The first time Mahomed Zahir Haniff heard a bomb fall in Gaza, he was standing in Fajr Salah.

Just hours earlier, the Newcastle pharmacist had arrived at Nasser Hospital in Khan Younis on January 20^th as part of a two-week medical volunteer rotation. 

Then the ground shook.

Haniff told Al-Qalam how terrifying it was: “Every bone in my body just vibrated. I didn’t know whether I should turn and run, whether to read my Kalimah or finish my Salah. I had no idea what to do.”

Yet no one moved.

The Imam continued reciting, while everyone remained steady. “That’s when I realised how normal this had become for them. I couldn’t understand how anyone could get used to the sound of bombs,” Haniff said.

Yet within two weeks, he did. But what he never got used to was what came next. “Half an hour to 45 minutes later, you get an influx of patients. Those are the ones who survived and were able to make it to the hospital. The rest go straight to the morgue,” he recalled.

That is when his healthcare experience and knowledge kicked in – he put his heart and soul into saving lives in a war zone, working closely with medical teams at the hospital. “I conducted clinical ward rounds in the ICU with doctors, consulted patients in the fast-track unit similar to South Africa’s primary healthcare clinics, managed chronic medication in the medical wards and assisted in the ER (emergency room),” he said. 

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Haniff’s journey to Gaza began almost by accident. Last September, he saw a call on social media for medical volunteers and submitted an application without much expectation. He applied for the voluntary service through a US-based NGO, Gift of Disability Alleviation (GODA). Months passed. Then, in December, an email arrived asking if he could deploy in January.

Zero hesitation – he said yes. However, entry into Gaza was not guaranteed. Haniff explained that volunteers had to travel to Jordan and wait for final clearance from authorities. Approval came only the night before crossing the border. “If your name isn’t approved, you simply go home,” he said.

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The scale of the humanitarian crisis was impossible to ignore. “Burns over 45 percent of the body, bullet wounds, broken bones, you name it, we were seeing it. From two-year-olds to the elderly,” he explained.

Many patients arrived after the bomb blasts. Others came in with sniper wounds. But the cases involving children left the deepest scars. “You see the videos online – fathers running into the emergency room carrying their child and screaming for help, but when you’re the one standing there and that child is handed to you, it’s completely different,” he said.

In one case, a young boy arrived paralysed after shrapnel severed his spinal cord. His home had been destroyed and eleven members of his family had been killed in the same strike. “How are you supposed to deal with something like that?” Haniff questioned.

Despite shortages of medicine, failing equipment and overcrowded wards, with tents erected outside for additional patients, he says the hospital staff continued working with remarkable ingenuity and faith.

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For him, the experience revealed something deeper than the devastation of war.

Despite everything, life simply continues: “People are not sitting there feeling sorry for themselves. Every single day, they are rebuilding, helping others. The children are playing. Madrasas are continuing in tents. Their level of Tawakkul and resilience is something we have a lot to learn from.”

Haniff was amazed that the Fajr jamaat in a tent was just as full as Jumu’ah. “Everywhere you look, people are reading the Quran. Even the children playing outside are reciting,” he said.

Haniff said the people of Gaza showed extraordinary generosity: “They never allowed us to do anything for ourselves. Not even make a cup of tea.”  

He returned to South Africa around 5^th February with a completely different outlook on life.

Despite the trauma he witnessed during his just over two weeks of service, Haniff said that the experience has only deepened his commitment to humanitarian work.

When asked if he would return to a war-torn region again, he told Al-Qalam that he had finally found his calling.

Haniff is already planning his next deployment: “I’m hoping to return to Gaza. If that doesn’t work out, I want to head into Sudan.” 

The post KZN pharmacist returns from Gaza with newfound purpose appeared first on Al-Qalam.

The green door would open quietly, and before us stood the Dome of the Rock, glowing beneath the Ramadan night. For the past three Ramadans, I walked the courtyards of Al-Aqsa, feeling the sacredness of a place that has echoed with prayers for centuries. We would share iftar with hundreds of Palestinian families, pray Taraweeh, and remain inside the Al-Aqsa sanctuary through the night until 4 a.m., when the Israeli soldiers would reopen and we could return to the hotel for suhoor.

Then, after Fajr, something beautiful would happen. Elderly Palestinian women from the surrounding neighbourhoods would form Qur’an circles, reading and reciting the Qur’an and engaging in Quranic discussion. These circles became a form of resistance, their presence and prayers silently guarding Al-Aqsa, a testament that devotion could protect what force could not.

Even in these moments, a quiet sorrow lingered. Deep down, I knew that every visit could be my last. Every year, the shadow of encroachment grew heavier; every year, the sanctity of Al-Aqsa felt more fragile. The presence of those who do not belong in Al-Aqsa became more apparent. I witnessed Jews entering the courtyards, permitted to remain and pray for hours at a time. Last year, this presence stretched for hours, a stark reminder of the shifting realities within our sacred space. And now, with the escalation of war in Iran and the ensuing closures, Al-Aqsa has been silenced during the holiest month of Ramadan, a time meant for worship, reflection, and closeness to Allah.

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Al-Aqsa now cries, and her voice echoes through her empty courtyards. It is not a loud cry, but a subtle, heart-wrenching whisper felt in the hearts of those who have loved her for generations. Her tears fall in the last ten nights of Ramadan, when our hearts are meant to be closest to Allah, when devotion is meant to illuminate every corner of our souls. Her cry is a lament for sanctity violated, for the silence of the Muslim Ummah, and for the interruption of a resistance long woven into her walls. She mourns the loss of leaders like Ismail Haniyeh and Yahya Sinwar, and the countless martyrs who dedicated their lives to protecting her. She grieves for the suffering of the people of Gaza and for those who endure life under occupation around her sacred walls.

But beyond grief, her cries are also a mirror. They reflect our own spiritual condition and the state of the Ummah, fragmented, divided, and disempowered. For centuries, Muslims stood as guardians of this sacred space, striving for justice, sanctity, and freedom. Today, as the courtyards and surroundings of Al-Aqsa echo with absence rather than worship, we are called to reflect: have we lost touch with the essence of our responsibility?

The liberation of Al-Aqsa is not merely a political endeavour; it is a spiritual imperative. It is a call to uphold justice, protect sanctity, and act with courage. Yet this responsibility begins within. Each tear that falls from her sacred stones reminds us that our faith, our devotion, and our awareness are our first instruments of resistance.

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As we enter the last ten nights of Ramadan, let us not only seek forgiveness and mercy for ourselves but also for Al-Aqsa, for her sanctity, her preservation, and for the countless faithful who have long awaited her liberation. Let her cries awaken us, not to despair, but to devotion; not to resignation, but to resolve. May these nights inspire reflection on our purpose, our faith, and our duty. May we honour Al-Aqsa not only with words, but with hearts committed to justice, sanctity, and courage.

As the last ten nights descend, Al-Aqsa’s cry is not merely a lament – it is a call. A call to awaken our faith, to renew our devotion, and to remember the trust that rests upon this Ummah. Her courtyards may stand empty, but her light has not dimmed. It lives in the prayers of those who remember her, in the hearts that refuse to forget her sanctity, and in the souls that rise in the night seeking Allah’s mercy. Al-Aqsa cries in these sacred nights and her tears ask only that we remember our duty, renew our faith, and answer her call with courage, devotion, and unwavering hope.

*Saadia Gani is an attorney with Honors in English and Masters in Multi-disciplinary Human Rights.

The post Al-Aqsa cries in the last 10 nights appeared first on Al-Qalam.

Isn’t it marvelous what a little camping getaway can do for the soul? Desperate to shed off life’s constant pressures, I took off in my little Suzuki Jimny for a one-night trip towards Salt Rock on the KZN North Coast,

As I drove off, leaving behind the smog-filled city of Durban, I could already feel the freshness of air as I sped past lush-green sugar fields.

With Ramadan less than a month away, I thought what better way to ease into the spiritual month with a bit of Zikr right in front of the ocean, at the Salt Rock Camping & Caravan Park, just 43km from Durban.

It was a warm, balmy Sunday and I found the campground only half full as most of the holidaymakers who had descended on the Ballito area for the “Dezemba” holidays had already left for home.

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The tidal pool directly in front of my campsite was inviting and the roar of the sea was calming, especially to see gigantic waves crash onto the monstrous jagged rocks.

I deployed the Jimny’s new 180 deg awning at my designated spot number 09, pulled up a chair and cast my eyes beyond the waves, marveling at Allah’s magnanimity

Salty air makes me hungry, so I heated up my little steak & mushroom pizza and listened to the sounds of the sea. With my tummy happy, it was time for some quiet Zikr. Have you ever tried making Zikr while listening to the rhythmic roar of the ocean? Believe me, the feeling is euphoric, like you can really feel the direct connection with your Lord.

As the sun began to set, it was time to supplicate to the Almighty for Maghrib and Esha. Fellow campers turned to look; some seemed confused while others stared out of curiosity. But I noticed one other thing – the loud banter and music at their camp spots were distinctly lowered, perhaps out of respect, although I can’t say for certain.

As the sun set over the horizon, the campsite’s industrial beam lights came on and brightly lit up the waves in a blaze of silvery grey and white. It was pure delight to watch this magnificent sound and light show of the ocean.

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At around 10 pm, when most of the campers had snuck into their tents or caravans for an early night, I lit up my one-man braai and relished the three chops and two sausages that I brought along in my cooler bag.

This was washed down with a cup of steaming coffee and a moist carrot cake that I purchased at the last minute fromthe Pastry Chef in North Beach. As the night wore on, I could hear the sounds of night birds as it fluttered over the grainy shoreline.

Not long afterwards, and still dizzy from my delicious supper, I climbed the ladder to my rooftop tent to settle in for the night. With the waves still crashing loudly nearby, I was almost immediately lulled into sleep. I woke up at Fajr to the squalls of the seagulls, and another beautiful dawn.

On my drive home, I promised that I would do this often, if Allah wills. The tension on my shoulders had already eased and I was ready to feel the warm and comforting embrace of Ramadan. 

Marhaba ya Ramadan, Marhaba!

The post Camping with Ramadan on my mind appeared first on Al-Qalam.

When Dr Sadiyya Sheik’s nephew was diagnosed with autism a few years ago, she found herself facing a simple yet profound question from her two little girls – how do you explain that someone’s brain works differently?

Sheik, a Public Health Medicine Specialist, told Al-Qalam that the answer began as a quiet conversation at home and later grew into the heart of her new children’s book, My Brother’s Brain is Different.

Her children’s book, written in rhyme from the perspective of a sibling, introduces the idea that brains can work in many different ways. “I think explaining the concept through the eyes of a sibling makes the content more accessible to children. Through the rhyme, we see examples of why the narrator thinks his brother’s brain is different. This works better to convey information to children rather than just explaining the concept directly,” said Sheik. 

Neurodiversity, an umbrella term for the range of ways brains can function and process the world, has long been misunderstood. In many families, the words autism, ADHD, or learning differences are whispered quietly, often followed by confusion, shame, or silence. Sheik said that while stigma still exists, things are slowly changing. “I don’t know that there is anything specifically different about how neurodiversity is perceived in Muslim communities compared to others. In general, while there is still stigma associated with neurodivergence, people are becoming more aware and starting to understand it better,” she explained. 

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But awareness alone is not enough. The first challenge is that people often do not know how to start the conversation. “People may be afraid of saying the wrong things. Parents and educators play an important role in shaping perceptions. Early exposure to neurodiversity and an appreciation for the differences in how our brains work is a great way to build a kinder and more inclusive world,” she said.  

For Sheik, that kindness is grounded in faith: “It was important to write a book that aligns with my beliefs and to tie the concept of neurodiversity to those beliefs.” 

Her story sits comfortably within a Muslim home, where compassion, patience and understanding are encouraged as acts of worship. “In that way, My Brother’s Brain is Different becomes more than a story; it becomes a small act of da’wah through empathy,” Sheik said. 

She noted that there is a growing community of Muslim writers approaching children’s books from an Islamic lens. “I wanted to contribute something that reflects our everyday experiences while teaching children to see beauty in difference,” she said. 

The word different runs through Sheik’s story, not as something to fear, but to understand. She hopes her book offers a starting point, a gentle opening that says it is okay to talk, to ask and to learn. 

That book is also for parents who might be navigating a new diagnosis or wondering if their child is “wired differently.” For Sheik, that reflection became personal. “Around the time the book was being edited, we started considering a diagnosis of ADHD in my daughter. It was a challenging time, but I found myself coming back to the language of a brain that is different by design. All our brains are perfectly made because they were made by Allah SWT Himself,” she shared. 

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Her next project, a chapter book for children about self-acceptance, continues that thread of gentle affirmation, reminding young readers that being different is not a flaw, it is a feature.

In a society where academic success and conformity often define worth, Sheik’s message challenges families to look deeper, to see children as they are, not as they are expected to be. “My hope is that children learn to recognise and celebrate all the wonderful ways their brains work. Also, families learn to see difference not as a label, but as part of the mercy and creativity in Allah’s design,” she said. 

My Brother’s Brain is Different is available at Baitul Hikmah, both in-store and online. Sheik hopes families will read it aloud and use it to start meaningful conversations at bedtime. “I want parents to trust that children can understand concepts that seem challenging. The book is meant to spark curiosity and compassion,” she said. 

The post ‘My Brother’s Brain is Different’– Children’s book addresses Neurodiversity appeared first on Al-Qalam.

Gerrie Desmond Olifant is not only a revert, he is an accomplished imam and a da’ee in one of the most notorious informal settlements near Durban, writes Ismail Suder

In a dusty township church outside Koffiefontein (Free State), Gerrie Desmond Olifant (16) did the unthinkable – he told his pastor he was leaving Christianity to become a Muslim. Today, 20 years later, he serves as an aalim in the crime-ridden township of Malagazi, north of Durban.

During the last day of his bible studies class, his pastor at the local Lutheran Church told him: “Son, the devil got you!”

Gerrie, now 36, who officially changed his name to Ali Akbar Olifant, runs a small dawah centre and madrassa in the heart of Malagazi, under the auspices of the Africa Muslim Peace Organisation.

Imam Ali Akbar’s journey to Islam was fraught with obstacles. When he informed his mother about his decision, she was upset and told him that he had chosen a religion of “the foreigners” – but she eventually gave her blessings before her passing.

What was your turning point? Al-Qalam asked.
“It was when my pastor told me that humankind was paying for the ‘sins of Adam and Eve’ that didn’t make sense to me. The more I investigated about Christian teachings, the more convinced I became that I was being led down the wrong path,” he added.

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He once asked his Somali employer why they were praying five times a day. The answers he got, including mentions about the oneness of God, convinced him that Islam was the true religion.

When they handed him a copy of the Quran in Afrikaans, he turned to Surah Al-Baqarah and was taken aback by its messages. “I was excited because these were the answers I was looking for, and I knew instantly that Islam was the true religion. Upon reading further, I was also amazed that the Quran revered Jesus and Mary.

“By the Will of God, I met Moulana Irshad Siddiqi in Koffiefontein. Moulana was also involved in dawah and I badgered him with many questions about Islam, and everything he said resonated with my soul, “Imam Ali Akbar said.

When he informed his pastor that he had found the true religion in Islam and that he was leaving, the pastor was clearly upset and told him that “the Devil got you!”

When word spread that he was abandoning the religion of his ancestors, his family and friends shunned him. “It was hurtful, but I knew in my heart I was doing the right thing,” he said,

Moulana Irshad Siddiqi took him under his wing and tutored him for a while at his home, and thereafter arranged for him to study at Darul Uloom in Pretoria, where he spent over two years doing an aalim course. On his return, he contacted Shaykh Rafeek Hassen, founder and director of iiFri (Islamic Interfaith Research Institute), who further molded him to become a Da’ee of Islam.

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Malagazi, north of Durban, is a dangerous place to live amidst random shootings, alcoholism, prostitution and drug peddling, but Imam Ali Akbar pushes on knowing that this was his calling. Since establishing himself there, Imam Ali Akbar says over a dozen people have reverted to Islam and more are expected to follow.

Meanwhile, Shaykh Rafeek Hassen told Al-Qalam that Allah had guided Ali Akbar Olifant to the deen.

“His first mentor was Sheik Irshad Siddiqi, who dedicated his life to doing dawah in the poor rural areas of Eastern Transvaal (the son of Marhoom Shaffi Siddiqi). He referred Imam Ali to me at iiFRi to teach him Comparative Religion, Dawah and Islam. Imam Ali was a very passionate, sincere and dedicated Muslim. Keen to learn and ready to make all the sacrifices for the Deen.

“In Imam Ali I see the verse of the Quran which says: “there are people who the desires of this world does not distract them from Allah and His Rasool [PBUH]”.

“Imam Ali, having reverted to Islam by choice – has really dedicated himself to the service of the Deen, and being a South African, he brings out another verse of the Quráan for the Muslims to take note of wherein Allah says: “if we (born Muslims) do not do the work, Allah will raise other people to do it”. Imam Ali is a real inspiration and example. May Allah grant his success in the world and the next.”

For Imam Ali Akbar, his family, who once cut ties with him over his reversion to Islam, have bonded again. “It makes me so happy that over 30 members of my extended family have taken the shahadah, Alhamdulillah.”

The post Christian man who became an imam told: ‘the devil got you!’ appeared first on Al-Qalam.

“I’m going to Jakarta, what can I get you? my nephew Ahmed asked nonchalantly.

Bring me exotic Indonesian fruit, like rambutan, I exclaimed. 

He scratched his head and said, “All right, I will see what I can do.”

I love fruit, especially exotic ones. In the dozens of countries that I had travelled to, the first thing I would do is head to the bustling markets to hunt for exotic fruits unavailable in South Africa.

In the 90’s, during a wild expedition to the Amazon Jungle, I was curious about the fruits that grew in the jungle. My tribal Indian guide directed me to a tree full of guarana berries – of course, I didn’t know what it was at the time, but it was delicious.

In a fruit market on the outskirts of Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, I gorged on cherimoya or custard apples right there and then, like there was no one watching. Oh, and not to forget the sweetest baby papayas – bright orange inside – a rare variety in this country.

But back to Ahmed in Indonesia. Needless to say, I kept pestering Ahmed for days, asking whether he’d seen any rambutans in the street markets – a bright red fruit with a hairy outer skin, similar to a lychee.

“Out of season”, he snapped.

Well, what’s available out there? I asked in anticipation.

He then went to describe the fruits, the names of which he didn’t know. He sent me photos of the fruit, and thanks to the marvel of the internet, I was able to identify the fruits that were piled high on tables in the market. The first was a kiwi-like tropical fruit called “chikoo,” commonly known as sapodilla or sawo. The fruit has a sweet, malty taste with a bit of caramel and brown sugar.

“Buy it!”, I barked like a sergeant major.

Now, Ahmed is not a fruit lover, so asking him to wander through a busy Jakarta market to fruit hunt for me was not exactly his cup of tea, so to speak.

In another market that he visited, I shopped for exotic fruit remotely, via a video call.

As he ambled through the throngs of people in the municipal market, I spotted something that looked like a bunch of lychees. Wait! What’s that you just passed?

He backtracked and spoke to the seller. “He says it’s Longan…very sweet.”

Get a bunch, I boomed on the phone.

“But…but, customs may confiscate it,” he protested.

Just stash it in your bag and hope for the best!, I said. For a moment, I felt as though I was doing something illegal, but the thought soon passed. 

Minutes after his plane landed at King Shaka Airport this week, I was there, eagerly waiting to take possession of it.

I saw Ahmed’s portly figure exit from the arrivals hall and rushed towards him. Do you have it, I asked, almost breathlessly.

“Yes, Alhamdulillah, he said with a smile. When we got to the undercover airport parking, I demanded to see the stash, er, exotic fruit and my happiness knew no bounds.

In the packet, there was one dragon giant fruit weighing over a kilo, and the largest I’ve ever seen. There was a small bunch of longans (also known as dragon’s eye), which I tasted immediately – it has a sweet musky flavour and tastes something between a grape and a lychee with a chocolaty aftertaste.

But the surprise in the pack was three “snake fruit”, a strange scaly fruit that genuinely has a texture of snake skin, SubahanAllah! The unusual fruit, native to Java in Indonesia, has a crunchy taste with faint hints of apple, banana and pineapple. Although snake fruit is not my thing, I relished the experience of tasting fruit from this far-off Muslim land.

Where are you going next, I cheekily asked Ahmed.

“I know what you’re thinking…forget it, it’s not going to happen”, he said with a snigger.

The post ‘How I got my fix of dragon eye, and snake fruit from Indonesia’ appeared first on Al-Qalam.

As we bid farewell to the blessed month of Rabiʿ al-Awwal, the month in which Muslims across the globe commemorate the birth of our beloved Prophet Muhammad (Peace be upon him), it is fitting to reflect on the ways we celebrate his life. Our communities have long upheld beautiful traditions during this month: gatherings of remembrance (dhikr), the recitation of devotional poetry (qasaʾid), and the singing of melodious mawlud verses that nurture love for the Prophet (pbuh). These practices are treasures handed down to us by our elders, and they continue to nourish our hearts and souls.

Yet, as with all cultural traditions, there is always space for renewal and enrichment. For several years, I have advocated for a simple addition to our Mawlid al-Nabi celebrations: that each year, alongside our devotional gatherings, we commit to reading a book on the Sirah, biography and life-journey of the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH). This is not to replace our cherished traditions but to complement them with deeper knowledge. By engaging the Sirah annually, we ensure that our love for the Prophet (pbuh) is joined with an ever-growing understanding of his mission, character, and teachings.

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Reading the Sirah: A Living Tradition

To illustrate the value of this practice, I wish to reflect on one of the most significant modern works on the Prophet’s life in English: Muhammad: Man and Prophet by Adil Salahi. Published in 2008, this extensive biography of more than 800 pages offers not just a detailed narrative of the Prophet’s life but also a thoughtful analysis. It shows how the Prophet’s example can continue to guide Muslims in today’s world. Two contributions in Salahi’s work stand out.

The first concerns the oft-recited account of the judgment on the Jewish tribe of Banu Qurayzah following the Battle of Khandaq. Classical Sirah sources, most notably Ibn Ishaq (d. 767), report that Saʿd ibn Muʿadh, acting as arbitrator, decreed that Qurayzah men be executed and their women and children enslaved for treason. Later scholars sought to justify this verdict by noting that collective punishment for treason was common in wartime, even in modern history. Adil Salahi, however, reviews this account carefully and finds it inconsistent with Islamic principles of justice. Drawing on the research of Professor W. N. Arafat, published in the Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies in 1976, he notes that the narrative of mass execution appears only in Ibn Ishaq’s version and not in other early Sirah works. Arafat, furthermore, carefully examined isnad (chains of transmission) and textual evidence, concluding that the account was likely exaggerated or fabricated, and that early Muslim jurists did not rely on it as a legal precedent.

The prominent Muslim jurist, Imam al-Awzaʿi (d. 789), explicitly condemned punishing the many for the sins of the few. This interpretation restores the Prophet’s image as the embodiment of justice and mercy, while also protecting Muslims from internalizing harmful attitudes, such as anti-Semitism, that have no place in Islam. This lesson is especially relevant in our time, as we bear witness to the unfolding genocide in Gaza, reminding us that standing for justice must never descend into hatred of entire peoples.

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The second major contribution of Salahi’s book concerns the age of Sayyidah ʿA’ishah at the time of her marriage to the Prophet (pbuh). The commonly circulated claim is that she was nine years old. After carefully re-examining the evidence, Salahi concludes that she was likely closer to twenty. He is not alone in this view; other Muslim scholars have advanced similar arguments. This re-evaluation is significant, for it underscores the need to revisit inherited reports in the light of Qur’anic principles, sound hadith, and historical context. It reminds us that the Muslim intellectual tradition is dynamic, not static, and that fidelity to the Prophet’s example includes exercising critical reason alongside reverence.

Many of us also cherish the memory of being lulled to sleep as children by the sweet melodies of Mawlid al-Nabi. That tradition of love should continue. Yet alongside it, let us nurture another tradition: gifting our children books on the life of the Prophet (pbuh). In this way, we pass on not only devotion but also the knowledge that shapes character and faith.

As we close this year’s Rabi al-Awwal, let us embrace this simple but transformative practice: making the reading of the Sirah part of our Mawlid al-Nabi celebrations. The best tribute we can offer the Prophet (pbuh) is not only to sing his praises but to live by his example with knowledge, love, and understanding. “Indeed, Allah and His angels send blessings upon the Prophet. Believers, send blessings and salutations upon him with all respect.” (Qur’an 33:56). May our Mawlid al-Nabi celebrations always be filled with devotion, reflection, and the resolve to embody the Prophetic way in our lives.

The post Enriching Mawlid al-Nabi celebrations through the Sirah appeared first on Al-Qalam.

When the historic Musjid-ul-Aziez in Gqeberha (Port Elizabeth) was threatened with demolition to make way for a freeway in 1970, many congregants threatened to “fast until death” to save the mosque – but sense finally prevailed – the freeway was rerouted and the masjid saved.

Today, the beautifully preserved mosque named after the Ottoman Sultan Abdul Aziz will this year celebrate 125 years since its official opening on July 27, 1901 – it was constructed at a princely cost of 1345 British pounds.

Also known as the Pier Street Mosque, this green-shaded architectural marvel in the South End area, is a sight for sore eyes amidst the gray of the harbour industrial complex.

Salie Abrahams, one of the trustees of the mosque, is passionate about welcoming musalees to the musjid. When this reporter visited Musjid-ul-Aziez at Jumuah whilst on a 5000km road trip around South Africa, he spotted Abrahams warmly welcoming everyone at the entrance.

The freeway that would have bulldozed this beautiful mosque, had thankfully been diverted via an overhead circular bridge – just 300m short of the mosque.

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“Although, we don’t hear the sounds of the motoring traffic, we unfortunately can’t get rid of the loud noises of the passing trains that trundle right past the musjid carrying iron ore. At times, the trains do cause disturbances during salah, but we’ve learnt to live with it, Alhumdulilah,” Abrahams says smilingly.

He tells Al-Qalam that with tons of iron ore being transported each day, soot coats the walls of the mosques, thereby requiring maintenance, and regular painting.

The musjid had faced many struggles in its history. According to historical records, the South End area – where Musjid-ul-Aziez is located – was declared a “Whites Only” district in 1963 and scores of families were uprooted in terms of the dreaded Group Areas Act. The evicted Muslim families were not only up in arms over their forced removal, but they were seriously concerned about the destruction of their Musjids.

While musjids in the area survived the “Group Area” bulldozers, trouble loomed when in 1970, the Port Elizabeth Municipality decided to build a freeway that would go right through the land on which Musjid-ul-Aziez stands.

For 18 months, the community rallied to vehemently oppose the destruction of this historic musjid. There were numerous public meetings, protests were held and legal battles were fought to stop the potential demolition.

The ulama of Port Elizabeth at the time, Imam Igsaan Nackerdien, Moulana Ahmed Sadek Desai, Sheikh Jamiel Jardien as well as religious leaders from around the country stood strongly to prevent the demolition. “The matter raised such an outcry that it was even taken as far as a meeting at the United Nations,” according to records.

According to an abstract from the book, “The Big Five Masjids of Port Elizabeth”, the imam of the Cape Peninsula at that time, Shaikh E. Behardien, informed the Group Areas Board in Cape Town that when a musjid had been built and the ground “dedicated to the service of God,” it could never be desecrated.

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“The Sheik warned the Group Areas Board of international complications that would eventuate if any steps were taken to alienate a musjid. He further stated that a musjid could never be destroyed, nor the land on which it stood be used for any other purpose. He informed them that he was busy consulting Muslim leaders from all parts of the world and asked the Government to do the same.”

With the municipality determined to go ahead, many Muslims decided they would rather die than allow the bulldozers to crush the mosque to dust. While the bulldozers waited outside, some of the congregants decided they would “fast till death” rather than give in to the demolition gangs. Their firm stand paid off and the authorities gave up on the idea.

The Government finally conceded and allowed Musjid-ul-Aziez to remain but demanded that the minaret had to be removed as they planned to build the freeway above the musjid. The Muslim community begrudgingly agreed and brought down the minaret.

The authorities eventually decided to reroute the freeway, much to the joy of the community.

If you ever happen to visit the musjid, you will see the truncated piece of freeway that stops short of the musjid. It reminds everyone about the many battles fought – and won!

The post How this historic musjid… and community defied demolition – and won appeared first on Al-Qalam.

The young constitutional lawyer from Mpumalanga was recently handpicked by President Cyril Ramaphosa to serve on the National Dialogue Eminent Persons Group – a team of 32 influential South Africans working to develop a long-term plan for the country.

Among some big names in the group are SA Rugby team captain, Siya Kolisi, Judge Edwin Cameron and humanitarian Dr Imtiaz Sooliman. But Joosub stands out, not just for being the youngest, but for the clarity and conviction he brings to the table.

Joosub told Al-Qalam about a moment that left a lasting impression during the group’s inauguration. “President Ramaphosa straightened my tie in a recent meeting. A small gesture that felt huge,” he said.

Despite sitting in high-stakes meetings filled with national icons, Joosub remains grounded. “I sometimes ask myself, ‘Goodness, what am I doing here?’ But I stay grounded by holding close the roots that shaped me and the purpose that drives me,” he said.

Joosub’s confidence stems from his upbringing and deep grounding in constitutional values. “I grew up in a small town, in a Muslim household where I learned that fairness and justice start at home. My father and mother instilled in me the values of honesty, compassion and standing up for what’s right,” he said.

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Joosub’s love for justice was shaped early. Even as a young boy flipping through the Constitution, he did not see a dull book; he saw a promise that every person deserves dignity and equality. “My heroes, like President FW de Klerk and my late relative Chief Justice Ismail Mahomed, left legacies rooted in principle, not position,” he said.

Doting on his father’s advice, Joosub said he wants his name to stand for integrity, fairness and service – values that now fuel his work as Manager of Constitutional Advancement at the FW de Klerk Foundation and in his role as Co-Chair of Public Mobilisation for the National Dialogue, a massive civic process that he believes could redefine South Africa’s path. “I hope to inspire others to lead with their values and make a real difference. That’s the legacy I want to leave,” he added.

As a young Muslim in a high-profile role, Joosub said his Islamic faith was central to how he approached justice and leadership. “My faith also emphasises shura, or consultation, which means leaders should listen and include others in decision-making. That principle is at the heart of the National Dialogue,” he said.  

Joosub noted that the National Dialogue is not just another talk shop for politicians. “It’s a conversation by the people, for the people. We’re aiming to hear voices from all 23,000 wards of the country. It’s a bottom-up approach like we’ve never seen,” he said. 

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He hopes the plan sparks real change in practical terms: “Quality education. Jobs for our youth. Safe, thriving communities. If we do this right, the next generation will inherit a country on the rise.”

His passion for the Constitution comes from seeing how it empowers ordinary people. “I come from a small town and a minority community, so I know what it’s like to feel your voice is small. The Constitution says: “Yes, you matter. You have the same rights as everyone else,” he explained.

To young Muslims who may feel politics or public life is not for them, Joosub has a clear message: “You absolutely belong in public life and your country needs you. Politics can be messy, but that’s exactly why principled people must step in.”

His advice is to simply start where you are. “Join a student council, a community board, or speak up about an issue you care about. Bring your values with you — honesty, justice, compassion. These aren’t just Islamic values; they’re assets in any field. Staying true to my faith has earned me respect from people of all backgrounds. Don’t be afraid to dream big,” he said.

The post Ismail Joosub (25): A small-town boy helping to shape a better future for SA appeared first on Al-Qalam.

“You not afraid to travel alone?” This was the most frequently asked question on my 5000km camping road trip across South Africa,

I tell them fear is the last thing on my mind as I have full protection under the wings of the Almighty,

For over 20 years, I had dreamt of doing a solo camping road trip across South Africa, but it remained just that – a pipe dream.

Then on January 25, I prayed, packed and proceeded on my dream adventure in my Jimny 4×4 hoping to return before the start of Ramadan – but it was not to be. The road trip took a full 40 days, returning home on the 6^th of Ramadan.

My journey out of Durban started after Fajr, on a crisp Saturday morning, I departed with a bit of anxiety and trepidation as I drove to the Strand Campsite in Port Edward for my first night in a rooftop tent. The campsite was situated on the banks of a river, and it was a bit disconcerting to know that I was the only camper there, but it’s amazing how a surge of confidence comes to you when you supplicate to the Almighty for security and protection.

In the six weeks that followed, my solo overland trip took me towards the wild and beautiful Eastern Cape; then to the heartland of the Klein Karoo; after which I zig-zagged my way down to the Western Cape amid the glistening city lights of Cape Town. After that, I made my way to the Cape West Coast, driving along the Atlantic Seaboard to Langebaan and the sleepy fishing villages dotting its rugged coastline. 

With virtually no halal options available in this region, I made the most of enjoying freshly caught fish each day, grilled on an open flame or deep fried.

After a wonderful time spent among the fisherfolk here, I headed towards the hot and arid Namaqualand and the Northern Cape regions. My goal was to reach the famous Augrabies Falls National Park, which is located an hour’s drive from the Namibian border.

But sadly, a severe drought had drastically reduced the volume of water over the falls – a waterfall once famously known for its thunderous roar.

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After camping on the Augrabies Falls campground for two nights, I changed course, traveling slowly towards the mountainous Free State and finally entering the green vistas of KwaZulu-Natal and my home in Durban. My 40^th night – the last night of my camping journey – was spent in the foothills of a mountain in the Golden Gate National Park in Clarens.

My pilgrimage in nature circled South Africa, and I can confidently say, it was one of the best adventures of my life, and a fulfilment of a lifelong dream, Alhumdulilah!

As a former Travel & Tourism reporter on the then Daily News of Durban, I was blessed as a young man to have travelled extensively across the globe, including undertaking an adventure in the Amazon Jungle in my 30s, but THIS overland adventure was different in many ways. This time, I was undertaking a hard-core camping trip single-handedly. And because I had to do everything myself, my senses were pushed to “high alert” mode. This also meant putting my survival skills to the ultimate test. This included navigating through desolate unknown roads that even got GPS confused, cooking simple meals en route or pouring over maps to find suitable campsites before nightfall.  My goal was to travel around 200km each time before reaching the next campsite.

All fears, mostly unwarranted, disappeared as I felt the kindness and warmth of the human spirit from people I hardly knew. 

It brings tears to my eyes when I recall the kind and generous people I’ve met along the way. I clearly remember my first night at a campsite in Port Edward during the start of my solo overland journey. Having set up camp, I realized I was fast running out of bottled water. The camp officer, Johan, asked if everything was all right, and I replied, ‘perfect’, except that I had very little drinking water left, and the shops were some distance away. To my surprise, he returned some 10 minutes later and handed me 1.5 litres of sealed bottled water – at no charge.

At Coffee Bay, on the wild rugged coast of the Eastern Cape, I mislaid my pair of eyeglasses at a campsite. The owner got an entire army of workers to scour every inch of his property to look for it – and they found my spectacles near the Jimny.

 In the BonteBok National Park in Swellendam, an elderly caravanner gave up his time to help me connect electrical power to my camping spot. In the remote beach outback of Strandfontein on the West Coast, a young camping couple, seeing how I was battling to light a fire in the howling wind, came over to offer me coffee and biscuits. I have felt the indomitable spirit of human kindness everywhere along the route. If I have to remember one thing about my road trip, it would definitely be this warm embrace of humanity.

My journeys through solitary gravel roads were most satisfying, and the Jimny’s 4×4 capability ate up the road like a cookie monster. What comes to mind is the 60km solitary gravel road from Port St Johns to Coffee Bay. Instead of taking the tar road via Umtata, I opted to take a chance on this alternative gravel road through remote Xhosa villages, over crystal clear rivers, cliffs, past mountainside tin-roofed shops – reminiscent of the early fifties. The friendly locals waved, and school kids screamed “sweeeets” as I slowly drove over deep ruts on the road.

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Camping on a rooftop tent has its pros & cons. It’s great because you sleep “upstairs” and you are protected from animals, snakes and insects on the ground. The negatives are that should you want to pay a visit to the bathroom in the middle of the night, you will have to make pretty sure that you don’t slip and fall as you make your way down the ladder.

If you asked me which place stood out for me during my solo trip, I’d have to say the Storms River Mouth in the Tsitsikamma National Park, about an hour’s drive from Knysna. The suspension bridge over a deep gorge is a marvel as crystal clear water gushes through it and empties into the sea. It is easy to spot Allah’s magnanimity everywhere. 

There were some amusing and worrying moments too. When I rocked up at the Lamberts Bay campsite one warm evening, the receptionist who also doubles as a security guard, began to regale me with stories of the quaint town, which, by the way, is home to the fascinating Bird Island National Park.

As she rambled on, the one thing she said pricked my ears. “In fact, the spot where you’ve set up your tent was once a cemetery for fallen soldiers…”, she said matter of factly.

“Really?” I blurted, both shocked and surprised. 

That’s when I felt my hair at the back of my head start to bristle. 

“You want to hear something else? she asked, pausing momentarily for dramatic effect. “When I patrol the campsite late at night, I often hear laughter, but when I look around me, I see no one. At first, it frightened me, you know, but after 10 years of working here, I have become used to it.”

That night, I made earnest zikr and slept with one eye open. The next morning, at the crack of dawn, I broke up camp and bolted.

But there were many joyful memories, too. At the Orangerus farm campsite outside Upington, I set up camp on the banks of the mighty Orange River. The sunset glow was a sight to behold, and the sound of night creatures in the reeds along the riverbanks was soothing to my ears. Truly, appreciating Allah’s creations was an Ibadah in itself, SubahanAllah.

On day 35, I realized I would not make it home in time for Ramadan and instead decided to embrace Ramadan on the road. With temperature soaring up to 37 deg.C in the Northern Cape, keeping up with the fast was challenging, but through the mercy of the Almighty, I pulled through. Reading salaah under a million stars, and making a deep connection with Allah Ta’ala, was an experience I will never forget.

Alhumdulilah, I eventually reached home on the 6th day of Ramadan. It has taken me a few days to get used to city lights, traffic and the honking of cars, but I will always be grateful for the life-changing experience.

The day I returned to Durban, a friend asked seriously: “I hear you went out for 40 days jamaat, how was it?

‘Alhumdulilah’, I replied. but MY 40 days were spent in the jamaat of Allah’s other living creations, the animals, birds, and other creatures…,” I said with a chuckle.

*To see a visual account of Ismail’s solo camping journey, check out and follow his Instagram and Facebook accounts called jimny_go_Afrika 

The post ‘I spent 40 days …in the arms of nature’ appeared first on Al-Qalam.