Interviewer: Dr. Suleyman Eris (SE), President at Respect Graduate School
Interviewee: Imam Fodé Drame (FD), Qurʾānic Exegete and Spiritual Teacher
Keywords
Islamic Spirituality, Sufism, Dhikr, Tawbah, Tazkiyah al-Nafs, Qur’anic Spirituality, Ethical Formation, Ihsan, Spiritual Guidance, Tawakkul.
SE: As-salāmu ʿalaykum to everyone! It is my privilege to host such a distinguished scholar—a mufassir (Qur’ānic exegete) and spiritual guide—Imam Fodé Drame. Today we will be speaking in general about Sufism and Islamic spirituality. I have prepared a few questions to ask him, and inshallah, wherever Allah guides our conversation, we look forward to it. Dear Imam, welcome!
FD: Thank you very much.
SE: May Allah bless you. It is our privilege to be with you. I have a few questions to present to you. These are structural questions about Islamic spirituality in general, or—if you prefer—what we call Sufism or taṣawwuf. My first question is: “How would you define Islamic spirituality or Sufism in your own terms?”
FD: There is no consensus about the origin or roots of the word. Some attribute it to ṣuffa, the reserved area in the Prophet’s Mosque (al-Masjid al-Nabawī) where many Companions who migrated to Madinah without family used to stay. They were called Ahl al-Ṣuffa (People of the Ṣuffa). Ibn Masʿūd was one of them; Abu Hurayra, too, was among them, may Allah be pleased with them. These were Companions who had no attachments—no family, no wealth, no land—so they spent all their time in the mosque and in the company of the Prophet (pbuh). Those who later adopted that lifestyle were called “Sufis,” meaning people who lived like the Companions of the Ṣuffa: people in a state of tajrīd (detachment), completely unattached to worldly things. This is one opinion about the root of the term. Another opinion traces it to the root ṣ-f-w, which means “purity” or “clarity.” According to this view, Sufis are those who strive to purify themselves. Inshallah,we will speak later about how the cornerstone of taṣawwuf is the purification of the soul—its breaking away from all forms of attachment. The Qur’ān lists these attachments and groups them into seven categories. Every soul is born with them. One’s tazkiyat al-nafs (self-purification) consists of breaking or transforming the nature of these attachments. They are what hinder the soul (nafs) from growing and progressing. These seven shahawāt (carnal desires), or seven lusts, stunt the growth of the nafs. So tazkiyat al-nafs is about dealing with those seven lusts. They are all mentioned together in one verse:
زُيِّنَ لِلنَّاسِ حُبُّ الشَّهَوَاتِ مِنَ النِّسَاءِ وَالْبَنِينَ وَالْقَنَاطِيرِ الْمُقَنْطَرَةِ مِنَ الذَّهَبِ وَالْفِضَّةِ وَالْخَيْلِ الْمُسَوَّمَةِ وَالْأَنْعَامِ وَالْحَرْثِ ۗ ذَٰلِكَ مَتَاعُ الْحَيَاةِ الدُّنْيَا ۖ وَاللَّهُ عِنْدَهُ حُسْنُ الْمَآبِ
Beautified for people is the love of (carnal) desires—of women, children, heaped-up treasures of gold and silver, fine branded horses, livestock, and fertile land. That is the enjoyment of the worldly life; but with God is the best return. (3:14)
So, these are the seven categories—the seven attachments of the nafs. Tasfiyat al-nafs (cleansing of the soul) or tazkiyat al-nafs (purification of the soul) essentially mean the same thing: to purify oneself, to remove these attachments, and to replace them with a better attachment—an attachment grounded in īmān, that is, in one’s faith. It is a movement from love of shahawāt (carnal desires) to love of īmān (faith), so that ḥubb al-shahawāt (love of carnal desires) is transformed into ḥubb al-īmān (love of faith).
Thus, you love your spouse out of īmān. You love your children—the second attachment—out of īmān. You love gold out of īmān. You love silver out of īmān. You love thoroughbred horses for the same reason. It is a transformation: a transition from loving them out of shahwa (carnal desire), out of mere lust or impulse, to loving them out of īmān (faith). From beginning to end, taṣawwuf is built on this foundation. It is the cornerstone; everything else is secondary. This is the main objective of Sufis or of the schools of Islamic spirituality. And this explanation is connected to one of the opinions regarding the origin and root meaning of the word.
“It is a transformation: a transition from loving them out of shahwa (carnal desire), out of mere lust or impulse, to loving them out of īmān (faith). From beginning to end, taṣawwuf is built on this foundation. It is the cornerstone; everything else is secondary.”
SE: I know, Imam, that you translate the word tazkiyah as “growth” rather than “purification.” Is there a nuance behind this approach?
FD: Yes. The word zakā (to grow) linguistically means “to grow.” People, however, commonly render it as “purification of the soul.” But the word itself does not actually mean purification; it means “to allow the soul to grow.” Yet this growth is not possible unless the soul is purified. So people interpret the end through the means: purification is the means, and the growth of the soul is the end.
That is why the Qur’ān says:
قَدْ أَفْلَحَ مَن زَكَّاهَا
Prosperous is the one who causes it [the soul] to grow. (91:10)
The word comes from the idea of cracking open, like when a plant breaks through the soil. The word falāḥ means “to open,” “to split.” The fallāḥ (“plowman”) splits the earth. Likewise, the one who allows the soul to grow—by removing all its attachments—will thrive and flourish.
وَقَدْ خَابَ مَنْ دَسَّاهَا
And truly ruined is the one who buries it (91:10)
The neglected soul—dassāhā—is stunted, prevented from growing to its full potential. So the most accurate translation is “growth,” rather than “purification.”
SE: Islam is also described as ṣirāṭ al-mustaqīm (the Straight Path). And the Sufi is certainly the one who pursues this journey. As he purifies his soul—and at the same time allows it to grow—is he moving toward a final station? In Sufism, is there a final point we hope to reach?
FD: Yes, so the beginning is tawbah (repentance), as it teaches you how to start all over again. That is what tawbah is about: learning to turn back to God. But that turning back to God is not, in the proper sense, achievable unless it is rooted in remembrance of God. So again, dhikr (remembrance) becomes an essential aspect of Islamic spirituality. The purpose of dhikr is to build a relationship of familiarity with God. Forgetfulness creates strangeness—you become estranged from God because you have forgotten Him. Remembrance, which is the opposite of that, restores familiarity. A familiar person is like a family member, someone who is always around you, whom you live with and sit with. That is why Allah says in the hadith qudsi (a sacred narration in which the Prophet reports words from God, distinct from the Qur’ān), “|I sit with the one who remembers Me.” So He becomes your “family,” so to speak; you “sit together” metaphorically. The purpose of dhikr, then, is to remove that strangeness and bring familiarity with God. This familiarity is what helps you fulfill the maqām of tawbah (the Station of Repentance). It is the first maqām of all the maqāmāt. If you read any book of Islamic spirituality, you will see that the first chapter is always tawbah, then the other stations follow. They differ in their arrangements. For example, one of the most important and earliest works in Islamic spirituality is Qūt al-Qulūb (“The Nourishment of the Hearts”) by Abu Talib al-Makki, written around the end of the third or beginning of the fourth Islamic century. It is very old. In that book, he arranges the stations of the spiritual path beginning with tawbah and ending with maḥabbah (love) as the final one. According to his arrangement, tawbah is the first and maḥabbah is the ninth. But there are different systems. For example, my own arrangement is not like that. I do not make love a separate maqām, because it is present in every maqām. God says in Q 2:222 that tawbah is a maqām, and there is love in it—because Allah says that He yuḥibbu al-tawwābīn (“loves those who repent”). Tawakkul (trust in God) is a maqām, and there is love in it. So love is within all of them; it is not separate. This is my classification, but all these systems are simply different ways of reaching the same destination. Tawbah is always the beginning, and beautiful character is, in a sense, the end. That is why the famous hadith of Jibril speaks of īmān (faith), islām (submission), and iḥsān (doing what is beautiful). Iḥsān is character—al-khuluq al-ḥasan, the beautiful qualities of character. Ibn al-Bannā al-Sarkastī, a well-known scholar in Morocco, explains that different segments of the ummah (Islamic community) follow the Prophet (pbuh) in different ways. That is, the fuqahāʾ (jurists) follow him in his actions—fiqh teaches you how to pray, make wuḍūʾ (ablution), give zakāh (alms), etc. The muḥaddithīn (hadith scholars) follow him in his words. And the Sufis follow him in his character. All follow him, but the Sufi’s emphasis is on akhlāq, i.e. on moral and spiritual character. Character is what earns one the love of God. This is the ultimate purpose. It is aligned with the hadith in which the Prophet (pbuh) declares the purpose of his mission. Prayer was already there; almsgiving was already there; previous religions already elaborated on forms of worship, law, charity. What did he bring that is unique? He said: “I was sent only to perfect good character.” That was his area of concentration. Every prophet has an area of concentration. The general principles are shared, but each has a focus. Mūsā (pbuh) focused on the law—you live by the law and die by the law. Our Master ʿIsā (pbuh) preached grace, charity, forgiveness. Our Master Ibrāhīm focused on tawḥīd (unity of God); God always describes him as “not one of the polytheists.” Likewise, the Prophet Muhammad’s (pbuh) focus was akhlāq—beautiful character traits. It is no surprise, then, that Allah says:
إِنَّكَ لَعَلَىٰ خُلُقٍ عَظِيمٍ
You are indeed of a great moral character. (6:84)
This is the only explicit praise of the Prophet’s person in the Qur’ān. So this becomes the end of taṣawwuf and sulūk (spiritual wayfaring).
“Forgetfulness creates strangeness – you become estranged from God because you have forgotten Him. Remembrance, which is the opposite of that, restores familiarity.”
SE: And how would you connect this to the seven characteristics that are very prominent in your teaching, based on the Qur’ān?
FD: Again, it all begins with tawbah. Tawbah is the first thing you must master. It is the first thing that brings you God’s love. Once you master tawbah, which consists of taslīm (self-surrender) and inābah (turning repeatedly toward God), you surrender yourself to God. And dhikr helps in this, as we said. Dhikr is the foundation of tawbah. You forget, and then you remember God. When you remember Him, you turn back to Him. Qur’ān says:
وَمَا يَتَذَكَّرُ إِلَّا مَنْ يُنِيبُ
None remembers except the one who turns toward God. (40:13)
Without inābah, there is no dhikr. A proper dhikr must lead to inābah, and inābah leads to taslīm. When you turn back to God, leave the matter in His hands, and accept what He decrees, that is taslīm. When this becomes your character, God loves you.
Then you move on to the next quality: ṭahārah (purification). Then to the next: taqwā (God-consciousness). And onward until you reach istiqāmah (uprightness). Istiqāmah is the greatest commandment, as in:
فَاسْتَقِمْ كَمَا أُمِرْتَ وَمَنْ تَابَ مَعَكَ
Be upright, as you have been commanded—and so too those who have repented with you. (11:112)
Istiqāmah is impossible without tawbah. Tawbah is the foundation; istiqāmah is the roof. Then the verse continues:
وَلَا تَطْغَوْا وَلَا تَرْكَنُوا
“Do not transgress, and do not incline [toward anything other than God].”
Ṭughyān (overstepping, rebellion) is the opposite of taqwā, and rukūn (leaning or relying on something other than God) is the opposite of iḥsān—living as if God always sees you. So, the sequence is tawbah, then taqwā, then iḥsān, and finally istiqāmah.
“Uprightness comes from character. Character is something permanent in your personality.”
SE: How can we describe istiqāmah in a nutshell?
FD: There is a very common saying among the Sufis: al-istiqāmat(u) khayrun min al-karāmah—”Uprightness is better than miracle-working.” A person may perform miracles—fly in the air, walk on water, and so forth—because these are abilities that exist within the human soul. But that does not mean he has istiqāmah. Uprightness comes from character. Character is something permanent in your personality. That is what “character” means. God will not call you a ṣādiq (truthful) or ṣiddīq (utterly truthful in everything) unless you are always truthful. If you tell the truth sometimes and sometimes not, God may use the verb—ṣadaqa (“he spoke the truth”)—but He will not give you the name “truthful.” That name only belongs to someone who never fails in truthfulness. This is why istiqāmah is difficult. It requires that your uprightness be consistent, permanent—that you always display the same virtues, the same habits, the same practices, without wavering. This is why some people may be able to perform miracles, yet they have not attained uprightness. It takes much longer to achieve istiqāmah than to display extraordinary feats. And according to the verse in Sūrat Hūd:
فَاسْتَقِمْ كَمَا أُمِرْتَ
So be upright as you have been commanded. (11:112)
The verse means that one needs to be upright without deviating vertically or horizontally. Practically, this is exemplified in the story of the Prophet (pbuh), who is our model of character formation. On the night of the Isrāʾ and Miʿrāj (The Night Journey and Ascension), he came into the divine presence. How he entered that presence, how he conducted himself—these were the ultimate expressions of istiqāmah. In Sūrat al-Najm, God says:
مَا زَاغَ الْبَصَرُ وَمَا طَغَى
The sight did not swerve nor transgress. (53:17)
Tughyān (transgression) is the opposite of taqwā. The Prophet’s gaze did not wander out of curiosity, looking around to see “what else is here.” That would have been a lack of adab (proper conduct). When you are in God’s presence, you do not look at anything else. Why did you come? To witness God, or to inspect what God has created? This is a very important adab al-ṭarīq—the etiquette of the spiritual path. If your ultimate objective is reaching God, then you do not look to the right or to the left. Your gaze should not exceed your place on the path, nor should it try to look too far ahead. This is a practical lesson you learn as you truly walk the path, because if your attention shifts even for a moment, you may miss the single opportunity of a lifetime—a moment that never returns. That is why the verse says مَا زَاغَ الْبَصَرُ—“his gaze did not deviate.” [By doing so],
لَقَدْ رَأَىٰ مِنْ آيَاتِ رَبِّهِ الْكُبْرَىٰ
“Indeed, he saw the greatest signs of his Lord.”
Had he looked right or left, he would have missed the very reality he came to behold. This is a very subtle point—just a fraction of a moment, and one can miss it. You must be fully focused, completely locked onto your goal. Otherwise your gaze will overshoot the target, fall short, or be diverted sideways—and the moment is lost. And there is no second chance.
SE: And this can only be achieved through istiqāmah (uprightness)?
FD: Through istiqāmah, exactly. That is istiqāmah: not leaning sideways, not bending forward, not falling back. You stand upright—your sight is upright, your hearing is upright, everything is upright. This is the ultimate state that everyone seeks.
SE: So this āyat al-kubrā(the greatest sign) is possible for us as well, not only for the Prophet?
FD: The Prophet (pbuh) paved the way for us. If you follow that way properly, you too will arrive, and you too will see. He incorporated the āyat al-kubrā that he witnessed into ṣalāh (daily prayer). He returned with that gift. This world is full of sorrows and constrictions of the heart, yet it is narrated that “Whenever something troubled him, he sought refuge in prayer.” Every moment he stood in prayer, he saw that āyat al-kubrā. And all burdens melted away. That reality is incorporated into our ṣalāh. Those who follow in his footsteps experience the same. When you say Allāhu Akbar – “God is greater!” – you can behold it too.
SE: Wow. And from your talk—also from your previous lectures—dhikr (remembrance) seems to be the main means for progressing on this path. Is that correct?
FD: That is correct. As I said earlier, dhikr is the means that leads you to the foundation, which is tawbah (repentance). Dhikr helps you turn back to God. As Qur’ān says:
وَمَا يَتَذَكَّرُ إِلَّا مَن يُنِيبُ
None remembers except the one who turns toward God. (40:13)
In other words, dhikr is one half of tawbah. It lies at the very core. When a student comes to a guide, the first task of the teacher is to help revive the student’s heart—to bring it back to life. The heart is often either sick or dead. A true teacher is someone who can discern the state of the heart: if it is sick, he knows how to heal it; if it is dead, he knows how to revive it. One who cannot do that cannot be a teacher, for what would he give people? Only nice words. When the student comes to him, the teacher immediately sees whether the heart is alive or not. Thus the very first step is to help revive the heart. And the means for that is dhikr. Dhikr brings the heart back to life.
“A true teacher is someone who can discern the state of the heart: if it is sick, he knows how to heal it; if it is dead, he knows how to revive it. One who cannot do that cannot be a teacher, for what would he give people? Only nice words.”
How does it do that? The essential difference between a living being and a dead one is the ability to respond. A living being responds when called; a dead one does not. This is the criterion. Thus the goal is to help the heart respond again—to respond to life. As God says in Qur’ān:
يَا أَيُّهَا الَّذِينَ آمَنُوا اسْتَجِيبُوا لِلَّهِ وَلِلرَّسُولِ إِذَا دَعَاكُمْ لِمَا يُحْيِيكُمْ
O you who believe! Respond to God and to the Messenger when He calls you to that which gives you life. (8:24)
It is all about istijābah—responding. When the heart begins to respond, it responds to both good and bad: it expands toward goodness, beauty, and harmony, and it contracts in the face of darkness and ugliness. At that moment the heart is functioning properly again. It opens itself to the light and closes itself to darkness. Now the heart is alive; now it can respond. Once this foundation is laid, the other stages of the path can come. But this—reviving the heart through dhikr—is the first and essential step.
SE: It needs to be practiced all the way.
FD: Yes, of course. This is the foundation. This is the path—its very entrance.
SE: How does a proper guide prescribe dhikr (remembrance) to the student?
FD: Some guides give uniform instructions—the same dhikr to everyone. Others personalize it, giving each student what that particular student needs. Human beings are not of the same nature. If a student comes to you and you observe that he is, for example, impatient, then you prescribe something that develops ṣabr (patience). It is like medicine. A guide is like a doctor: someone comes, you diagnose, and then prescribe the remedy. But there are also broad categories beneficial for everyone. For instance, istighfār (seeking God’s forgiveness) is universal—it heals all spiritual illnesses. There is the famous story of al-Ḥasan al-Baṣrī. He was teaching in his ḥalaqa (circle of knowledge). A man came and said, “Pray for us; our land suffers from drought.” He replied, “Tell them to make istighfār.” A second man came asking for prayers because he and his wife could not have children. Again, he said, “Make istighfār.” A third came complaining of tight sustenance—rizq—saying, “I work very hard, but I cannot make ends meet.” Again he said, “Makeistighfār.” A student asked, “Master, how can one remedy address so many different problems?” Al-Ḥasan al-Baṣrī replied, “It is not from me; it is from God.” And he recited:
اسْتَغْفِرُوا رَبَّكُمْ إِنَّهُ كَانَ غَفَّارًا • يُرْسِلِ السَّمَاءَ عَلَيْكُم مِدْرَارًا • وَيُمِدِّكُم بِأَمْوَالٍ وَبَنِينَ
Seek forgiveness from your Lord; indeed He is Ever-Forgiving. He will send rain upon you in abundance, and He will increase you in wealth and children. (71:10–12)
So istighfār is broad and can be given to anyone. When people come to me who are not fully committed students, I cannot give them a structured dhikr. So I give them istighfār and ṣalawāt (blessings upon the Prophet). These can be practiced even without full commitment.
SE: So you combine both: if someone is committed, there is structure; if someone comes temporarily, it is istighfār and ṣalawāt. Alḥamdulillāh. But in Islamic history there are debates on whether a guide is necessary. How do you approach this issue?
FD: The teacher–student relationship has existed from the beginning of human history and will continue until the end. God has chosen human beings to guide other human beings. Those who objected to human messengers were answered by God in Qur’ān:
لَوْ كَانَ فِي الْأَرْضِ مَلَائِكَةٌ … لَنَزَّلْنَا عَلَيْهِم مَلَكًا رَسُولًا
If there were angels walking on earth, We would have sent an angel as a messenger. 17:95
Also, God could have guided everyone directly without prophets or angels. He does not need intermediaries—but He chose to create intermediaries. This itself is a divine sign.
We see this also with Zakariyyā and Maryam, peace be upon them. When Maryam’s mother dedicated her to the Temple, she was placed under the mentorship of Zakariyyā. Why did Maryam need a mentor? God could have guided her directly. But the divine pattern is that guidance flows through intermediaries. God says in Qur’ān:
أَفَرَأَيْتُم مَّا تَحْرُثُونَ • أَأَنتُمْ تَزْرَعُونَهُ أَمْ نَحْنُ الزَّارِعُونَ
Have you considered what you sow? Is it you who make it grow, or are We the Grower? (56:63–64)
The farmer plants the seed, but only God makes it grow. Likewise, the guide plants the seed of īmān (faith) in the heart. When īmān is young, it is vulnerable. If unprotected, it can be ruined—many people experience “spiritual miscarriage.” So the guide protects the early growth of faith—just like Zakariyyā protected Maryam’s growth. The Qur’ān says in:
كُلَّمَا دَخَلَ عَلَيْهَا زَكَرِيَّا الْمِحْرَابَ وَجَدَ عِندَهَا رِزْقًا
Whenever Zakariyyā entered upon her in the sanctuary, he found provision with her. (3:37)
As a teacher, Zakariyyā’s concern was: Is her sustenance pure? Because what you “feed” your soul with must be ḥalāl (permissible, pure), or your sulūk (spiritual wayfaring) will be harmed. When she said, in the continuation of the verse: هُوَ مِنْ عِندِ اللَّهِ (It is from God,) he understood that her growth was protected directly by divine grace. Zakariyyā is a role model for every guide. I do not think any two Muslims would dispute the need for a guide.
SE: How do we understand the story of Mūsā and Khiḍr? Is Khiḍr a guide in a specialized domain?
FD: Yes. It is another Qur’ānic example. I mentioned Maryam earlier because she and Zakariyyā represent two different levels—prophetic mentorship. As for al-Khiḍr, scholars disagree whether he was a prophet or a righteous servant. But he belonged to a category of God’s elect—those given special divine knowledge. God says about him in:
وَعَلَّمْنَاهُ مِن لَّدُنَّا عِلْمًا
We taught him knowledge from Our own Presence. (18:65)
So Khiḍr received knowledge directly, without intermediaries.
SE: So in this case, Allah is the direct guide of Khiḍr—just as He was the direct teacher of Adam regarding the Names?
FD: Exactly. Both were taught directly by God. Prophet Mūsā wanted to learn from that special knowledge. And this reflects his great humility—though he was a prophet and leader, he still sought to learn from someone else. Without humility, there is no learning. The scholars say: the arrogant and the overly shy never learn. So Mūsā went to Khiḍr. Some books of tafsīr (exegesis) mention that Khiḍr was lying down with his face covered. When Mūsā greeted him with “As-salāmu ʿalaykum!” Khiḍr asked who he was. When he learned he was Mūsā of Israel, he said: “Do you not have enough difficulty with your own people that you have come all the way here?” Mūsā then replied that he wished to learn what God had taught him. Khiḍr said, “You will not be able to bear with me.” Mūsā said, “You will find me patient, God willing.” But as we know, it did not turn out that way. Mūsā repeatedly broke the agreement not to ask questions prematurely. Khiḍr’s single condition—i.e., not to question—was fundamental. Indeed, when you reach the divine presence, you do not question God’s actions. You trust His wisdom. Asking, “Why did You do this?” is what Iblīs did when commanded to bow to Adam. So Khiḍr was training Mūsā to be ready for a station where questioning is not appropriate. Thus, the trial was hard for Mūsā, but the lesson was crucial.
SE: Is it also possible for someone who, after entering the presence of Allah, is—for some reason—expelled from that presence or demoted, or even loses wilāyah (“saintly friendship with God”) in some way?
FD: Yes, of course. We have the examples of Ādam and Iblīs. Both went against God’s command in one form or another. Ādam disobeyed a prohibition, and Iblīs disobeyed a command. Allah said to Iblīs, “Do this,” and he refused. He said to Ādam, “Do not do this,” and he did it. Both ended up demoted. God said in:
اهْبِطَا مِنْهَا جَمِيعًا
Descend from it, both of you. (2:38)
But this demotion was in terms of rank and knowledge, not in terms of raḥmah (mercy). They were still within its reach. Ādam was humble enough to seek forgiveness, and Allah forgave him. Iblīs, however, continued to argue and defend his mistake—out of pride and arrogance. Only then did Allah banish him completely from His mercy.
So yes: when a walī makes a mistake, God may demote him or her in rank but not expel them entirely from His mercy.
SE: And it would be very hard to get back to the same position?
FD: It happens. It is possible, yet difficult.
SE: From your talk, it seems that for someone to be a guide, one must receive a divine gift. How does someone become a guide on the Sufi path?
FD: Generally, within the Sufi path, it happens in two ways. It may be appointment by one’s own guide. In this case, the teacher sees that the student has the qualities required for guidance and appoints him. This is valid but not the norm. Alternatively, it may be transmission of the hidden secret (sirr) after the teacher’s passing. They say that when the guide dies, the sirr (“the innermost spiritual secret”) moves from him to the next appointed heart. This is entirely in God’s hands, not in the control of any human being. Usually, this transmission does not occur while the teacher is alive. Both are recognized ways. Therefore, someone becomes a guide either by explicit designation or the divine transfer of the prophetic inheritance (sirr) after the guide’s death.
SE: In your judgment, do you see any resemblance between Islamic spirituality and the spiritual dimensions of other religions? Are there genuine points of contact or shared elements?
FD: Yes. It is natural that human spiritual experiences appear across different traditions. The subject is the same everywhere: the human soul. Hence we do find overlapping points. But there is an important distinction that I have often emphasized. Other traditions—Judaism, Christianity, Hinduism, Buddhism, and others—also practice forms of meditation and methods to tap into the spiritual energy of the soul. They often use this energy for good ends. These practices exist everywhere, and each tradition has its own path of development. Everyone agrees that without disciplining the soul, there is no access to its inner treasures. On this point, there is a broad consensus across humanity. But what sets the Islamic tradition apart returns to the foundation of dhikr, remembrance of God. I am sure you are familiar with this. In the Islamic path, the development of the inner faculties begins with dhikr—the baseline. From dhikr you move to fikr, reflective thought. What is now called “meditation” in English corresponds to fikr. This is where other traditions begin—they start from fikr because they do not possess the practice of dhikr. And that makes a world of difference in terms of the ultimate goal. From fikr one moves to naẓar, theoretical contemplation or disciplined observation. Naẓar takes you further to baṣar (بصر), an inner vision that can see through outward forms. And baṣar leads to tadabbur, deep spiritual deliberation and ultimately a direct tasting of the Word of God. These are the sequential stages through which the inner faculties evolve. Thereby from fikr onward, there are similarities with other traditions. But without dhikr, the entire orientation changes. For us, the premise of fikr is that we remember God, and God remembers us—and this divine remembrance unveils all true knowledge. We do not seek knowledge of “everything else” first. We turn toward God, and knowledge of everything else unfolds through Him. Other traditions begin with deliberate striving to understand creation. But we begin with remembrance of the Creator. Their movement is outward—from the world toward the ultimate. Our movement is inward—from God toward understanding the world. And that is a profound difference between the Sufi tradition and other religious paths.
SE: Would it also be correct to say that since we begin with Allah through dhikr, we ultimately end with Him as well—passing through creation only to return to the One who is the origin of everything? And since this initial point of dhikr is missing in some other religious traditions, perhaps there is no guarantee where the seeker ultimately ends up.
FD: Exactly. And the difference in the degree of realization becomes incomparable. When you journey through God, you journey with God’s strength, power, and light. But when a human being travels only by his own effort, he is relying on his own limited capacities. So, the outcomes are very different indeed.
SE: On this path, do pitfalls exist?
FD: Many. And that is precisely why the presence of a teacher is essential. The path is filled with subtle dangers. If we return to the life of the Prophet Muḥammad (pbuh), particularly the Isrāʾ and Miʿrāj (Night Journey and Ascension), there are very instructive examples of these pitfalls. As the Prophet traveled with the Archangel Jibrīl (pbuh), someone called out to him from the right side: “Muḥammad! Wait, I want to speak to you!” He ignored it completely. Then another voice called from the left. Again, he did not respond. Before reaching Jerusalem, a beautifully adorned woman called out to him as well, but he still did not turn. After they prayed in the Masjid al-Aqṣā (“the Farthest Mosque”), Jibrīl explained that the one calling from the right was the call of Judaism; the one from the left was the call of Christianity; and the adorned woman was the dunyā, the glitter of this world. Had he responded to any of them, his ummah (community) would have been diverted in that direction. This is only one example. The path contains countless pitfalls, especially for someone new to it. And experience cannot simply be taught; it must be lived. Even the Prophet (pbuh) benefited from the experience of our master Mūsā (pbuh) on that same night. When God initially set the daily prayers at fifty, Mūsā advised him: “Go back; your community will not be able to bear it.” And he encouraged him repeatedly—“Go back, go back”—until the number was reduced to five. And even then, he urged him again. Yet even with this mercy, many people today still find five daily prayers difficult. Finally, the Prophet said, “I have returned too many times; I am ashamed to return again.” Another category of pitfalls arises during dhikr itself. As the soul opens, one begins to witness extraordinary phenomena—subtle realities of the malakūt, the angelic dimension. These unveilings can be beautiful, powerful, and captivating. But this is one of the most dangerous moments in the entire sulūk. Many seekers fall in love with these phenomena and mistake them for the goal. They become arrested by the signs and lose sight of the Signer; they are dazzled by the lights and forget the Source of Light. The Qur’ān gives us an example in the story of our master Ibrāhīm (pbuh), who encountered the star, the moon, and the sun in their splendor, yet did not stop at them. Unlike prophets, however, ordinary seekers are not divinely safeguarded. Without a guide, one can easily become overwhelmed by the beauty or majesty of these experiences and fail to complete the journey. That is why having a teacher—an experienced guide—is indispensable.
“They become arrested by the signs and lose sight of the Signer; they are dazzled by the lights and forget the Source of Light.”
SE: Is the world that a novice begins to perceive on this path what we call barzakh (“ithmus,” “intermediate realm”)?
FD: Barzakh is part of it. It is one aspect within the malakūt, the subtle, angelic dimension of being. But a teacher will always say: “Ignore these things. Do not focus on them. They are not your destination.” A true guide will remind you: “Your goal is God. Do not become distracted by anything you encounter along the way. Keep moving.”
SE: On this path, is it necessary to enter this intermediary world? Or is it possible to bypass it entirely and reach the Divine Presence directly?
FD: Yes, that is possible—though not common. This is what they call jazbah (“divine attraction”). God may simply take a person, pull them to the end of the path, allow them to witness the final station, and then return them so they can walk the path slowly afterward. He does this for people He wants to protect or preserve. Most seekers, however, travel the path gradually, step by step. But through jazbah, God brings someone to the end first. Because they have seen the end, nothing along the way can sway them anymore.
SE: Fascinating. What does it feel like to experience “the end”?
FD: When someone experiences the end, they usually fall into two categories.
The first are those whose joy and ecstasy overwhelm them so completely that they never truly return. Even if they come back physically, spiritually they remain absorbed in that state. People like Bayazīd al-Bisṭāmī belong to this category. The second type are those whom God brings back so they can help others reach the same destination. Because they have already seen the end, they are safe guides—nothing distracts or deceives them anymore. Figures like Abū Ḥāmid al-Ghazālī and ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī fall into this second category. God sends them back into the world so they can carry others along the path. But returning is not easy. After witnessing the Real, nothing else satisfies the heart. Coming back is a tremendous sacrifice—walking slowly with people who have not seen what you have seen.
SE: If we were to compare the two types, could we say the second group is spiritually higher?
FD: Yes, in a way. They stand on the path of the messengers—called by God to return, to carry the burdens of others, to teach, to guide, to endure. There is a statement attributed to ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī regarding Bayazīd al-Bisṭāmī. He said: “Bayazīd and I are equal in rank—except that I have two distinctions. First, I married and raised a family; he did not. Second, I became a scholar of the Sharīʿah, issuing fatwas (legal opinions), teaching, and serving the people; he did not. Apart from that, we are the same.” This fact beautifully expresses the distinction: both reach the same spiritual height, but one returns to serve.
SE: As I observe your talks and your books—and I know that you have written a large commentary on the Qur’ān—it seems to me that there is a special connection between you and the Qur’ān. You appear deeply attached to it, and in that regard, this seems to be a distinct quality, perhaps even compared with other guides we have seen or heard. How would you describe the role of the Qur’ān in your own path to Allah? And how would you describe its role in your work as a guide for others? Because when we look at the Sufi literature, we see certain terminologies, and most of the time the references to the Qur’ān are quite brief. But in your teaching, instead of adopting the classical Sufi vocabulary, you teach directly from the Qur’ān. Sometimes you coin new terms; sometimes, when addressing classical Sufi concepts, you take us straight to the Qur’ān and show where that reality is grounded. So, your relationship with the Qur’ān is truly distinct. Alḥamdulillāh. How would you elaborate on that?
FD: I only wish that those who wrote on taṣawwuf had brought their terminology much closer to Qur’ānic terminology. It would have made things easier for people and would have avoided the common accusation that Sufism is “not Qur’ānic” or “not Sunnah.” These accusations arise only because the language Sufis developed to describe realities that are in fact in the Qur’ān uses different terms. And since the Qur’ān uses a different vocabulary, people become confused. Take, for example, the well-known concept of fanāʾ (self-annihilation). The Qur’ān contains this reality, but I prefer to use the Qur’ānic expression al-dhikr al-akbar (ٱلذِّكْرُ ٱلْأَكْبَرُ). When that form of dhikr comes upon someone, it annihilates the ego. Then comes baqāʾ (بقاء), explicitly indicated in:
كُلُّ مَنْ عَلَيْهَا فَانٍۢ وَيَبْقَىٰ وَجْهُ رَبِّكَ ذُو ٱلْجَلَـٰلِ وَٱلْإِكْرَامِ
Everyone upon it [the earth] will perish, and there will remain the Face of your Lord, Owner of Majesty and Honor (55:26-27)
There is nothing in Sufi terminology that lies outside the Qur’ān; it is simply that Sufis often do not make the direct correspondence. As a result, people do not immediately see the link. Several things contributed to my own connection with the Qur’ān. First, where I grew up, although the community practiced zuhd (asceticism) and taqwā (God-consciousness), they did not have the formal language or literary heritage of taṣawwuf. They had its reality, but not its terminology. So, I did not grow up reading Sufi books, nor was I immersed in that vocabulary. What I grew up with was the Qur’ān itself—my entire community was deeply Qur’ān-based.
From the very beginning of school, the Qur’ān shapes your identity. When a child is enrolled, the teacher writes the child’s name on the palm of the hand, sprinkles salt over it, and the child licks it—symbolically “ingesting” knowledge, absorbing it. Then comes the first lesson: learning the alphabet, but not as alif-bāʾ-tāʾ-thā,ʾ as everyone else does. No—we learned the alphabet from the Qur’ān itself. We began with the letters exactly as they appear in the basmala: ب، س، م، ا، ل، ل، ه
You do not study anything outside the Qur’ān without returning it to the Qur’ān.
SE: This is a very different methodology.
FD: It is a methodology unlike anything else—truly incomparable. From the very beginning, the child becomes bonded to the Qur’ān in such a deep and organic way that breaking away from it becomes almost impossible. So, the process starts immediately: you learn the alphabet through the Qur’ān. You learn from al-Fātiḥa (which is the first chapter of the Qur’ān) all the way to the first ḥizb, the one beginning with sabbiḥ.
SE: So instead of learning the alphabet first and then the Qur’ān, you go directly to the Qur’ān, and through al-Fātiḥa you learn the alphabet?
FD: Exactly. You learn the alphabet through the Qur’ān itself.
SE: And perhaps you don’t even realize that you’re learning the alphabet!
FD: No, we don’t. You become so immersed in the Qur’ān—it’s amazing. You continue like that, and then you come back to the very start and recite, Bismillāh ar-Raḥmān ar-Raḥīm. And you continue in this way until you again reach sabbiḥ. Then you start again, reciting, Bismi-llāhi al-Raḥmāni al-Raḥīm, and so on and so forth until you eventually read the entire Qur’ān. By then, you are deeply and powerfully bonded with the Wise Qur’ān.
SE: It seems to me that in this method there is no separate teaching of theory. You simply place the student directly into the practice itself.
FD: Exactly. That is the way to approach the Qur’ān: just enter it.
SE: And in that sense, it seems to reflect the very methodology of the Qur’ān. Allah Himself begins with Bismillāh ar-Raḥmān ar-Raḥīm. There is no theoretical preface about God’s existence or proofs of God—no abstract theology. It simply begins.
FD: Precisely. Just read it out.And that is exactly how the Prophet (pbuh) made daʿwah (invitation to truth) in his own time. When someone came to him, he would say, “Do you want to listen?” He would not begin by lecturing about tawḥīd (unity of God) or philosophical arguments. He would simply recite the Qur’ān to them. That was the daʿwah. And those whom Allah guided would hear it and submit immediately. That is how I grew up with the Qur’ān.
SE: And because the teaching is coming directly from the Qur’ān—and always from the Qur’ān—the language that forms around it becomes universally acceptable across the Muslim community. We avoid complicated Sufi terminologies and theories. It becomes far more welcoming, unifying, and accessible.
FD: Exactly. Alḥamdulillāh. That is why I generally have no issues even with groups who oppose certain aspects of taṣawwuf—because of the language I use. I am only speaking through the Qur’ān. Nobody has a problem with that. We all agree on the Qur’ān; we may disagree on other things, but not on the Qur’ān. If you speak Qur’ān, teach Qur’ān, and remain within Qur’ānic language, people will accept.
“Instead, we must teach them how to find quietness within noise, how to experience stillness within loudness, how to center the heart in the middle of chaos.”
SE: What do you see as the greatest spiritual challenges facing our world today—especially for young Muslims in the West? And how do you think the Qur’ān can help them find guidance in navigating such challenges?
FD: There are several major challenges—spiritually speaking—and one of the greatest is the lack of authenticity when it comes to finding true spiritual guides. This is not just a problem in our tradition; it is global. Today, everybody speaks about spirituality because everyone senses that we have reached the end of what material achievement can offer. We have exhausted the possibilities of material pleasure; it no longer brings happiness. Hence people increasingly turn to “spirituality.” Some look into Buddhism or other traditions, searching for fulfillment. But genuine guides—real guides—are very rare. Another major challenge is the speed of life. Everything moves so fast. People have no time to connect with their inner being—no time for heart-work. The culture of today teaches us only one motto: “Keep moving.” Because of this, many find it extremely difficult to grow spiritually. I regularly get questions like: “What can I do? My studies leave me no time for dhikr,” or “My job drains me—how can I stay connected?” People feel the need to reach their true selves, but they simply cannot find the time. Yet they also cannot abandon the ordinary flow of life, because that would bring other challenges. As a result, they live in this dilemma. Alḥamdulillāh, our tradition is flexible. It is resilient. There is always a way. We cannot tell people to withdraw from life and become ḥamīd—someone spending all day reciting praise. That is not the solution. Instead, we must teach them how to find quietness within noise, how to experience stillness within loudness, how to center the heart in the middle of chaos. You cannot change the chaos—it is impossible or would take far too long. But you can teach someone to find harmony within it. Hence the real task today is to teach people how to remain positive amidst negativity, how to stay spiritually alive without withdrawing from life. The old methods—teachers hidden in secluded places, students traveling far away to seek spirituality—no longer work. Because when those students return home, they re-enter a world moving even faster than before. Some cannot readjust and become marginalized on the edges of society; others lose everything and are swallowed by the pace of modern life. That is why I believe we must build institutions here, in the West. Even if people go abroad looking for spirituality, they must eventually come back—and reintegration is often painful. We must help them find peace and centeredness here, in the middle of daily life, and teach them to connect with God from within their own being.
SE: Alḥamdulillāh, the “Zawiya” (Ar. “nook” or “secluded spot”) institutions that you are establishing—or inspiring—especially here in North America, help our youth reconnect spiritually.
FD: Exactly. That is precisely the role of these “Zawiyas”—to keep spirituality at the center of life even amid the intensity of modern material culture, inshallāh.
SE: Thank you so much for sharing all this with us. I hope the listeners will benefit, as I certainly did.
FD: Thank you!
