“Indeed, We sent the Qur’an down during the Night of Power. And what can make you comprehend what the Night of Power is? The Night of Power is better than a thousand months.”
– Surah al-Qadr A single night. Worth more than a thousand months.
Let that sink in for a moment. That’s over 83 years. A lifetime.
One night... equal to a lifetime of worship, of meaning, of transformation. To the human mind, it’s almost incomprehensible. And yet, in His boundless mercy, God—Allah in Arabic, often described by Muslims as "Subhanahu wa ta'ala" meaning “Glorified and Exalted is He”—gives us this opportunity every year during the Islamic month of Ramadan. It’s called Laylat al-Qadr, the “Night of Power.” Now, this isn’t the God often portrayed by cynics or Islamophobes. This is not a Lord looking for reasons to condemn His creation. This is a Lord who gives you a night, not once in your life, but every single year, where everything can change. A night where one sincere prayer, one quiet act of kindness, one heartfelt tear, could outweigh a lifetime of mediocrity. Imagine giving in charity on that night—with sincerity—and that single act is rewarded as if you gave every day for 83 years.
Does that sound like a God who wants to punish? It’s experiences like these—silent, sacred nights in the depth of Ramadan—that have reshaped my understanding of who God is. They’ve refined my perception of what it means to worship. They’ve made me realise that worship isn’t just about ritual—it’s about relationship. But even with that clarity, I still find myself asking uncomfortable questions. Why am I here, on this night, worshipping with such intensity? Is it fear that’s driving me? Fear of punishment? Is it desire—hope for reward? Or... is it something deeper? I was reminded of a quote by Imam Ali ibn Abi Talib, a towering figure in Islamic history known for his wisdom and moral clarity: “Some people worship God desiring His reward – that is the worship of traders;
Some worship fearing His punishment – that is the worship of slaves;
And some worship out of gratitude – and that is the worship of the free.”
– Nahj al-Balāghah

As I sat there in Whitworth Hall on 12th December, ready to receive my Master’s in Public International Law from the University of Manchester, I couldn’t quite articulate how I felt. I had achieved a distinction. I had worked my arse off for a year, and this moment was supposed to be the culmination of all that effort—the fruit of countless sleepless nights, sacrifices, and sheer determination. My dearest friends and family were in the crowd, some travelling thousands of miles just to witness this milestone. Naturally, I should have been overjoyed, right? Even as I exited the hall and joined my colleagues in the courtyard for a photoshoot worthy of an A-list celebrity red carpet, I couldn’t shake this strange internal conflict. I posed for pictures, danced around, and kissed my loved ones, but at times I found myself consciously reminding myself to smile. To be happy. To celebrate. On the outside, I looked ecstatic, but on the inside, I felt… unsettled. That night, as I lay in bed, the whirlwind of thoughts hit me like a freight train. It took me four hours to fall asleep, every single doubt, fear, and question I’d ever had flooding back. Thank God I eventually did manage to sleep—I had a six-hour drive home the next morning. The truth is, I had a rough plan for life after university. There were key priorities: starting a Modern Standard Arabic course, setting up my website, sorting out my investments, applying for my PhD. But there were also glaring uncertainties. I hadn’t landed a graduate job to start immediately. For the first time in my life, I was stepping into uncharted territory: my first year out of education, ever. It felt like the safety net had been yanked out from under me. I’d been nudged off a metaphorical balcony into the real world, and two sharply contrasting voices seemed to be shouting in my ears. On one side: “Why don’t you have everything figured out, you bum? You’re a beta who will never amount to anything!” And on the other: “It’s okayyyyyy to not know what you’re doing. Take your timeeeee. Relax, have fun!”

“The weird, weird thing about devastating loss is that life actually goes on. When you're faced with a tragedy, a loss so huge that you have no idea how you can live through it, somehow, the world keeps turning, the seconds keep ticking.” - James Patterson, Angel Since my father passed away in 2021, along with the weight of the responsibilities that followed, I’ve often been asked questions like, "How did you manage it? I couldn't have done what you did, bro." I usually offer a generic response—something like, "It is what it is" or "Life doesn’t stop; you just have to carry on." But if I’m being honest, the real answer is that I truly don’t know. My mother, bless her soul, is incredibly sensitive, and as an only child, it was undeniably difficult. But I hadn’t fully reflected on any of this until Owen, the founder of this emerging community—my dear friend and someone I consider a brother—asked me to write about my experience. At first, I didn’t know what to write. I wasn’t sure I had achieved anything worth mentioning. When I told Owen this, he laughed and replied, "Bro, are you joking?" And that’s the thing—when you’re in the thick of it, with tunnel vision, you rarely get the chance to step back and see the bigger picture until much later. That’s the beauty (or the harsh reality) of hindsight. Looking back now at my first year of university, I sometimes think, "Wow, I lost my best friend, my mentor, my anchor—my absolute rock." And yet, now it almost feels like nothing has changed. But of course, that’s not true. I carry that loss with me every day, and it shapes every facet of my life. It has influenced my relationships, my friendships, my entrepreneurial ventures, and even my academic path. Since then, I’ve graduated with First-class honours in Law, completed my LLM (and, Inshallah, hoping for distinction—pray for me, it’s pending), started my doctoral applications, am imminently launching a website and brand, been elected as the London Representative of the Muslim Student Council, and co-founded a business that has served Premier League footballers and one of the biggest influencers of recent times.