For all his brilliance and unmatched standing in the scholarly world, Imam Nawawi’s appearance was as modest as a farmer passing through Damascus from some forgotten village. Many who saw him for the first time would mistake him for just that—a villager from Naw.

There was no grandeur in his dress, no flourish in his step, no aura of religious authority clinging to his shoulders. His skin was a warm blend of brown and fair; his beard, black with just a few white strands visible. He rarely smiled. Laughter found no place in his life. His face bore the stillness of solemn purpose.

He never hesitated to speak the truth, no matter who the audience. His gait was calm. His posture in scholarly gatherings was always composed, marked by dignity but never by dominance. A small cap rested on his head. A coarse robe, gifted by his mother, was his garment. Nothing more.

He ate once a day, and that too only after performing the night prayer (ʿIshāʾ). His father would bring him the food—only his father, so that he could be certain of its ḥalāl source.

He drank water only during that meal. Never cold. Never specially prepared. He wouldn’t even taste two dishes in the same sitting. If he had khubz, he’d accompany it with either olive oil, sour vinegar, dates, or raisins—but never more than one.

He ate meat once a month—and only when he visited Naw.

Ibn al-ʿAṭṭār recalls: “One day, a friend brought grilled cucumbers to serve the Shaykh. He refused them. When asked why, he said, ‘They cool the stomach—and then sleep comes too easily.’”

Even ripe dates, the beloved delicacy of Damascus, were something he never consumed. Not because they were forbidden—but because Nawawi had his own hidden spiritual calculus behind every act of consumption.

On extremely rare occasions, he allowed himself a second item. Shaykh Burhān al-Dīn al-Iskandarānī witnessed one such evening: “It was Ramadan. I visited the Shaykh just before ifṭār.

He had food brought, and around thirty people were gathered.

That night—I saw him eat two dishes. That was the only time I ever saw him do so.”

Sulaimān al-Ṣarīʿ narrates another telling moment: “I arrived as usual and saw him eating khasīra—a humble dish of flour and milk or water.

He invited me to join, but I declined.

His brother then fetched some halwa and sweets for me.

I accepted, but Nawawi did not touch them.

His brother asked, ‘Is this forbidden?’

Nawawi replied, ‘Not forbidden—but that’s food for the elites. Not for me.’”

This was Imam Nawawi. He turned his back on extravagance—whether in food, home, or clothing.

He never married.

Not because he rejected the sanctity of marriage, but perhaps because he knew: he could not give it the time, devotion, and emotional presence it deserved. Knowledge and worship consumed his days, and when sleep pressed hard upon him, he would simply lean his body against the wall for a few moments—then jolt awake, like a man who had lost something precious.

How could such a soul find time to love another?

Perhaps this is why he remained unmarried.

The Qur’an reminds us: “You have obligations toward them.” Imam Nawawi took those words seriously.

A gentle tale lingers from his youth.

During his early days of study, the teacher once explained that ritual bath (ghusl) becomes obligatory if there is contact between private parts.

The teacher phrased it, “When the entranceways meet, ghusl becomes compulsory.”

Nawawi, unfamiliar with such language, misunderstood the point. He thought it meant something internal—perhaps even gas in the stomach. So each time he felt bloated, he would go and perform a full ghusl.

Eventually, he fell ill from the repeated cold baths. Only much later did he learn the actual meaning. By then, his classmates had nicknamed him the “ghusl-maniac.”

But such was his sincerity. Every act of devotion was executed in earnest—even when misunderstood.

His writings, speech, even his silence—they all echoed the Afterlife.

Did he write poetry? Historians aren’t certain. But a few verses are attributed to him: My heart rejoices at the nearness of the beloved, And the day of traveling toward them is my greatest festival. I am only myself on the journey—when I arrive, I will be complete. I carry no provisions for the path. But I trust in the generosity of the One who waits to receive me.

Another verse—possibly his, possibly quoted by him—reads: In all things, I place my hope in You. In every hardship, I lean on You. In public and in secret, I seek none but You. With Your generosity alone, protect me from peril.

Ibn al-ʿAṭṭār recounts seeing this line written by Nawawi’s own hand: I will die— But what I wrote shall not.

Those who read my books

Will pray for me.

Perhaps my Lord, in His Mercy,

Will forgive my stumbles and slips.

One of the most tender moments in his life was his visit to the tomb of Imam al-Shāfiʿī in Cairo.

He arrived quietly. No fanfare. Few even knew he was there.

When he saw the dome above the grave of Imam al-Shāfiʿī, he stood still. Unmoving. Silent.

Someone asked: “Why do you not approach?”

He replied: “If Imam al-Shāfiʿī were alive and sitting there, I would remain right here watching him from a distance, I do not feel worthy of stepping closer.” He stood there for a long time.

And when the people of Cairo still had no idea of his visit—he turned, and walked away. Eighteen years. That’s how long he lived in Damascus. Except for Hajj and that quiet ziyārah to Imam al-Shāfiʿī’s grave, he never left. He lived, wrote, taught, wept, fasted, and worshiped in that little room in Rawāḥiyya.

And from there, his light spread with a stillness of stars. 

He passed away.

But his books still breathe.

His voice still whispers from the pages.

And those who read him still say: “May Allah have mercy on him—And gather us in the company of the righteous.”