“I was staying at Madrasa al-Rawāḥiyya,” Imam Nawawi once recounted, “and I had fallen ill. My father, my brothers, and a few other relatives were with me. Days passed. One night, I suddenly felt relief. The pain that had been clinging to me had lifted. Everyone else was asleep, the night quiet and still. I thought to myself—should I not rise and remember Allah? Whisper His praises into the silence?
So I did. Not loudly. Not even softly. Just enough for the air to carry it gently. But then… a figure appeared. I was startled. An elderly man, beautiful in appearance, dignified in bearing. I saw him making ablution by the small pond near the madrasa. It was already past midnight—or close to it.
He approached me and said with kindness, ‘My dear child, do not recite in this way. It may disturb your father, your brothers, and the others resting here.’
But I knew I hadn’t been loud enough to disturb anyone. I asked him, ‘Who are you, Shaykh?’
He replied only, ‘Consider me a well-wisher.’
A strange scent of deceit touched the air. I suddenly felt: This might be Iblīs himself, in the guise of a noble elder, sent to break my remembrance of Allah by playing the part of a moral guide. That is his way, isn’t it? To disguise disruption as counsel.
So I recited the protective verse: Aʿūdhu billāhi min al-shayṭān al-rajīm – I seek refuge in Allah from the accursed devil.
Then I raised my voice and resumed my tasbīḥ. As soon as I did, the old man turned and fled, disappearing into the shadows of the madrasa. The sound must have roused my father and the others. I gathered myself and walked toward the gate, peering out into the night. I could see the figure vanishing into the distance. I stepped out to look again, searched in every direction. No one. Nothing. Vanished.
My father asked me, ‘Son, what happened?’
I told him everything. They were astonished. Then together, we gathered and continued our dhikr, our hearts alert, our souls awake.”
As Imam Nawawi climbed spiritually, experiences like these became frequent. In technical terms, they are called karāmāt—divinely gifted marvels that Allah bestows upon His beloved servants. The Qur’an and Sunnah affirm them, and scholars across the centuries have attested to their reality.
Muḥammad ibn al-Ḥasan al-Lakhmī reports: “Numerous karāmāt were manifest in Imam Nawawi’s life:
– Hearing voices without bodies.
– Doors locked tightly opening by themselves, then closing again.
– A wall splitting open at night to reveal a radiant figure who spoke with him about matters of this world and the next.
– Visions and meetings with awliyāʾ (friends of God) and aṣfiyāʾ (those purified by Him).
– A clear foretelling of his death in Damascus.”
One of the most famous reports from his students involves a mysterious serpent that would appear from time to time in his room at al-Rawāḥiyya.
Once, a student glimpsed it—and panicked. He saw his teacher gently offering it some grains.
Shaken, he asked, “Shaykh, what is this?”
Nawawi replied calmly, “It is one of Allah’s creatures. It does no harm, nor does it bring benefit.
But I ask you—by Allah—do not mention this to anyone. Keep it between us.”
Shaykh Walī al-Dīn Abū al-Ḥasan ʿAlī recalls an encounter from his own life: He had been struck with a severe illness—an affliction in his legs known as naqras. The pain was agonizing.
“Then Imam Nawawi came to visit me. He sat near me for a long time, speaking gently—especially about patience and endurance. As he spoke, I could feel the pain ebbing away. By the end of our conversation, it had vanished completely.
I had been gritting my teeth in agony before. But the barakah of the Shaykh washed over me like a wave.”
Another righteous man, ʿAbd al-Qāsim ibn ʿUmayr al-Mūṣī, shared his vision: “One night in deep sleep, I heard sounds—clashing, movement, voices. I asked in the dream, ‘What is this commotion?’
The answer came: ‘Tonight, Yahyā al-Nawawi has been appointed the Khutbah—leader—of the elite spiritual realm.’
I awoke, stunned. I had never even heard of this man before.
Later, on a trip to Damascus, I learned about the Dār al-Ḥadīth, where Imam Nawawi served. I sought it out. When I entered, he was seated among a large circle of students.
As soon as he saw me—even before I could speak—he rose from his seat, approached, took me by the arm, and pulled me aside. He said only: ‘What you saw—do not speak of it to anyone.’
Then he returned to his seat. He said nothing more.
I had never met him before. I never met him again.”
One final story comes from al-Shams ibn al-Naqīb. As a boy, he visited Imam Nawawi with his family. The moment they arrived, the Imam turned to the child and said with a smile: “Qāḍī al-Quḍāt! Congratulations!”
The boy was confused. He looked around. No one else was there.
The Imam continued, “You will be a teacher in Shām. Sit down.”
The child was bewildered. But years later, he realized: both of those roles—chief judge and teacher in Shām—became his.
Imam Nawawi loved the saints. And in loving them, he became one of the greatest among them.
His student Ibn al-ʿAṭṭār said:“Whenever the Shaykh spoke of the righteous, his voice softened, his tone turned reverent. He never mentioned them without awe and love.”
Some even saw him in dreams, offering clear answers to questions that had troubled them for years. In one such vision, Ashraf al-Bārisī recounted: “In Dhū al-Qaʿdah of the year 713 AH, I saw Imam Nawawi in a dream.
I had long struggled with a question: What is your view on someone who fasts perpetually, every day, without break?
In the dream, he replied, ‘There are twelve scholarly opinions on this matter.’
When I awoke, I searched through the books. Not a single one listed twelve. But over the course of a year, I pieced together scattered views from different sources—twelve in all. He had been right.”
Imam Nawawi was not just an ocean of knowledge—he was the sea of the soul.
He belonged to that rarest category of human beings: The ones who study not only with their minds, but with their lives.
The ones who love not only the truth, but the One who sent the truth in the first place.
The ones who walk among us but belong, in reality, somewhere far beyond.
