The year was 631 after Hijrah. In the quiet middle days of Muharram, a child was born—a child whom destiny had already marked for the skies of knowledge. This was the final twilight of the Ayyubid dynasty, though the name of al-Malik al-Zahir Baybars already loomed in the shadows. It was an age where Crusaders and Tatars clashed, where swords were drawn in both the East and the West. But amidst the clang of war, islands of serenity still danced in the breeze.

The 7th and 8th centuries of the Hijri calendar are recorded in history as a luminous chapter—a time of immense intellectual flourishing. Though Imam Nawawi lived barely more than four decades, he stood among towering figures: Ibn al-Salah, Imam al-Rafi’i, Ibn Khallikan, Ibn Arabi… the list stretches on like a constellation of brilliance. The sciences—law, theology, grammar, medicine, logic, astronomy—each bloomed like gardens under the hands of scholars whose names the world would not forget.

And in that garden, under the care of his father, young Nawawi began to blossom.

His father was a man of spiritual refinement, a trader by occupation, but one whose heart had long since turned from worldly clutter. He gave Nawawi a home of purity and discipline—a sanctuary in a chaotic world.

At the age of seven, Nawawi had an experience that seemed to whisper a secret to time itself: this boy is not like the rest. It was the 27th night of Ramadan.

Nawawi lay asleep beside his father, in peaceful slumber. The night deepened. Then, suddenly, the child stirred, eyes wide open. He shook his father gently.

“Abba… why is the house so full of light?”

Startled, the father looked around. The household had risen, but no one else saw what the child saw. Only darkness greeted their eyes. And so the father thought to himself, Could this be Laylat al-Qadr?

The 27th night of Ramadan—believed by many to be the Night of Power, better than a thousand months, as described in the Qur’an. It is said that on rare occasions, some souls are granted a glimpse of its light. That night, a seven-year-old boy saw what others could not.

The flame had been lit in his heart.

His father became his first teacher, guiding him through the verses of the Qur’an. When Nawawi turned ten, he was entrusted with helping in the family shop. Yet even there, amidst bolts of cloth and calls of customers, he kept his Qur’an before him, studying between tasks.

Then came a day in 640 Hijri. The neighborhood children were playing in the streets. They urged Nawawi to join them, pulling at his sleeves, begging. But he resisted. Their insistence turned harsh. Nawawi, overwhelmed, burst into tears and ran—to a quiet place where he began to recite the Qur’an alone.

It was at that very moment that fate sent a visitor.

Passing by was the great Sufi master, Shaykh Yasin ibn Yusuf al-Marrakishi. His gaze fell upon the weeping boy, Quran in hand, secluded from the noisy world. Something stirred in the Shaykh’s soul. He approached the boy’s teacher, placed a hand gently on his shoulder, and said with solemn intensity: “Take special care of this child. One day, he will become the greatest scholar of his age. He will live with detachment from the world, and through him, people will receive immense benefit.”

The teacher chuckled dismissively.

“Are you an astrologer?” he asked mockingly. He didn’t know the Shaykh was from Marrakesh.

But the Shaykh, unfazed, replied softly: “No, I am merely repeating what God has placed on my tongue.”

Later, Shaykh Marrakishi met Nawawi’s father and shared with him what he had seen. That conversation kindled a new resolve in the father—to ensure that his son completed the memorization of the Qur’an. By the time Nawawi came of age, he had committed the entire Qur’an to heart.

And indeed, the Shaykh’s vision was true. He had spoken with the eye of the soul. For it takes one blessed soul to recognize another.