle in, they follow in suit. No one stands apart and disturbs the climate, everyone falls in line. No souls adrift, no outliers. It is as if the hearts beat to a single rhythm. The impact of Shaykh Amin’s tarbiyyah is unmistakable, it permeates throughout, an invisible hand humming about the space like a current. The hall is blanketed in sukūn, tranquility so deep you can almost hear your own heartbeat. Even the sisters, gathered behind the pardah, become part of this quiet symphony, so immersed, so present, that during moments of silence, you may forget that the muṣallā holds anyone but yourself. Then, the iqāmah is called and Shaykh Amin steps forward to lead ʿishāʾ prayer. His recitation of the Qurʾān is filled with ʿishq, heavy with longing for Allāh and His Messenger ﷺ, steeped with sorrow for this wounded ummah. Every verse he recites carries the ache of the one who loves too deeply, and if you listen attentively, that pain becomes yours too. ʿIshāʾ concludes, and Shaykh Amin’s hands rise, and he asks Allāh ﷻ to put barakah in the jamāʿah. Then, before tarāwīḥ begins, the congregation rises once again to offer two rakʿāt of nafl, an emphasized sunnah of ʿishāʾ. Though twenty much longer rakʿāt of tarāwīḥ wait ahead, they stand instinctually because here, the Sunnah of Rasūl Allāh ﷺ reigns supreme. With this simple act, you witness firsthand what it means to live the Sunnah, not merely talk about it.
Then comes Ḥāfiẓ Ismaeel. “Ṣalāt al-Tarāwīḥ,” he declares, and the night unfolds. He leads the first ten rakʿāt, with a bit over a page each rakʿāh. His pace measured, his recitation serene, slowly but surely warming your heart. What is tarāwīḥ? Tarāwīḥ is the plural form of tarwīḥah, a moment of rest granted after every four rakʿāt. The dual form of the word is tarwīḥatān. Had there only been two such moments of rest throughout the night, perhaps we would have called this Ṣalāt al-Tarwīḥatān. Make of that what you will. The language is rich, and its meanings are many, but I digress. The tarwīḥah is an opportunity for worshippers to refresh themselves, but more importantly, for the ḥuffāẓ to glance over what they’re going to recite in the coming rakʿāt, though at Darul Qasim, the ḥuffāẓ rarely ever need to. They have a firm grasp of the material and barely make any mistakes throughout the duration of the month. Their rest is but a few sips of water, time enough for you to confer fifty to a hundred ṣalawāt upon the Prophet ﷺ, depending upon your pace and which ṣīghah you utter. Next thing you know, you’ve prayed eight rakʿāt and reached the second tarwīḥah, and yet no one leaves. Why would they? There is no fundraiser holding your worship hostage, no laundry list of announcements the length of which rival a jumuʿah khuṭbah, and no lengthy talks that blow the wind out of your sails before you even reach halftime. Everyone trucks along, no thinning of the rows. Ḥāfiẓ Ismaeel prays two more rakʿāt and then passes off the microphone to Ḥāfiẓ Zayan.
At this point, you may begin to feel some fatigue creeping forth, the weight of the day catching up with you. But fear not, Ḥāfiẓ Zayan’s recitation is like a bolt of lightning, taking you to your destination like a bullet train cutting through the night, swift and precise, like an adrenaline injection. At the third tarwīḥah, you’ve been jolted and your eyes are wide open. Now your eyes may catch the miḥrāb. You’ll notice that it’s different here. It’s a gate. A gate of knowledge, with the door on the right slightly ajar, beckoning. Miḥrāb is an instrument noun of ḥarb, warfare. At first glance, a seemingly strange etymology for a prayer niche. Yet, it fits perfectly. For what is prayer if not battle? And here at Darul Qasim, our weapon is sacred knowledge. The fourth tarwīḥah has commenced now and you’re almost at the finish line, not realizing that you’ve been praying for an hour and a half, on your feet, listening to the kalām of Allāh ﷻ being recited. It’s a surreal moment every time. Ḥāfiẓ Ismaeel returns, closing the night with witr, three short and sweet rakʿāt, with a silent qunūt in the last, heavy with presence, that enables your soul to speak. No performances, no theatrics, no singing audition, only prayer.
On Fridays and Saturdays, Shaykh Amin delivers a bayān after witr. Sometimes a roadmap for the days that lie ahead, other times lessons pulled straight from the verses just recited. It is always profound and piercing. There is a pleasant lightness to him in those moments, jovial, unhurried, and yet, he still manages to leave you shaken. Though tarāwīḥ is all done in just over an hour and a half every night, Darul Qasim still manages to complete its khatm well before others, allowing Shaykh Amin to deliver a khatm bayān at other masājid where he is invited every year. Yet, none compare to khatm night at Darul Qasim. As is customary, in the last two rakʿāt, the ḥāfiẓ recits the final chapter of the Qurʾān, then recites the from the very first chapter, in order to indicate that our worship of Allāh ﷻ does not come to end, despite this being a night of khatm. After witr, Shaykh Amin sits upon the prayer rug, facing the qiblah, and makes a duʿāʾ that lasts nearly forty-five minutes to an hour, but you won’t feel it. Time bends, almost as if suspended in midair. His voice often trembles as his pleas to Allāh ﷻ are poured forth. It’s not merely a duʿāʾ, it is an unveiling. You don’t feel it in your bones, you feel it in your marrow. It’s hard not to break. Yet, it is not filled just with grief, Shaykh Amin is an optimist. It concludes with a hope so grand that it changes your outlook on life itself and what is to follow. When it ends, we embrace the huffāẓ, and then each other, sweets are passed around, and the joy of what just transpired fills the air. This year’s khatm will be on the 26th night, Tuesday, March 25th. Some moments alter the course of your life, this one just might be your moment. Don’t miss it for the world.
– Student in the Intermediate Program at Darul Qasim College