From Asmara to Madinah: A Journey I Did Not Choose, but Which Chose Me
My journey to Madinah did not begin on the day the plane lifted off from Asmara Airport. It began much earlier, on the day word reached us that the representative of the Islamic University of Madinah had kept his promise: the scholarship had been approved, and my name was among those accepted.
In that moment, everything changed.
Madinah was no longer a distant dream. It had become an appointment with destiny, and the preparations for departure began.
There were official documents to obtain, and that became a journey in itself, almost as demanding as the journey that lay ahead: securing my birth certificate, obtaining a passport, completing the medical examination, and moving from one government office to another to finish the required paperwork.
All of this was taking place during one of the most difficult periods Eritrea had ever known.
The revolution had reached the outskirts of Asmara. Ethiopian soldiers were everywhere. The sound of gunfire and shelling was rarely absent. Electricity would disappear for hours at a time, water was scarce, and people lived suspended between fear and expectation, never knowing what the next day might bring.
Yet none of this stopped my father — may Allah have mercy on him — from taking me by the hand each morning and accompanying me from one government office to another.
He was risking himself before he was risking me.
Only now do I understand that those days were not merely days of paperwork and official procedures. They were among the most beautiful days I ever spent with my father.
We walked together for hours, and we talked.
For the first time, I felt that he was no longer speaking to me as a child. He was speaking to me as a young man preparing to carry a responsibility.
He spoke to me about knowledge and about the responsibility of scholars. Then he would turn to me and say:
“My son, I hope that one day I will see you as a faqih — a scholar capable of giving fatwa according to the four schools of Islamic law.”
He did not dream that I would become wealthy or powerful. He dreamed that I would become a man of knowledge.
Perhaps there is no greater dream a father can plant in the heart of his son.
I can still see him standing proudly before the officials, holding my hand and telling them:
“He has been accepted at the Islamic University of Madinah.”
There was such pride and happiness in his voice that it seemed as though my acceptance was an honour bestowed upon him before it was ever an honour bestowed upon me.
My mother — may Allah have mercy on her — carried within her all the emotions that only a mother’s heart can hold at once.
Her joy was immense. She saw in this journey a means of saving me from national service and from the atmosphere of war. More than that, she saw the blessing of her youngest son living beside the Mosque of the Messenger of Allah ﷺ and seeking knowledge in Madinah.
But beneath that joy lay a sorrow she tried desperately to conceal.
How could she not grieve when she was preparing to say goodbye to her youngest child, a son of whom she felt she had not yet seen enough?
She would smile in front of me so as not to deepen my fear. But whenever I moved away from her, I would see that her tears had already spoken before her words could.
Then came the morning of my departure.
That morning remains alive in my memory as though it were yesterday.
A heavy silence filled the house.
When the moment came for me to leave, my father could no longer contain himself. He wept deeply, trying to hide his tears, but they were stronger than he was.
My mother kept repeating her prayers for me, wiping her tears with the edge of her dress as she struggled to remain composed.
My sisters held on to my hands as though, by refusing to let go, they might somehow prevent me from leaving.
Then the car arrived to take me to Asmara Airport.
It began to move slowly.
Through the window, I looked back at the faces I loved and tried to preserve every detail of them in my heart.
I did not know then that many years would pass before we would all be brought together again.
At that moment, I could not understand why Allah should decree that a seeker of knowledge begin his journey with separation.
Today, more than three decades later, I understand.
Some doors of knowledge do not open until patience has first been tested. And some of life’s greatest journeys begin with its most painful farewells.
That farewell marked the end of my childhood.
It was also the beginning of the road Allah had written for me — a road that began in Asmara and led towards Madinah.
And between the two lay a journey shaped by the hidden gentleness of Allah, whose traces remain with me to this day.
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