Forget the titles, tributes, and plaques; this article isn’t about the Mulla Asghar immortalized in reports or etched into organizational history. What I wish to share is something more intimate, more human. This is the Mulla Asghar I knew.

A man whose soul held the stillness of oceans—vast, uncharted, and deep. His mind was a boundless library, echoing with philosophers, mystics, poets, and Prophets. He carried the Qurʾān in his heart, Ghalib on his tongue, and Mulla Sadra in his silences. 

And his heart? That was the miracle. It was a sanctuary. A refuge where the weary found rest, the confused found clarity, and the young found purpose. Leader or lost soul—when you sat with him, you felt seen. Heard. At home.

What follows isn’t a biography. It’s a glimpse. A doorway into private moments and unseen wisdom. A reflection of the man behind the mantle. A legacy not carved in stone—but etched in lives, like mine, forever changed by him. I invite you to step into that space with me—not as a reader, but as a witness.

The First Encounter

I first met Mulla Asgharali M.M. Jaffer at Tarangire Lodge in Tanzania in 1971. I was a young organizer at a youth camp where he had been invited to speak. As his voice filled the hall, something shifted in my understanding of leadership. He didn’t thunder. He didn’t posture. He invited. He revealed. Not abstract theology or ritual minutiae, but the relevance of faith in community life. How to serve. Why to serve. The tone was soft but firm, the ideas profound but digestible.

For the first time, I encountered leadership that spoke not just to the intellect, but directly to the heart. As he spoke of our responsibilities as Muslims in a rapidly changing world, I leaned in, drawn by the conviction in his words. It began there—with a simple act and a clear vision. Five decades later, that journey of service continues to shape who I am.

Little did I know that evening would mark the beginning of an inspiring journey that would intertwine our paths—25 of those years as his close confidant, witnessing both his public accomplishments and private struggles. The man I came to know was more complex and profound than the public figure most remember. His whispered prayers at dawn moved me more than his eloquent speeches to thousands. His grief for suffering strangers taught me more about leadership than any organizational accomplishments.

The Early Days: Witnessing the Foundation

After that first encounter in Tanzania, our paths crossed again in 1975. I still remember the moment—I was a young volunteer, serving tea to senior community leaders. In the middle of it all was Mulla Asghar, sharing his vision for what would become the World Federation.

While others focused on immediate concerns—debating logistics, committees, and constitutions—he was thinking big. He painted an incredible picture of a global community, not just linked by structure, but bound by shared values, by mutual support across continents. His vision to establish the Federation’s headquarters in London was strategic. “Our community has scattered like a broken tasbih,” he said. “We need a string to connect us across oceans.” His foresight left me speechless.

What struck me more than his words, was how he listened. He gave each person his full attention—whether it was a senior leader or a youth serving tea. He drew wisdom from every corner of the room, always learning, always connecting the dots.

The most remarkable aspect of these early discussions wasn’t his visionary thinking alone, but how skillfully he balanced it with pragmatic steps for implementation. “Dreams without deadlines remain fantasies,” he once remarked, after a debate about the Federation’s structure,  “but deadlines without dreams produce only empty achievements”. This synthesis of practical wisdom and spiritual insight became the hallmark of his leadership style—a style I would later observe from the closest vantage point.

His self-taught mastery of languages was evident even in these early meetings, as he switched effortlessly between English, Urdu, Gujarati, Kutchi, and the occasional Farsi idiom—ensuring everyone felt included. “Knowledge has no mother tongue,” he once told me with a twinkle in his eye when I asked about this ability, “…it speaks to whoever has the patience to listen”. This linguistic versatility wasn’t merely an intellectual achievement but a tool for building bridges between people of diverse backgrounds. It wasn’t just the languages—he had an uncanny ability to adopt local dialects when addressing audiences from distant parts of the world. I recall a man once asking me, “What area of Lucknow does he come from?”—just moments after Mulla had finished speaking to a group in Uttar Pradesh, India—unaware that he actually came from an entirely different part of the world.

A Confidant’s Perspective: Leadership Beyond Titles

The trajectory of my relationship with Mulla Asghar took an unexpected turn when, in 1977, he appointed me Secretary General of the World Federation. I was 27 years old—a surprising choice for many of the community elders. When I privately questioned his decision, wondering if my youth would undermine the organization’s credibility, he smiled and said, “the community doesn’t need another keeper of the past. It needs builders of the future.” His decision to skip a generation wasn’t impulsive but strategic—a deliberate choice to infuse the Federation with new energy and perspectives. It’s a lesson still worth reflecting on for today’s veteran leaders.

This marked the most insightful phase of our relationship, as I worked alongside him with a team of young professionals in London. For the next twenty-five years, I witnessed Mulla Asghar’s leadership from a unique vantage point—as a trusted confidant who often sat with him late into the night, discussing community challenges, personal quandaries, and his evolving vision for our future. These conversations revealed a dimension of the man rarely seen by others—his moments of doubt, his private struggles, his unguarded reflections, and at times, even his wrath. He had an uncanny ability to see both the intricate details and the distant horizon. Once, in the middle of a tense meeting about financial distribution with the World Federation Office Bearers, he turned to us and said, “Never confuse the visible balance sheet with the spiritual ledger. One feeds the ego. The other, the Ummah.”

What made working with him as a young person so remarkable was his genuine interest in our perspectives. While some leaders of his generation viewed youth with condescension, he approached us with curiosity and respect. “When I appointed you and your colleagues,” he confided years after that surprising decision, “many questioned my judgment. They saw only your inexperience. I saw your potential to reimagine our community’s future.” His faith in us became a self-fulfilling prophecy—under his mentorship, our team accomplished things we had never imagined possible.

A particular winter evening in London remains vivid in my memory. After our regular meeting at the World Federation office, I noticed Mulla Asghar was feverish and fighting a cold, his voice hoarse and his brow glinting with a hint of perspiration. I offered to drive him home, concerned about his health. “I can’t go home yet,” he replied, “I need to go to South London for a nikkah ceremony.” When I insisted he should rest, his response floored me. “You don’t understand,” he said, gently but firmly, “I had fallen out with the bride’s grandfather decades ago in Mombasa. If I don’t go today, they’ll think I still bear a grudge”. Despite his illness, he made the journey—not for politics, not for protocol—but for healing an old wound. That was Mulla Asghar. Leadership, for him, wasn’t about public applause. It was about private integrity. 

“Leadership is a burden disguised as an honor,” he once told me late one night in London, the fatigue of the day etched into the lines on his face.

I remember that 1990 evening clearly when he first shared the heart of what would become one of his iconic speeches. He said, “We’ve become too reactive. We need a society where taqwa shapes every decision—a community not defined by East or West, but by timeless Islamic values translated for modern times.” The resolution to anchor leadership in taqwā (God-consciousness) and ʿadālah (justice) didn’t pass that year, but the awareness it stirred has endured. As I later documented in Code of Leadership, his exact words were: “We need a society where we rise above the mean and mediocre to that which is high and sublime.”

Intimate Glimpses: The Man Behind the Title

The Mulla Asghar I knew best appeared in the quiet moments, between speeches and meetings. I once walked into his office unannounced and found him surrounded by letters from orphans in India, replying to each personally. He looked up, noticing my surprise, “Each child deserves to know they matter—not just as a case number, but as a soul.”

His modest lifestyle said as much about his values as his sermons. Despite his stature, he wore the same Sherwani for years. When I jokingly suggested an upgrade, he raised an eyebrow. “Will a new Sherwani make my words more truthful?”

He loved that old Nasruddin story: turned away from a feast in work clothes, Nasruddin returned in a fine coat and was honored. He then stuffed food into the coat’s pocket saying, “Eat, my Sherwani, eat!” Mulla Asghar chuckled every time he told it. For him, status was never stitched in fabric—it lived in the soul.

His library, though, was his only indulgence. Thousands of books in multiple languages lined his shelves. “Books aren’t possessions,” he once said while showing me a rare manuscript, “they’re companions.”

Crises brought out a rare resilience in him. During the Somalia crisis in 1990, he made hundreds of calls, securing aid and safe passage for families he had never met. His imprisonment under Saddam Hussain in Iraq in 1983 deeply affected him. He rarely spoke of it publicly, but quietly supported many Iraqi exiles after his own release—never mentioning it to anyone. He bore wounds, but chose to become a healer.

His Sense of Humor

Mulla Asghar’s humility was matched by his humor. I’ll never forget a speech in India. He was slightly unwell but determined to speak. As he stepped up, his shoe caught his shalwar and he stumbled slightly. Without missing a beat, he grinned and said in perfect Gujarati:

“જોયું ને—જિંદગી માટે તો ખરેખર એક મસ્ત ઉપમા છે!
સાચા રસ્તે હોઈએ તોય પગ લપસાઈ જાય…
પણ મુદ્દો એ છે કે આપણે કેવી રીતે ફરી ઊભા થઈએ!”

“See that? Life itself is just like this—you can be on the right path and still stumble. What matters is how you rise again.” That moment captured him perfectly—dignified, relatable, and wise.

The Spiritual Bond: Conversations About Faith and Doubt

Perhaps my greatest privilege was seeing Mulla Asghar’s private spiritual life. His faith was deep—but never dogmatic. He once told me during a midnight chai session, “Doubt is not the enemy of faith. It’s the shadow that proves the light exists.”

He longed for madrasas that didn’t just teach doctrine but cultivated compassion. “Religious instruction without transformation,” he said, “is like learning grammar and never writing poetry.”

I remember many mornings when he stayed at our home. I’d hand him his early morning chai, and there he’d sit after fajr prayers, wrapped in quiet reflection, the light of dawn illuminating his face. Once, he whispered, “Real prayer begins when the rituals end.” It wasn’t duty that drove him—it was love.

Radiating the Teachings of Ahlul Bayt (ʿa)

Mulla Asghar didn’t just preach the teachings of the Ahlul Bayt (ʿa) —he lived them. Once, in a lecture, he said, “When Imam Ali (ʿa) advised Malik al-Ashtar on governance, he wasn’t just speaking to rulers—but to anyone with responsibility for others.”

He once postponed a high-level donor meeting to sit with a newly arrived refugee family. When asked why, he simply said, “If leadership distances you from the weak, it isn’t leadership.”

His respect for intellectual inquiry echoed Imam Ja’far al-Sadiq (ʿa). “The Imam’s circle,” he often reminded us, “was full of people who disagreed. Real learning happens when knowledge is alive, not uniform.”

He walked the talk. Once, mediating a conflict between two jamaats (congregations), he chose fairness over appeasement—because, as he believed, leadership meant embodying the justice of Imam Ali, not chasing approval.

Khoja Heritage: A Deep Appreciation and the Birth of a Legacy

Of all his enduring contributions, Mulla Asghar’s reverence for Khoja heritage holds a special place in my heart. For him, our history wasn’t a matter of nostalgia—it was a wellspring of identity, a compass. He believed deeply that a community disconnected from its roots would always struggle to find direction in the future.

He often said, “We are not just descendants of converts—we are inheritors of conviction.” He took great pride in the syncretic journey of our ancestors—from Hindu roots, through Satpanth mysticism, to finally embracing the path of the Ahlul Bayt (ʿa). He never allowed that story to be flattened into a footnote; he elevated it into a narrative of resilience.

He introduced me to the earliest chroniclers of our journey—Adelji Dhanji Kaba, Sachedina Nanjiani, and others who had painstakingly documented the struggles of our forebears. “If we don’t preserve these voices,” he warned, “we risk forgetting who we are, and more dangerously, becoming who we are not.”

His passion ignited something in me, too. Later, when we launched the Khoja Heritage Project, it was more than an initiative—it became a movement. His dream of seeing our narrative captured on screen led to the creation of The Khojas: A Journey of Faith documentary. I remember his eyes lighting up when we first discussed the idea. Though he didn’t live to see it completed, it was created in his spirit, framed by his belief: “Understanding our past is not about looking back—it’s about walking forward with clarity.”

And even now, as the Khoja Heritage Project continues to grow—with translations, exhibits, oral histories, and children’s resources—it bears the imprint of his vision: that our heritage should not be embalmed in glass cases, but lived, taught, and celebrated. Not to glorify ourselves, but to ground ourselves—in humility, in history, and in hope.

A Farewell Without Words

There are departures in life you see coming. Then there are the ones that quietly unfold—unannounced, unhurried, yet unforgettable. My last journey with Mulla Asghar was one of the latter. It was February 2000. We had wrapped up yet another familiar visit to India—meeting community members, inspecting projects, listening to concerns, and reaffirming our commitments. 

On paper, it was business as usual. But looking back, every detail of that trip now shimmers with significance. He wasn’t rushed. But he was intentional. In each meeting, he spoke with a quiet finality. Every promise was made with unusual weight, as though he were engraving it onto stone rather than simply expressing it. He asked me to take notes diligently. He introduced me to others not merely as Vice President, but as “someone you must now trust.” At the time, I took it as a nod of respect. Only later did I realize he was preparing them; not for his next visit, but for his absence. Perhaps, most poignantly, he was preparing me.

That final evening, we sat in a modest hotel lobby, sipping tea. No ceremony, no grand declarations. Just two colleagues, two friends, two travelers, who had walked a long road together. Our conversation wandered—from the highs of past conferences to the laughter of minor mishaps. Then came one of his signature moments of distilled wisdom. He leaned in slightly and said: “The most important quality in leadership isn’t vision or eloquence—though both help. It’s the ability to see what is already emerging… and remove the obstacles.” I asked what he meant. He smiled, his gaze both distant and piercing. “The future of our community isn’t ours to design,” he said softly. “It’s already being written—in the hearts and minds of the youth. Our duty is not to mold them, but to make space for them. Guide them gently. And then step aside.”

There was a calm in his tone I hadn’t heard before. Not resignation—but readiness. As though he was already speaking from a different place, a mountaintop view only he could see. The next morning, we embraced as usual. The embrace lingered—firmer, fuller, as though trying to compress decades of trust into a single gesture. “We’ll continue this conversation when you’re next in London,” he said as we parted. But something in his eyes said otherwise. Just over a month later, I received the call. He was gone.

I boarded my flight from Dallas to London in a daze, the hours felt endless. My mind replayed every detail of that final trip, every word we exchanged. Somewhere over the Atlantic, it dawned on me: I had been a witness to a sacred farewell. One that had unfolded with such grace, such humility, that I only recognized it in hindsight. He hadn’t made an exit, he had made a transition.

He had spent those final days not preparing his legacy—but planting it and watering it. Ensuring that even in his absence, the roots would deepen and the branches would stretch toward new sunlight. In his final act, he left us with no vacuum. Only a torch—gently placed in our hands, still warm from his grasp.

The Living Legacy: Carrying Forward His Light

It’s been nearly 25 years since I stood at his freshly prepared grave. Still, his presence lingers. A certain light, a prayer’s cadence, a warm salaam—all stir his memory. Though gone, he remains my compass.

Institutions like the Memorial Library in Toronto and the Hall in Mombasa bear his name. However, his truest legacy lives in the Zainabiya Child Sponsorship Scheme. “Education connects a child to their God-given potential,” he’d say. Each supported child is a verse in that living poem.

He trusted youth. Not as a gamble—but as a strategy. “Elders give roots. Youth provide branches reaching for the sun.” That’s why I stepped down from leadership at 53—to make space for the next generation. Not just succession, but partnership; that’s what Mulla taught me.

His multilingual gift wasn’t about tongues—it was about reaching hearts. “The message is constant,” he’d say, “but the medium must evolve.”

Philosophical Echoes: Wisdom That Spans Traditions

Now, in the twilight of my life, I often reflect on the quiet brilliance of Mulla Asghar’s mind—how naturally it resonated with the world’s great philosophies. He introduced me not only to Muslim thinkers like Mulla Sadra, Al-Ghazali, and Ibn Sina, but also to the Vedas, the Stoics, Krishnamurti, and the depth of Urdu poetry. Today, when I read them, I hear his voice woven between the lines.

Like the Vedic karma yog, he lived for selfless service. “Do what is right, not what is easy,” he’d remind us. During the Somalia crisis, when many felt helpless, he said, “We cannot do everything, but we must do something—and do it well.” That was Stoicism in action—calm, resolute, real. He embodied Krishnamurti’s open-mindedness—listening more than speaking, adjusting not out of hesitation but humility. His guidance came not from ego, but from clarity grounded in evolving truth.

One of the other gifts of Mulla Asghar’s companionship was how he opened my heart to the depth and beauty of Urdu poetry of Mir, Ghalib, and Iqbal. It wasn’t just verse—it was vision. Over time, I began to see how his leadership mirrored the very spirit captured in lines like these from Allama Iqbal:

Sabaq phir padh sadaqat ka, shujaat ka, adalat ka;
Liya jayega tujh se kaam, duniya ki imamat ka.
Learn the lessons of truth, courage, and justice—
For you will be called to lead the world.

These weren’t just words to him. They were a roadmap. He lived them—leading not only the 150,000-strong Khoja community but speaking to the conscience of the global Shia world. And for those of us who had the honor of walking even a part of the journey with him, that legacy is not just remembered—it’s lived.

Learning from Mulla wasn’t academic. It wasn’t instruction. It was an immersion. You didn’t study him, you absorbed him: the cadence of his voice,  the deliberation of his silence, the glint of a smile when someone surprised him with insight. He is gone from our sight, but not from our path. In the quietest decisions I make, I feel his whisper. In the toughest moments of principle, I hear his voice.

This was the Mulla I knew.
This is the light he left behind.
This is the torch we must carry.

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Dr. Hasnain Walji is the former Secretary General, Vice President, and President of the World Federation. He currently heads the World Federation Khoja Heritage Project. A prolific writer, speaker, and researcher, he is also the author of 26 books on nutrition from a naturopathic perspective and producer of the acclaimed documentary The Khoja—A Journey of Faith.

Cheerios hastily eaten in the predawn dark before the start of a Ramadan fast, only to break it alone over take-out. Attending a Muharram Majlis with sincerity, only to find that your clothing color was a faux pas that became a source of gossip. The realization that people in your religious community casually use words in their mother-tongue that denigrate your skin color. These are just some of the social hurdles that people who accept Islam encounter upon engaging with a Muslim community. 

As Muslim communities establish deeper roots in countries like the United States, Canada, and the UK, the need for supporting people who convert to Islam will only grow. When the “issue of converts” is addressed in Muslim spaces—whether through literature, social media, the pulpit (minbar), or dedicated forums—the focus often lands on isolated challenges. While these issues are essential to discuss and resolve, the proposed solutions are often offered in a piece-meal fashion: invite your convert community members to ifṭār gatherings, be lenient with converts regarding communal etiquette, and the common “don’t be a racist.” Though well-meaning and helpful, this piecemeal approach does little to convey a holistic understanding of the conversion experience. Without that broader picture, communities struggle to develop a coherent and sustained strategy for meaningful convert support.

Setting the Stage

The American Shīʿī community must engage in an honest assessment of its current capacity, its (de)prioritization and often limited interest in supporting new Muslims, or establishing meaningful pathways for sincere seekers of truth. Based on over 18 years of engagement with the national Shīʿī community—and, more importantly, through heartfelt conversations with converts old enough to be my grandparents—I’ve reached a sobering conclusion: we are, for the most part, deeply underprepared to carry out meaningful and sustained work that truly supports converts.

Some might point to a handful of communities that excel in this area and suggest that our work is already done. But we must be honest: “an exception by definition contravenes the norm. We can acknowledge the exceptions. We can celebrate them, even. But ultimately we have to deal with the norm.”^[1]https://stevesalaita.com/no-resurrection-the-life-and-death-of-the-modern-university/

I also want to note that there may be good and justifiable reasons for explaining our community’s blindspots and weaknesses in terms of both individual and communal ability to support converts—histories of marginalization, economic reasons, the continued flow of migration, other institutional priorities, etc. However, examining those reasons is outside the scope of this paper. For those who believe that it is a good idea to bulk up our capacity for supporting seekers and converts, we need to begin the work of exploring how.

The Qurʾān provides us with a fundamental principle that we should build upon in this regard. In Sūrat al-Naḥl—the Chapter of the Bee—Chapter 16, Verse 125, God says to the Prophet:

Invite to the way of your Lord with wisdom and good advice and dispute with them in a manner that is best. Indeed your Lord knows best those who stray from His way, and He knows best those who are guided.^[2]All translations of the Qurʿān are from Ali Quli Qarai, The Qurʾan with a Phrase-by-Phrase English Translation, 6th ed. (self pub., Ali Quli Qarai, 2018).  

Regarding the phrase “Invite to the way of your Lord with wisdom,” there is debate within the exegetical (al-tafsīr) literature about whether the phrase “with wisdom” refers to the content (al-maḍmūn) offered to the audience, or to the mode or way (al-uslūb) one engages with the other. In the first analysis, the verse means “Invite to the way of your Lord by way of teaching them the Qur’an or elucidating a rational argument” or other similar formulations that are encompassed by the meaning of “a word of Wisdom.” In the second analysis it means “Invite to the way of your Lord in a wise way.”

Utilizing the second analysis, the upshot of the verse is that the way of your calling must put things in their proper place—a gloss of the heart of the word often translated as “justice”: al-ʿadl, which is closely associated with “wisdom,” al-ḥikmah. While truth in content is essential, the caller to God must use a wise method by means of  recognizing the complex components of the listener’s psyche. They must be lenient when wisdom calls for it, and brutally direct when necessary. They must explain issues in detail when the time calls for it, or offer generalities of complicated ideas when that will be most effective. They may need to be familiar with the audience’s racial, class, regional, or national background, their gendered experience, their age, their level of intellect, and any other relevant category of identity and experience that helps the caller’s communication resonate with the audience. In all cases, the person calling people to the Truth must have depth of character and knowledge, breadth of experience, and strength of emotional intelligence.^[3]See the extended discussion on this phrase in Muḥammad Ḥusayn Faḍlallah, Min Waḥy al-Qurʾān, 2nd ed., vol. 13 (Beirut: Dar al-Malāk, 1419/1998), 321-328.

With this second reading in mind—and extending it as a method for both inviting non-Muslims to Islām and strengthening the belief and practice of Muslims—we must develop a robust discourse on conversion. This discourse should equip community organizers, scholars, and Muslims at large with the conceptual tools and insights into the convert experience necessary to inform our organizational efforts, community etiquettes, and cultural norms. Only then can we build communities that not only support converts but are also genuinely receptive to seekers and nurturing for all who walk the path of faith.

Toward this end, I offer a rudimentary typology of convert experiences. In an upcoming paper I will offer a brief sketch of three, interdependent stages of the conversion experience. These two articles are aimed at starting an exchange of ideas to help both communities and converts understand and navigate the convert journey. I encourage those who disagree with the picture I paint to offer alternatives—through discussion and disagreement, we can grow. 

Providing a conceptual background to conversion experiences and stages of growth serves as a first step in mapping the convert experience, and supporting our collective ability to effectively commune with, educate, and socially foster converts. For Legacy^[4]I use “Legacy” and “Legacy Muslims” as analogues to “Convert” and “Convert Muslims” to differentiate the religious experience of those who were born Muslim and raised with some semblance of Islamic values, education, and identity from people who were born to a non-Muslim family and were raised without the above. communities and individuals alike, I hope that this high-level conceptual map helps them thoughtfully cultivate etiquettes and methods of support for converts with sensitivity and foresight. For converts, I hope that this map is useful for reflecting on their own experiences, feeling a sense of connectedness with other converts, and charting out their individual spiritual, intellectual, and communal paths toward a rich religious life.

What’s in a name? The use of the term “convert”

There are a few semantic issues to tackle first. What are our terms and to whom do they refer?

Convert vs. Revert

There is ongoing debate about the use of “convert” or “revert” as an identifying label for individuals who are not born and raised in a Muslim household and later accept Islam. The impetus to use the term “revert” seems to be founded upon the theologically accepted understanding that everyone is born Muslim. This teaching can be derived from Sūrat al-Rūm 30:30:

So set your heart as a person of pure faith on this religion, the original nature endowed by God according to which He originated mankind (There is no altering Allah’s creation; that is the upright religion, but most people do not know.) 

This teaching is further clarified in various narrations (aḥādīth) found in both Sunnī and Shīʿī collections of narrations. In Shaykh al-Ṣadūq’s al-Tawḥīd he narrates from his chain to Imam al-Ṣādiq, that the Prophet (ṣ) said:

“Every infant is born upon the divine nature (fiṭrah)—meaning [born with] knowledge (al-maʿrifah) that affirms that God (the Mighty and Sublime) is their Creator. This is the meaning of [God’s] statement, ‘If you ask them, “Who created the heavens and the earth?” they will surely say, “God.”’ [Q. 31:25]”

The problem with this term is that “revert”, and related words like “reversion” carry the negative connotation of “regression.” While it is true that the divine nature (fiṭrah) is the original state embedded deep within every human being, the path of Islam—as the final ethical framework and civilizational expression of that fiṭrah—is not a simple return, but a complex and deliberate journey. Embracing Islam involves more than just recognizing God as the Creator; it requires a conscious transformation of one’s worldview, values, and way of life.

Conversion is a fulsome change in the individual’s view of reality, and a shift in their engagement with the world. A convert adopts a new language based on the terms of scripture—the Qurʾān and the teachings of the Prophet and his family—as well as the rational and spiritual meditations and formulations of scholars based on scriptural sources. This new language creates a new lens through which they think through and describe themselves, their Creator, the cosmos, and the relationship between the three.

At the level of “creed” (al-ʿittiqād), conversion is an adoption of a new language that describes and gives meaning to what they are convinced is real—al-Īmān. At the level of “devotional law” (al-sharīʿah^[5]Often imprecisely called al-fiqh. ) and ethics (al-akhlāq) conversion is an adoption of a new language that provides contour, meaning, boundaries, and priorities to the ways in which they behave—al-ʿAʿmāl al-Ṣāliḥah. In sum, conversion is the cultivation of a new devotional lifestyle and culture. I contend that “conversion” is a clearer English term for this process and “convert” is a clearer term for an individual undergoing this process than “reversion” and “revert.”

A Typology of Convert Experiences

Who is included in our term “convert”

When we utilize the term “convert” the immediate sense that comes to mind is “New Muslim.” The issue is more complicated. The convert experience is multilayered. In my usage, I include the following categories of experience:

Non-Muslim to Muslim Categories

1. New Muslim – one who recently became Muslim after previously adhering to a different theology or view of the world^[6]We may also argue that this experience can apply to people who were born to a Muslim father and are considered bi-ḥukm al-muslim during their childhood prior to the Islamic standard for the age of majority (al-bulūgh)—that is that they are treated as if Muslim until maturity because to be Muslim requires an assent (al-taṣdīq) to faith which, in legal terms, is accepted by an individual after the age of majority or upon being able to discern between right and wrong (mumayyiz), which can precede the age of majority—but who were raised without any information about Islam or its culture. This sometimes occurs when the parent raises their children according to the religion of their non-Muslim spouse, or when the parents raise their children according to purely secular norms or the norms of another religion. In this circumstance, the child, though born to a technically Muslim father, is not familiar with the religion or its culture and will share a similar experience as the person born to a non-Muslim family who later converts. This population is small but present. , and is in the early stages of familiarizing oneself with the Muslim thought and culture. This category is what most immediately comes to mind. The demarcation from “New” to “Veteran” is admittedly hard to define. In my view, one can be considered “New” until they have a sound grasp of basic theology and practice, and are familiar with Muslim community life. 

There are two issues that I need to justify here. “Familiarity with Muslim community” is a prerequisite for emerging from “new Muslim” into veteran status because of the religious nature of communal belonging. It is true that conviction (īmān) is first and foremost an act of will by an individual; conceptually, you can be a Muslim and be completely isolated from the community. However, there are two necessary considerations.  In this paper I am using “convert” as a social category of analysis: and thereby asking how the community best serves converts through education, resource access, and other factors. Second, since the Islamic tradition provides a law that shapes the contours of social interaction and has a society-focused spiritual practice that exalts virtuous social interaction, then experience and familiarity with Muslim community is a useful indicator of one’s fluency with the Islamic tradition. This is precisely because religio-social virtue is expressed through social interaction and is strengthened by repetition. For instance, an individual is best able to strengthen the quality of their control over their anger through deep experience with provocations to the soul and conscience. Additionally, a person best develops humility through overcoming challenges that provoke a sense of pride in the ego. Note the synergistic relationship here: the soul shines through socially-reinforced cleansing of negative attributes that are endemic to the human condition: selfishness, pride, covetousness, etc. Thus, community life drives spiritual purification.

The second issue is regarding the deliberate selection of the terminology. I utilize “familiar with” rather than “integrated in” the Muslim community because integration requires broad acceptance from both sides. This obviously extends beyond the agency of an individual. If a Muslim community stubbornly refuses to acknowledge and integrate new Muslims, this cannot be the fault of the convert. 

2. Veteran Convert – one who became Muslim after previously adhering to a different theology or view of the world and is deeply familiar with Muslim thought and culture

“When is a convert no longer a convert?”^[7]A related question is: why are the children of converts often treated as converts? The enduring status of convert-hood onto their children often leads to the children of converts facing similar social challenges in the community. On one hand, this question indicates the enduring power of the superficial understanding of the label, leading the community to treat converts as “New Muslims” until they die. 

On the other hand, this question can raise another contention: should we not abandon the concept and/or term of “convert” altogether because, ideally, New Muslims should become part and parcel of the larger community and thus don’t need a separate label, and “Muslim” is sufficient without another qualifier.  At one level of analysis,  it is true that converts ought to be seen as equal participants in community life, with all of the rights and privileges conferred to them from the community as “Legacy Muslims” as this is the demand of devotional law (al-sharīʿah).

However, at the social level of analysis, “convert” is a useful tool for short-handing the experience of abandoning a prior set of beliefs for an adherence to an Islamic theology and ethical code. This shift often entails an experience of alienation from one’s prior self and history. This shorthand helps us mark the experience of the challenges of alienation from family and friend groups as well as the difficulties—and often failures—of attempting to adopt a new social circle. 

In general, this set of experiences is shared by all converts despite their diversity of ethnic, linguistic, national, class, and racial backgrounds. Despite this diversity, the shared set of experiences creates a thread of camaraderie between converts. Socially, the label “convert” is often a source of positive identity assertion and communal belonging with a subset of the Muslim community.

“Veteran Convert” is used to indicate a further subset of experiences. Using “convert” for “convert programs” or “convert support” can limit our understanding of the convert experience to that of recent adoption of Islam. Using more detailed terms helps us understand that within the larger convert umbrella, there are elders and veterans who have deep wisdom and knowledge—indeed some are themselves seminary-trained students or scholars (ʿulamāʾ). There is a wellspring of wisdom to draw from within the convert community itself to let lead, or consult and work with when creating convert-oriented programming. 

This distinction also helps us understand that there are different categories of convert-oriented programming that are necessary: some must be geared toward New Muslims and others should be inclusive of Veteran Converts’ needs. In a word: convert programming should not be limited to elementary-level topics or programs highlighting the early-phase of conversion.

Intra-Islam Shifts

3. A Muslim who shifted from one path of Islam to the path of the Family of the Prophet—the path of Imāmī Twelve-Imām Islam. 

Some may argue that this is not “conversion” in the conventional sense since it isn’t a change from non-Muslim to Muslim. This shift is inclusive of people who come from Sunnī, Khārijī, and non-Twelve-Imām forms of Shīʿī Islam. However, this type of shift often leads to a similar experience of alienation—from one’s prior convictions, religious language, lifestyle, and sense of self, as well as from family and community. This involves learning new theological and legal terminology, learning and practicing differences in worship (e.g. the form of the formal prayer, al-ṣalāh), a change in the hierarchy and sacrality of historical figures, the challenge of selectively adopting or rejecting non-fundamental^[8]By “non-fundamental” I mean beliefs and practices that are not essential to the Madhhab as a theological and legal path. Shīʿī specific customs and culture (e.g. Muharram commemorations), etc. It also often involves a new social dynamic, whereby the person has to adjust to their new religious orientation in social terms: defending their change to their friends and family who may now consider them misguided. In regard to a Sunnī-Shīʿī shift, the individual has to adjust to being labeled and treated as a minority after enjoying a relatively privileged status in the social hierarchy of the Ummah, with all of the psychological implications this entails. This necessitates a process of intellectual and spiritual recalibration as well as social integration into an expanded body of practitioners. Thus, it is—at the very least—convert-adjacent and is included in my analysis of the stages of conversion. 

Conclusion

This typology is offered to add color to the picture in our minds about converts and the convert experience, and to problematize the flat and sometimes stereotypical concepts we may have in mind. Noting the variety of these three experiences will help us tailor our support for converts of various stripes institutionally and on an interpersonal level.

I must also acknowledge the weaknesses of this rudimentary categorization. This typology focuses on the convert’s time spent building an Islamic personality and on the convert’s religious origins. In particular, the distinction between New Muslim and Veteran Convert helps to expand the community’s understanding of the positionality of different types of Muslims in their midst. This nuance should translate into more targeted convert support programs, and a more holistic interpersonal ethic between community members of Legacy and Convert backgrounds. I welcome the production of more complex pictures of the convert experience. There are many more stories to be told and analyses to be written on different axes of identity and experience—including issues of class, race, national-origin, gender, etc.—which will further enhance our understanding of our diverse community. 

In a forthcoming article I will map out three distinct but interdependent stages that a Convert traverses through on their religious journey, in shāʾ Allāh.

The science of hadith critically examines the sayings, actions, and tacit approvals of the Infallibles, ensuring their authenticity through rigorous methodologies. This science remains fundamental, especially in legal studies (fiqh), and is traditionally divided into Dirāyat al-Hadith, Riwāyat al-Hadith, and Rijāl al-Hadith. The Prophet himself encouraged the preservation of his teachings, stating:

 “Whoever writes down knowledge or a hadith from me, the reward will continue to be written for them as long as that knowledge or hadith remains”^[1]Ta’rikh Khulafā’, Suyuti, p. 77  

Despite its central role in seminaries, the public often misunderstands technical terms like sahih, da’if, and hasan, assuming literal meanings. For instance, a da’if classification does not denote fabrication, rather it highlights weaknesses or unknown narrators in the chain. This discussion outlines how scholars historically authenticated hadith, affirming the reliability of our sources in aqaid, fiqh, and other related fields. 

This article begins by examining the historical methods of hadith authentication, focusing on the periods before and after ʿAllāmah al-Ḥillī. This division is significant due to a notable shift in the approach to authenticating hadith between these two eras. Prior to ʿAllāmah al-Ḥillī, early scholars emphasized wuthūq al-ṣudūr—confidence in the attribution of a narration to an Imām. Being closer in time to the Imāms, they had access to various contextual indicators that enabled them to assess the reliability of narrations. As time progressed, many of these indicators were lost due to historical and sociopolitical factors. In response to this shift, ʿAllāmah al-Ḥillī introduced a new methodology that prioritized the scrutiny of the chain of transmission (isnād) to determine the authenticity of a narration. This paper explores these evolving methodologies and analyzes their implications for the science of hadith authentication.

History of Hadith Formation

During his lifetime, the Prophet extensively explained the Qur’an and Islamic rulings. After the Hijrah, as Islamic rulings expanded to both personal and societal matters, the Prophet increasingly explained and interpreted the Qur’an through his statements. However, after his passing, the first two caliphs banned the transmission and recording of hadith—a ban lasting nearly a century, lifted only during the reign of Umar ibn Abd al-Aziz. Abu Bakr ordered the destruction of recorded narrations, and Umar discouraged hadith dissemination to focus on the Qur’an. Some Sunni sources report that ʿUmar considered compiling hadith but ultimately refrained from doing so.^[2]Kanz al-ʿUmmāl, al-Muttaqī al-Hindī, vol. 10, p. 291, Hadith 29474 Sunni scholars have offered various explanations for the early prohibition on recording hadith. Chief among them were concerns that hadith might be confused with the Qur’an and fears^[3]Kanz al-ʿUmmāl, al-Muttaqī al-Hindī, vol. 10, p. 291, Hadith 29474 of discord among Muslims.^[4]Tadhkirat al-Ḥuffāẓ, al-Dhahabī, vol. 1, p. 9 Al-Dhahabī attempts to justify Abū Bakr’s prohibition on hadith transmission by arguing that his intention was to verify and investigate reports, not to close the door to narration. However, historical evidence contradicts this interpretation; as the ban contributed to the loss of many narrations and increased the risk of fabrication. In contrast, the Shīʿa community preserved the prophetic teachings with greater continuity. Imam Ali compiled the first hadith collection, which was safeguarded by subsequent Imams and occasionally referenced in later traditions.^[5]Ta’sis al-Shia, p. 279 The efforts intensified during the time of Imam al-Baqir and Imam al-Sadiq, leading to 400 foundational works known as al-Usul al-Arba‘ Mi’ah. Later, during Imam al-Ridha’s era, hadith transmission flourished, with 360 individuals narrating from him directly.^[6]Musnad Imam Ridha, Shaykh ʿAzīzullāh ʿAṭṭārdī, vol. 2, p. 70

History of Hadith Formation: Historical Methods of Hadith Authentication

Throughout Islamic history, various methodologies for hadith authentication have been proposed. A major turning point occurred during the era of ʿAllāmah Ḥillī. During ʿAllāmah Ḥillī’s era, with the expansion of fiqh and uṣūl, increased interaction with Sunni scholarship, loss of the contextual indicators present during the earlier period but lost during Allamah’s time and the intermixing of authentic and weak narrations, ʿAllāmah Ḥillī and his teacher Aḥmad ibn Ṭāwūs al-Ḥillī introduced a different/more streamlined method—the science of dirāyah.^[7]Mashriq al-Shamsayn, p. 271 They categorized narrations using terms like ṣaḥīḥ (authentic), ḥasan (good), and mawthūq (reliable). Although Shaykh Bahāʾī credits ʿAllāmah Ḥillī with founding dirāyah, earlier traces of this discipline are evident in earlier scholars’ works and the narrations of the Imams.^[8]Mashriq al-Shamsayn wa Iksīr al-Saʿādatayn maʿa Taʿlīqāt al-Khwājūʾī, vol. 1, p. 33 However, previous usage was not independent but complemented by contextual analysis. While ʿAllāmah Hilli systematized the classification of hadith, he sometimes applied earlier methodologies. For example, in al-Khulāṣa, he states that al-Ṣadūq’s chain to Abū Maryam al-Anṣārī is ṣaḥīḥ, despite the presence of Abān ibn ʿUthmān, based on the Shiʿa community’s consensus about narrations reliably transmitted from them.^[9]Mashriq al-Shamsayn, vol. 1, p. 270

Thus, in this discussion, the historical development of hadith authentication is divided into two phases:

• Pre-ʿAllāmah Ḥillī
• Post-ʿAllāmah Ḥillī

Pre-ʿAllāmah Ḥillī: Wuthūq Ṣudūrī

Before ʿAllāmah Ḥillī, many scholars employed several methods in the evaluation of hadith. For instance Sheikh Mufid utilized multiple methodologies to assess narrations. One of these was Naqd-e matn-maḥwar or text-based criticism in which the validation and evaluation of the narrations conducted by comparing their content against definitive sources and criteria of religious knowledge namely, the Noble Qur’an, reason (ʿaql), Sunnah, or external sources such as established historical facts and empirical realities.^[10]Al-Masā’il al-Ṣāghāniyya, Shaykh al-Mufīd pp 90 Another widely adopted method was the principle of wuthūq ṣudūrī, that is, confidence in the attribution of a narration to an Imam. The reliability of narrators was only one of several contextual indicators assessed, rather than being the sole criterion. Early scholars, including al-Kulaynī, Shaykh al-Ṣadūq, and al-Muḥaqqiq al-Ḥillī, adhered to this methodology.

Among the contextual indicators employed were:

1. Presentation of Books to the Imams and Their Endorsement

A crucial indicator was the presentation of compiled hadith works (aṣl or kitāb) to the Imams for verification. Approval of such works by the Imams served as strong evidence of their authenticity. For instance Ubaydullah ibn ʿAlī al-Ḥalabī presented his work to the Imam, who endorsed it.^[11]Wasāʾil al-Shīʿa, Shaykh Ḥurr al-ʿĀmilī, vol. 20, p. 98 Conversely, Yunus ibn ʿAbd al-Raḥmān presented narrations heard in Kūfa, and the Imam rejected some of them.^[12]Ikhtiyār Maʿrifat al-Rijāl, Shaykh al-Ṭūsī, vol. 1, p. 224 Al-Kulaynī records such events in al-Kāfī^[13]vol. 7, p. 324 , where a narration mentions that Yunus presented a book to Imam al-Riḍā (A), who affirmed its authenticity.

Later jurists, such as Ṣāḥib al-Jawāhir and al-Muḥaqqiq al-Ardabīlī, heavily relied on such indicators. For example, in discussions on diyāt, they cite Zarīf’s work as reliable based on its endorsement by an Imam. However later scholars who are proponents of the sanad method, like al-Shahīd al-Thānī doubted its chains due to figures like al-Ḥasan ibn ʿAlī ibn Faḍḍāl and Sahl ibn Ziyād^[14]Rawḍat al-Bahiyyah, vol. 10, p. 253; vol. 7, p. 322 and thus considered the book as weak in its categorization. Thus, endorsement by the Imam of compilations was a vital method of authentication.

2. Appearance of Hadiths in Multiple Aṣl

The aṣl were independent compilations by early Shīʿī narrators who directly heard narrations from the Imams. Their authenticity was highly trusted because they minimized copying errors. Usul al-Arbaʿ Miʾah played a major role. Scholars like Mirzā Nāʾīnī and Waḥīd Bahbahānī considered a hadith’s inclusion in al-Kāfī a strong sign of authenticity. Fayḍ Kāshānī noted that hadiths appearing in multiple Usul or compiled by one of the Aṣḥāb al-Ijmāʿ narrators were deemed authentic.^[15]al-Wāfī, vol. 1, p. 22 Similarly, Āqā Buzurg Tihrānī asserts that the appearance of a narration in several Usul strengthens its credibility.^[16]al-Dharīʿah ilā Taṣānīf al-Shīʿah, vol. 2, p. 126 Al-Muḥaqqiq al-Dāmād also stressed on reliance on Usul for verification.^[17]al-Rawāshiḥ al-Samāwīyah, vol. 1, p. 99

3. Comparing Manuscripts

Scholars traditionally compared manuscripts to detect interpolations or distortions. This method remains essential in verifying the text and chain of a hadith. For example, Shaykh Ṭūsī and Shaykh al-Kulaynī both transmit a narration concerning the legal rulings for women in nifās (bleeding after childbirth), but notable textual differences appear:

Shaykh Ṭūsī records:

“The post-natal woman (al-nufasāʾ) refrains from prayer during the days she would normally remain [in bleeding], then she performs ghusl just as the woman with irregular bleeding (al-mustaḥāḍah) does.”

and elsewhere:

“The post-natal woman (al-nufasāʾ) refrains from prayer during the days of her bleeding… then she performs ghusl and prays just as the woman with irregular bleeding (al-mustaḥāḍah) does.”

In al-Kāfī, Shaykh al-Kulaynī transmits:

“The post-natal woman (al-nufasāʾ) refrains from prayer during the days of her bleeding… then she performs ghusl and acts as the woman with irregular bleeding (al-mustaḥāḍah) does.”

The phrase “tuṣallī kamā taghtasil al-mustaḥāḍa” (“she prays as the mustaḥāḍa bathes”) in the second narration (Tahdhīb) appears incoherent. The more accurate reading, preserved in al-Kāfī, is “taʿmal kamā taʿmal al-mustaḥāḍa” (“she acts as the mustaḥāḍa acts”). All three transmissions ultimately trace back to Nawādir Ibn Abī ʿUmayr. The variation arises from differences between the transmissions of Ḥusayn ibn Saʿīd, Muḥammad ibn ʿAbd Allāh ibn Zurārah, and the widely accepted recension transmitted by Ibrāhīm ibn Hāshim.

Manuscript comparison is also essential in assessing chains of transmission (isnād). For instance, in Kitāb al-ʿIlal, Ibn Bābawayh narrates through:

Muhammad ibn Mūsā ibn al-Mutawakkil → ʿAlī ibn al-Ḥusayn al-Saʿd Ābādī → Aḥmad ibn Abī ʿAbd Allāh al-Barqī → Ismāʿīl ibn Mihrān → Aḥmad ibn Muḥammad ibn Jābir → Zaynab bint ʿAlī → Faṭima (PBUH).

However, in another version transmitted by Shaykh al-Ṣadūq:

Muhammad ibn Mūsā ibn al-Mutawakkil → ʿAlī ibn al-Ḥusayn al-Saʿd Ābādī → Aḥmad ibn Muḥammad ibn Khālid al-Barqī → his father → Ismāʿīl ibn Mihrān → Aḥmad ibn Muḥammad al-Khuzāʿī → Muḥammad ibn Jābir → ʿAbbād al-ʿĀmirī → Zaynab bint ʿAlī → Faṭima (PBUH).

Comparison reveals omissions and inaccuracies in the former chain, where two narrators are missing and some names are incorrectly recorded.^[18]Pajūhishī dar ʿIlm al-Rijāl, Akbar Turabi Shahriza’i, pp. 23–24

Thus, the practice of comparing manuscripts and variant transmissions remains a crucial tool for verifying both the textual integrity and the authenticity of hadith chains.

4. Examination of the Chain of Narration

Early scholars did not assess the authenticity of a hadith solely based on the reliability of its chain of transmission (isnād), nor did they reject a narration purely due to a weak chain. Rather, the strength of the isnād was one of several indicators used to evaluate a report. Critical to this process was also the analysis of the hadith’s content. Nonetheless, knowledge of the narrators and their attributes remained essential for jurists, as rulings could not be issued without this assessment given that some were known fabricators, others narrated from weak authorities, some lacked precision or were prone to forgetfulness, and others, while not Imāmī, transmitted sayings from the Imams—requiring further scrutiny to determine alignment with Imāmī jurisprudence or the possibility of taqiyya.^[19]ʿUddat al-Uṣūl, al-Shaykh al-Ṭūsī, vol. 1, p. 150

The Imams themselves warned about tampering:

For instance, Imam al-Ṣādiq warns:

“Mughīrah ibn Saʿīd tampered with the books of my father’s companions and inserted narrations not from my father”.^[20]Ikhtiyār Maʿrifat al-Rijāl [Rijāl al-Kashshī, al-Shaykh al-Ṭūsī, vol. 1, p. 223

Similarly, Imam ʿAlī, when asked about contradictory reports, explained:

“One who heard something from the Prophet but did not memorize it accurately would convey it as he understood it. He does not intentionally lie, but he acts upon it and claims: ‘I heard it from the Messenger of Allah’”.^[21]Nahj al-Balāgha, sermon 210

At times, scholars explicitly rejected narrations based on isnād analysis. Shaykh al-Ṣadūq, for example, dismisses certain reports because:

“These are solitary reports that neither establish certainty nor obligate action. Moreover, their narrator, ʿImrān al-Zaʿfarānī, is unknown, and both chains include weak transmitters whose solitary reports we do not act upon”. ^[22]al-Istibṣār, Shaykh al-Ṭūsī, vol. 2, p. 76

Other contextual indicators included the acceptance of a narration by Qummī scholars, the reliability of Shaykh al-Ṣadūq’s mursalāt, reliance on the Aṣḥāb al-Ijmāʿ, and narrations transmitted by certified teachers (shuyūkh al-ijāzah).

Hadith Assessment Post-ʿAllāmah Ḥillī: Wuthuq Sanadi

In the post-ʿAllāmah Ḥillī period, a distinct methodology emerged wherein jurists assessed hadiths solely based on the soundness of the isnād (chain of transmission). According to this approach, a narration must possess an authenticated and verified chain for it to be accepted; any flaw in the chain—regardless of supporting contextual indicators—would result in the rejection of the report. Among the past four centuries of juristic practice, the most notable proponent of this method is Ayatullah al-Khu’i. Preceding him, it was widely adopted by Shāhīd al-Thānī and Mullā Aḥmad al-Muqaddas al-Ardabīlī the author of Majmaʿ al-Fāʾida wa al-Burhān.^[23]Dars-e Khārij-e Fiqh, Ustād Muḥammad Ḥasan Rabānī Bīrjandī, 14/0/1401 solar

Within this framework, the trustworthiness (tawthīq) of narrators is established either through specific attestations or through general indications.

Specific attestations (tawthīq khāṣṣ) refer to judgments of trustworthiness (ʿadālah or thiqah) pertaining to one or a few narrators, without relying on a broader criterion applicable to others. 

Several methods exist within this category:

First Method: An attestation is derived from statements issued by one of the Infallible Imams, either explicitly, implicitly, or necessarily affirming a narrator’s reliability. For example: Ḥamdawayh reports:

“Muḥammad ibn ʿĪsá ibn ʿUbayd and Yaʿqūb ibn Yazīd narrated to me from Ibn Abī ʿUmayr, from Abū al-ʿAbbās al-Baqbaq, from Abū ʿAbdillāh (al-Ṣādiq, peace be upon him), who said: ‘There are four people most beloved to me in life and death: Burayd ibn Muʿāwiyah al-ʿIjlī, Zurārah ibn Aʿyan, Muḥammad ibn Muslim, and Abū Jaʿfar al-Aḥwal.’”.^[24]Ikhtiyār Maʿrifat al-Rijāl (Rijāl al-Kashshī), al-Ṭūsī, p. 135, ḥadīth 215

The chain here is considered ṣaḥīḥ, as all transmitters are Imāmī and ʿādil.

Second Method: Explicit attestations from early rijāl scholars such as Shaykh Ṣadūq, al-Najāshī, al-Kashshī, and al-Ṭūsī. For instance, al-Najāshī writes:

Third Method: Endorsements by later scholars (mutaʾakhkhirīn)

Fourth Method: A jurist compiles various indicators to attain certainty regarding a narrator’s trustworthiness. This method, considered the most reliable, requires comprehensive expertise in the narrators’ biographies, transmission patterns, precision, teachers, students, and contextual factors.

For example, regarding Ḥārith ibn Abī Jaʿfar Muḥammad ibn Nuʿmān:

• Al-Najāshī notes his work was transmitted by trusted companions, including al-Ḥasan ibn Maḥbūb.
• Al-Ṭūsī mentions he authored an aṣl and identifies him among the companions of Imam al-Ṣādiq (peace be upon him).
• Al-Waḥīd al-Bahbahānī and others relied on his narrations, recognizing their precedence even over other sound reports in cases of contradiction.

The cumulative indicators—widespread transmission, association with primary sources, narrating through figures of ijmāʿ, and scholarly preference for his narrations—establish confidence in his reliability.^[25]Pajūhish dar ʿIlm al-Rijāl, p. 196

In hadith evaluation, general attestations (tawthīq ʿām) refer to the validation of a group of narrators based on their inclusion within recognized categories or fulfillment of specific criteria. A narrator’s reliability (thiqah) may be established if they belong to the Aṣḥāb al-Ijmāʿ, are narrated by them directly or indirectly, or are transmitted by one of the three principal scholars: al-Kulaynī, al-Ṣadūq, or al-Ṭūsī. Other indicators include being among the teachers (mashāyikh) of al-Najāshī, appearing in the transmission chains of key works such as the Tafsīr of ʿAlī ibn Ibrāhīm al-Qummī or Kāmil al-Ziyārāt, narrating a large number of traditions, or being the subject of scholarly expressions of mercy (taraḥḥum). Frequent narration by al-Kulaynī, appearing in chains classified as ṣaḥīḥahا (authentic) through taṣḥīḥ al-isnād, or serving as a representative (wakīl) of an Imam are also strong indicators. Additionally, reliability may be inferred if a narrator received scholarly authorization (ijāzah), authored an original work (aṣl), was affirmed as trustworthy by later scholars, or was narrated by notable figures such as the Banū Faḍḍāl or Jaʿfar ibn Bashīr. Being counted among the teachers of the Qummī scholars or those of al-Ṣadūq further strengthens the presumption of a narrator’s trustworthiness.

A Modern Approach to Hadith Authentication

As previously outlined, reliance solely on the transmitters within a chain (isnād) does not yield definitive proof of a narration’s authenticity, given that narrations with weak chains may nonetheless align reliably with Shi’i doctrinal principles. Consequently, a more comprehensive and nuanced method is necessary—one that synthesizes all available evidence to reach a sound judgment. Among the emerging approaches is the Fihristi method, pioneered by Ayatollah Aḥmad Madadī al-Mūsawī in his dars al-khārij lectures and systematized by his students in works such as Nigāhī bi Daryā (Ayatollah Madadi), Bāzsāzī-i Mutūn-i Kuhn-i Ḥadīth-i Shīʿa (Sayyid Muḥammad Emādī), and Fahāris al-Shīʿa (Mehdī Khodāmīān).

Tahlīl-i Fihristī (تحلیل فهرستی) evaluates narrations through a cumulative process of compiling, analyzing, and weighing evidence to establish the degree of confidence in a narration’s reliability. It is a dynamic, evolving methodology wherein new findings continually refine or correct earlier conclusions. Unlike classical ʿilm al-rijāl, which aims to classify narrations rigidly as ṣaḥīḥ, ḥasan, muwaththaq, or ḍaʿīf, Tahlīl-i Fihristī assesses narrations on a continuum of credibility, determined by the accumulation of contextual indicators. This method recognizes that the authenticity of a hadith is not a mechanical process waiting to be discovered, but rather a confidence-based judgment formed through critical evaluation.

A secondary contribution of the Fihristi method is its illumination of historical processes. For instance, while the transmission history of narrations in al-Bukhārī’s Ṣaḥīḥ remains largely obscure regarding the shift from oral to written forms, many Shīʿī transmissions offer clearer historical trajectories. An example is the chain: 

ʿAlī ibn Ibrāhīm → his father → Ḥammād → Ḥarīz → Zurārah → Abū Jaʿfar (ʿa). While Abū Jaʿfar (ʿa) transmitted orally, Zurārah may have committed the narration to writing. Ḥarīz, who definitively authored a book, transmitted it to Ḥammād, who likewise preserved it in writing. This written corpus was subsequently transmitted to Qom by Ibrāhīm ibn Hāshim and eventually to al-Kulaynī, illustrating a traceable historical pathway.^[26]Madadī, Advanced Fiqh, 1396/8/2 [November 23, 2017]  

In addition to mapping out the historical trajectory of transmission, the Fihristi method also substantiates the authenticity of a narration by locating it within early authoritative compilations that can be reliably traced back to the Infallible Imams (ʿa). Through this process, the method reconstructs a chain of contextual and historical indicators that enhance epistemic certainty. As such, the authenticity of a hadith, within this framework, is directly linked to the credibility of the source in which it is preserved. Thus the narration’s validity becomes as sound as that of the book itself.^[27]Arzyābī-ye ḥadīth be ravesh-e “taḥlīl-e fehrestī”; didgāhhā va mabānī, Sayyid Reżā Shīrāzī and Maḥmūd Malakī, pp. 35–36.  

When a narration possesses both rijālī and fihristi credibility, its content is further evaluated across three historical stages: (1) the context of issuance, (2) the reaction of the Ahl al-Bayt (ʿa), and (3) its transition into fatwā (legal ruling).

It is evident that this methodology necessitates a profound and ijtihādī mastery of hadith sciences and cannot be employed without first undergoing rigorous and comprehensive scholarly training in the discipline.

Conclusion

The authentication of hadith has always been a critical and dynamic endeavor within Islamic scholarship, evolving alongside the intellectual and societal needs of the Muslim community. Many early scholars prioritized wuthūq ṣudūrī—confidence in attribution—by relying on contextual indicators such as the endorsement of hadith compilations by the Imams, cross-referencing multiple Usul, manuscript comparison, and chain analysis. Over time, especially after the era of ʿAllāmah Ḥillī, the science of dirāyah became more streamlined, shifting focus toward wuthūq sanadī—the reliability of the transmission chain itself. This methodological shift, while adding precision, also led to the dismissal of many narrations that earlier scholars had accepted based on holistic indicators. Understanding these developments highlights not only the rigorous efforts undertaken to preserve the teachings of the Prophet and his progeny but also the diversity of approaches within our scholarly heritage. It is crucial, given the rigorous process of hadith authentication, that narrations are not merely classified as sahih (authentic) or da’if (weak) by the public and subsequently dismissed without thorough scholarly analysis. Labeling a hadith as sahih or da’if without proper examination can result in oversimplifications and distortions of Islamic teachings.

Muḥammad Muḥsin Al-Fayḍ Al-Kāshānī, the prolific Imāmī Shīʿī scholar and mystic-philosopher, opens his renowned tafsīr (Quranic exegesis) with twelve introductory sections that address foundational themes concerning the nature and interpretation of the Qurʾān. In the fourth section, he draws upon narrations from the Ahl al-Bayt (ʿa) to examine some of the more profound and complex dimensions of the Qurʾān: the multilayered nature of verses (wujūh al-āyāt), how its messages may contain profound ambiguity (mutashābihat), and the concept of deeper, esoteric interpretation (taʾwīl).

Al-Kāshānī explains that the divine speech found in the Qurʾān is not superficial. Each verse contains layers of meaning (wujūh) discovered only when the reader dives deeper into its study. Some layers of meaning may be directly accessible to one’s immediate understanding, where multiple meanings may emerge from the apparent sense of the divine text. Scholars have noted that this multi-dimensionality of revelation serves several purposes: it encourages deep contemplation, fosters humility in the reader, offers varying degrees of understanding to people based on their capacities, and reserves the most profound insights for those who are spiritually refined.^[1]Ibn Shahr Āshūb, Mutashābih al-Qur’ān wa Mukhtalafuh ^[2]ʿAllāmah Muḥammad Ḥusayn Ṭabāṭabāʾī, al-Mīzān fī Tafsīr al-Qurʾān, commentary on Qurʾān (3):7.  However, some higher, more profound layers of meaning remain hidden to the laity or the unworthy, and can only be uncovered by those with access to special sources of knowledge.

This discussion relates closely to the concept of taʾwīl. It is a difficult word to translate, and Muslims have disagreed vociferously as to its nature. Al-Kāshānī appears to believe it refers to a type of Quranic interpretation that is not immediately discerned from the apparent meaning of the text, but is actually the ultimate realization of a verse’s meaning and the fulfillment of Allah’s (swt) original intent. Afterall, the root of the word taʾwīl means to refer back to the origin. For this reason, the taʾwīl goes beyond the apparent meaning of the text, yet remains in harmony with it. To give an example from the author himself, after citing a number of narrations from the Ahl al-Bayt about the verse “Guide us to the Straight Path”^[3]Qurʾān, al-Fātiḥah (1):6 , Al-Kāshānī says, “It has become clear that the Imam is the Straight Path.” While Allah does not explicitly name the Ahl al-Bayt in the verse, the narrations clarify Allah’s intent: this verse refers primarily to them and they are its clearest embodiment. 

Who has access to this deeper type of interpretation, which clarifies the ultimate fulfillment of a verse’s meaning? Of course, Allah Himself, and He may explain and extend meanings found in one verse by means of other verses, alluded to in verses^[4]Such as Āl ʿImrān (3):7 or Al-Qīyāmah (75):18-19 and narrations such as “One part speaks for another part, and one part testifies to the other.”^[5]Nahj al-Balāghah, Sermon 133 The Qurʾān also suggests Allah gives this authority to some deserving: “And no one knows its taʾwīl except Allah and those steeped in knowledge (al-rāsikhūna fī al-ʿilm)…”^[6]Qurʾān, Āl ʿImrān (3):7. Shīʿī scholars argue from the Qurʾān and the narrations that the Ahl al-Bayt are those vested with this authority by Allah. Thus, only they may unlock the taʾwīl latent within Allah’s book. 

Finally, the author explains the mutashābihāt—the ambiguous or allegorical aspects of the Qurʾān—whose meanings are veiled from those lacking spiritual authority. The Qurʾān adds this type of ambiguity because it was revealed by Allah to address a diversity of intellects and spiritual capacities. The Qur’an, the author explains, speaks to both the elite and the masses, and thus employs language that resonates differently based on the readiness of the audience. Mutashābihāt contain symbols that cannot be fully grasped through surface-level interpretation (tafsīr) alone but require taʾwīl—a return to the verse’s inner, metaphysical reality with Allah. As mentioned before, only Allah and those firmly rooted in knowledge (al-rāsikhūn fī al-ʿilm), namely the Ahl al-Bayt, can truly comprehend these deeper meanings. The author warns against imposing speculative interpretations on such verses, urging instead to preserve the apparent wording, believe in its truth even if one cannot understand them, and entrust the correct knowledge to Allah while awaiting guidance from His authorities on the true meaning of the symbols, parables, and ambiguous statements. Using the parable of the blind men and the elephant, the author illustrates that many perceive only fragments of truth and mistake them for the whole, leading to confusion and contradiction. Thus, the mutashābihāt are not to be acted upon unless clarified by clear (muḥkam) verses or the Ahl al-Bayt. Including mutashābihāt in the Qurʾān provides those who are spiritually ready a pathway to deeper understanding of metaphysical and spiritual realities otherwise beyond reach. Using symbolic language and allegories, mutashābihāt elevates the reader, so long as they remain humble; careful to act only on clear knowledge provided by the Qurʾān, the Prophet, or the Imams. These are the only legitimate gateways to access the taʾwīl which unlocks the deeper meanings of the Qurʾān. 

Below, the respected reader will find the translation to Al-Kāshānī’s fourth introduction. Use these links to find the previous parts of this introduction: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3. 

This excerpt was translated by Azhar Sheraze of the Ahl al-Bayt Islamic Seminary. 

Forth Introduction: On the Meaning of the Wujūh of Qurʾānic Verses, along with a Study of the Mutashābih Verses and their Taʾwīl 

Jābir b. Yazīd al-Juʿfī, a companion of Imam al-Bāqir (ʿa), asked him about the tafsīr of the Qurʾān, and the Imam responded. He asked him about it a second time, and he responded differently. Jābir said, “May I be your ransom! You answered this issue differently just yesterday.” The Imam responded, “O Jābir! The Qurʾān has an inner aspect (baṭn) and this inner aspect itself has another inner aspect. The Qurʾān also has an outer aspect (ẓahr) and this outer aspect itself has another outer aspect. O Jābir, nothing is farther from the understanding of men than the Qurʾān’s tafsīr. A verse may open with one issue and end with another, yet all the while it is an integrated discourse with multiple aspects.”^[7]Al-ʿAyyāshī, Tafsīr al-ʿAyyāshī, 1:12

Ḥumrān b. Aʿyan, another companion, reports from Imam Al-Bāqir: “The apparent meaning of the Qurʾān refers to the people it was immediately revealed about, and its inner meaning refers to those who act like them.”^[8]Al-ʿAyyāshī, Tafsīr al-ʿAyyāshī, 1:11. Translator’s Note: Maʿānī al-ʾAkhbār adds at the end: “That which was revealed about those people flows towards these people.” This alludes to the exegetical concept of jarī (literally, to flow), frequently invoked by scholars of tafsīr, whereby certain Qurʾānic verses—though revealed about specific historical events—are applied by the Ahl al-Bayt (ʿa) to analogous situations across time. Such verses thus retain ongoing relevance and can be extended to future or contemporary contexts, “flowing” from the text towards instances and persons in the world.

Another companion by the name of al-Fuḍayl bin Yasār asked Imam al-Bāqir: “There is a narration: ‘There is not a verse in the Qurʾān except that it has an outer aspect and inner aspect, and there is no letter in it except that it has a limit (ḥadd), and for every limit there is a point of ascension (muṭṭalaʿ/maṭlaʿ).’ What does he mean by saying it has an outer aspect and an inner aspect?’” The Imam said, “The outer aspect of the Qurʾān is its revealed aspect (tanzīl) and its inner aspect is its deeper interpretation (taʾwīl). Some of these deeper interpretations have already come to be while others have yet to unfold. These meanings flow just as the sun and the moon flow. The more something from the deeper interpretation comes to be, the more the meanings come to be. Allah says, ‘None knows its deeper interpretation (taʾwīl) except God and those firmly rooted in knowledge.’^[9]Qurʾān, Āl ʿImrān (3):7. — We are the ones who know it.”^[10]Al-ʿAyyāshī, Tafsīr al-ʿAyyāshī, 1:11 The author al-Kāshānī clarifies: “The point of ascension (muaṭṭalaʿ/maṭlaʿ), refers to the place of revealing something from a lofty station, or it can also mean any height a person climbs to in order to attain knowledge. The overall meaning of point of ascension is close to the meaning of taʾwīl and bāṭin, just as the meaning of ḥadd is close to the meaning of tanzīl and ẓahr.”

In a narration, the companion Masʿadah b. Ṣadaqah asked Imam al-Ṣādiq (ʿa) about the terms nāsikh, mansūkh, muḥkam, and mutashābih.^[11]Translator’s Note: Nāsikh refers to an abrogating message, which supersedes a previous message in the Qurʾān. Mansūkh refers to the previous ruling now superseded by the nāsikh. Muḥkam refers to a message in the Qurʾān that is clear and unambiguous, and serves as the basis for interpreting the mutashābih, those messages in the Qurʾān that contain degrees of ambiguity for most people and layers of symbolic meaning. The Imam responded: “The nāsikh is established and acted upon. The mansūkh used to be acted upon but is abrogated by the nāsikh. The mutashābih is whatever is obscure (ishtabaha) to the ignorant.”^[12]Al-ʿAyyāshī, Tafsīr al-ʿAyyāshī, 1:11 In another narration, Imam al-Ṣādiq said, “The nāsikh is established, the mansūkh used to be established, the muḥkam is [immediately] actionable, and the mutashābih is that which it’s different parts appear like each other [leading to confusion]/resemble each other [leading to confusion]/are confused for one another.”^[13]Al-ʿAyyāshī, Tafsīr al-ʿAyyāshī, 1:10

Imam al-Ṣādiq’s companion,ʿAbd Allāh b. Sinān, narrates that he asked the Imam about the Qurʾān and the furqān.^[14]Translator’s Note: Furqān is a criterion used to distinguish between right and wrong. The Imam said, “The Qurʾān is the entirety of the Book and news about what is and will be, while a furqān (criterion) is muḥkam (an established principle) which is [immediately] acted upon. Everything muḥkam is a furqān.^[15]Al-ʿAyyāshī, Tafsīr al-ʿAyyāshī, 1:16  

Abū Baṣīr, the renowned companion of Imams al-Bāqir and al-Ṣādiq, reports, “I heard from Imam al-Ṣādiq who said, ‘The Qurʾān contains that which is muḥkam and that which is mutashābih. As for the muḥkam, we believe in it, [immediately] act on it, and are subjected to it. As for the mutashābih, we believe in it but do not [immediately] act on it.’”^[16]Translator’s note: The narration says, “We believe in it and do not act on it.” This does not mean symbolic, ambiguous messages in the Qurʾān are not actionable. However, it means they are actionable only after guidance from other clear (muḥkam) verses and statements of the Ahl al-Bayt. ^[17]Al-ʿAyyāshī, Tafsīr al-ʿAyyāshī, 1:16

The narrator ʿAbd Allāh ibn Bukayr narrates from Imam al-Ṣādiq: “The Qurʾān was revealed according to the proverb, I address you, but my neighbor should listen too!”^[18]Al-ʿAyyāshī, Tafsīr al-ʿAyyāshī, 1:10 and Al-Kulayni, al-Kāfī 2:235 The author clarifies what this means: “This Arab proverb is used when the speaker directly addresses one person, but in fact intends someone else–other than his direct addressee–to listen.” And this hadith confirms what we developed in the previous introduction.

The companion Ibn Abi ʿUmayr reports from Imam al-Ṣādiq: “Allah never blames His Prophet (ṣ) [in the Qurʾān]. Rather, whenever it seems like this, Allah actually intends to blame another who was previously mentioned in the Qurʾān. For example, ‘Had We not fortified you, certainly you might have inclined toward them a bit.’^[19]Qurʾān, al-Isrāʾ(17):74. This is intended for someone other than the Prophet.”^[20]al-ʿAyyāshī 1:10, al-Kāfī 2:235 The author adds: “Perhaps the meaning of ‘another mentioned previously in the Qurʾān’ is referring to those who deviated from God’s signs, which the Qur’an previously referenced without Allah explicitly naming them. This will become clearer in the sixth part of this introduction.”

There are relevant reports from Sunni hadith chains, wherein the Prophet reportedly states: “The Qurʾān has an outer aspect, an inner aspect, a limit, and a point of ascension.”^[21]Iḥyāʾ ʿUlūm al-Dīn 1:341 And “The Qurʾān was revealed according to seven modes.^[22]Translator’s Note: The word ‘mode’ is a translation of the word ‘harf’, which translates literally to ‘letter’. A footnote in Tafsīr al-Ṣāfī mentions: Some of the people of insight (ahl al-ma’rifah) have said, “The basis for limiting these modes (literally, letters) to seven is as follows. For every inner and outer aspect are two sides: above and below. This would mean the limits (ḥudūd) possible are four at most. Each limit of an outer aspect does not have below a point of ascension, because a point of ascension is not except from above. This makes for four limits and 3 points of ascension, for a total of seven.” Every verse among them has an outer aspect and an inner aspect, and for every limit there is a point of ascension.”^[23]Tafsīr al-Ṭabarī 1:9  

Another report states: “Every mode has a limit and a point of ascension.”^[24]Al-ʿAyyāshī, Tafsīr al-ʿAyyāshī, 1:11 “The Qurʾān has an outer aspect and an inner aspect, and for each inner aspect there is another inner aspect and so on reaching up to seven inner aspects.”^[25]ʿAwālī al-Laʾālī al-ʿAzīziyya fī al-Aḥādīth al-Dīniyya, 4:107

The Commander of the Faithful, Imam Ali (ʿa) states: “There is not a verse except that it has four meanings: an outer aspect, an inner aspect, a limit, and a point of ascension. The outer aspect is the recitation, the inner aspect is comprehension, the limit is a ruling of what is permissible or forbidden, and the point of ascension is what Allah truly means by the verse.”^[26]Mizan al-Hikmah, 3:74

Additionally, Sunni sources mention a number of other relevant narrations: “Imam Ali was asked, ‘Did Allah’s Messenger give you any part of the revelation that is not contained in the Qurʾān?’ He said, ‘I swear by the One who split grain and created the soul, no. He only gives a servant understanding of His book.”^[27]Iḥyāʾ ʿUlūm al-Dīn, 1:333 Imam al-Ṣādiq said, “The book of Allah is based on four things: expression (ʿibārah), indication (ishārah), subtleties (laṭāʾif), and inner-realities (ḥaqāʾiq). The expression is for the laity, indication is for the elites, subtleties are for Allah’s Awliyāʾ(saints), and the inner-realities are for the Prophets.”^[28]Biḥār al-Anwār, 92:103

Al-Kāshānī then provides an extended explanation for the above-mentioned reports: 

Truly explicating the symbolic meanings (mutashābih) and their deeper interpretation (taʾwīl) would require an extended discussion of a profound nature. It would require us to open a single door of knowledge, which, for the worthy, will open a thousand more. May Allah grant success. 

Every meaning among the many meanings [of the Qurʾān] has a reality (ḥaqīqah) and a spirit (rūḥ), as well as a form (ṣūrah) and a container (qālib). Sometimes a single reality may manifest in many different forms and containers. And words are coined for those realities and spiritual essences. Since those realities and spiritual essences subsist in containers [and are not equal to them], the words are being used literally when referencing those realities and spiritual essences. This is because of a kind of unity between the meanings of the words and the realities themselves. For example, the word pen is only coined for an instrument that inscribes forms onto a slate, whether the pen be made of reed, iron, or something else, and whether the slate be made of paper, wood, or something else. In fact, neither the pen nor the slate needs to be physical at all, nor must they necessarily be perceptible to the senses or the intellect. These two terms—pen and slate—are sufficient for any mode of inscription. These words capture both the reality and spirit of the pen and slate.

Therefore, any being that can inscribe knowledge onto the heart’s tablet, it is more appropriate to be a pen, and this is why Allah says: “He taught by the pen. He taught humanity what it did not know.”^[29]Qurʾān, al-ʿAlaq (96):4–5 Rather, this would be a real pen, whereby the spirit, reality, and definition of “pen” is found within it, without need for anything extraneous.^[30]Translator’s Note: For example, the pen Allah uses would not need material aspects, like ink, plastic, etc, all of which would be extraneous to the essence of the pen. As another example, the same applies to the Quranic term al-mīzān (scale), coined for a standard by which something is measured. This one meaning is the reality and spirit of a scale, though it has many different containers and various forms by which scales can be. Some of its containers and forms are physical, like the balance with two pans or a spring scale which measure physical masses. Others, like the astrolabe, measure time and elevation. Yet others, like the scribe-compass, measure arcs and circles; the plumb-bob, verticality; and the ruler, lines. Arabic poetic meter measures poetry, while logic measures philosophy. Sense and imagination measure the faculties of perception, the scales of the Day of Judgment measure our knowledge and deeds, and the complete intellect (al-‘aql al-kāmil) measures universals. We can go on listing other kinds of scales. 

Generally, the measure and scale of each thing is of the same substance as that thing. The word “scale” can be used for all of these instances because the definition of “scale” corresponds to the reality found in all of them. By analogy, this applies to every word and its corresponding meaning.

If you were guided to the spirits (arwāḥ), you yourself would become spiritual, and the doors of the spiritual dominion (malakūt) would open for you, thus making you worthy of companionship with the highest assembly. And what excellent companions they are! All things in the visible world of sense-perception are simply symbols and forms for a spiritual reality in the spiritual dominion (ʿālam al-malakūt), which is the thing’s purified spirit and utter reality. 

The intellects of the majority of people, in truth, are a lower order symbol for the intellects of prophets and those close to Allah (awliyāʾ). They do not speak to the majority of people except by utilizing parables and symbols, because they have been commanded to speak to people at the level of their intellects.^[31]Translator’s Note: The Prophet has said, “We, the group of prophets, have been commanded to speak to people according to the level of their intellects.” (al-Kāfī 1:23) They are like a person dreaming, in terms of how much they understand the other realm. A person who is sleeping and dreaming normally does not discover anything except through symbols and parables. 

And so, whoever teaches wisdom to one unworthy of it, they may see in their dream that they are hanging pearls on the necks of pigs. Whoever gives the call to prayer in the month of Ramadan before the time of fajr prayer has set it in, may see himself sealing the mouths and private parts of the people, and so on. This is because of the hidden connection between the different realms. Imam Ali says: ‘People are asleep, and awaken only when they die.’^[32]Dustūr Maʿālim al-Ḥikam wa Maʾthūr Makārim al-Shiyam, 97 At the time of death, they come to truly know the realities of what they had previously only heard about [in the world] through symbols, and they come to understand these spiritual realities, and they finally understand that these [linguistic] symbols are only outer shells [used to describe higher realities]. Allah says, ‘He sends down water from the sky where the valleys are flooded to their capacity, and the flood carries along a swelling scum.’^[33]Qurʾān, al-Raʿd (13):17 In this verse, water is a symbol for [the spiritual reality of] knowledge, valleys for hearts, and scum upon the water for misguidance. At the end of this verse, Allah calls attention [to something deeper than the outer shell of the apparent words]: ‘Likewise does Allah draw symbols.’^[34]Qurʾān, al-Raʿd (13):17

Everything that your understanding cannot handle, the Qurʾān presents it to you in a way similar to the way you are during sleep. Your soul during sleep is acquainted with the Preserved Tablet (al-lawḥ al-maḥfūẓ) which presents itself to you with suitable symbols. These symbols need a mode of interpretation to be properly understood, and so taʾwīl operates as a mode of interpreting [these symbols], whereas the tafsīr engages only the outer forms [of the images the soul is seeing].

Since people only speak according to their level of understanding, anything addressed to all people [like the Qurʾān] must include a portion which is accessible to everyone. [This portion includes the allegories, parables, and symbols which almost everyone is acquainted with, but are meant to help the deeper thinkers see more profound meanings.]

The superficial (al-qishriyyah) literalists (al-ẓāhiriyyīn) only perceive superficial meanings. This is like skin and outer covering of the human, which only perceives the outermost shell of those meanings which is on the outer skin and covering [of the book], namely the black ink and visual forms. As for their meanings, their secret, and their reality, no one truly perceives them except for the possessors of insight (ūlū al-albāb) who are steeped in knowledge (al-rāsikhūn fī al-ʿilm). The Prophet alluded to this in his prayer for one of his companions stating: ‘O Allah, grant him deep understanding in religion and teach him the deeper interpretation (taʾwīl).’^[35]Iḥyāʾ ʿUlūm al-Dīn, 1:343 Each person has their share of this type of deeper understanding—whether that is little or great—and their tasting of it is either incomplete or perfect. They have varying ranks ascending through its  various depths and luminous secrets. As for reaching complete and utmost comprehension —no one can aspire to attain that, even if to explain it, all the sea were made into ink, and all the trees into pens: ‘Say, “If the sea were ink for the words of my Lord, the sea would be spent before the words of my Lord are finished, even if We replenish it with another like it.”’^[36]Qurʾān, al-Kahf (18):109

From what has been mentioned, it becomes clear why the apparent meanings of verses and narrations related to the ‘Fundamentals of Religion’ (uṣūl al-dīn) seem to differ with each other. This is because these verses and narrations are addressed to various groups and differing intellects, since it was necessary to speak to each of them according to their level of understanding and their spiritual station. With this in mind, all of these verses and narrations are valid and do not differ in essence; this is by no means figurative speech.^[37]Translator’s Note: Of course, the various meanings understood from the Qurʾān are only legitimate if they are sourced in valid authorities.  

Consider this through the well-known parable of the blind men and the elephant.^[38]Translator’s Note: In the parables known across cultures and traditions, several blind men each touch a different part of an elephant and describe it differently—one thinks it’s a snake, another a tree, and so on. Their conflicting views reflect their limited experiences. The tale shows how limited perspectives can lead to misunderstanding, and truth is better grasped through deeper, comprehensive awareness. Therefore, there are people who do not understand something among the mutashābihāt, because when they interpret these mutashābihāt according to their apparent meanings they contradict what he believes to be established, correct religious principles and true, certain beliefs. These people should confine themselves to the words without alteration, and leave its true understanding to Allah and those steeped in knowledge. Let this person await the winds of mercy from Allah and turn his attention to the gifts which Allah may have still in store for him for the rest of his days.  May he hope that Allah will provide him with a Divine opening or provide him with a command, and whenever Allah decrees a command, it will be fulfilled.  For indeed, Allah has condemned a people for their baseless taʾwīl of ambiguous verses (mutashābihāt): ‘As for those in whose hearts is deviance, they pursue what is ambiguous it, courting temptation, and seeking its taʾwīl. However, no one knows its taʾwīl except Allah and those firmly grounded in knowledge.’” ^[39]Qurʾān, Āl ʿImrān (3):7.