Imam Nawawi spent his youth in the village of Nawa, his birthplace. He remained there until the age of eighteen—helping for a while in his father’s small shop, and spending the rest of his time learning from the village’s finest teachers. A thirst for knowledge burned constantly within him—an inner fire that refused to die down.

In the year 649 AH, he arrived in Damascus with his father. And Damascus—ah, Damascus! In that era, it was the beating heart of the Islamic world’s intellectual life. A city alive with poets and jurists, scholars and storytellers. Students from all across the region streamed into her streets like tributaries rushing into the ocean of learning.

Nawawi, still a teenager, arrived wide-eyed and awakened—heart thumping, mind alert. He had reached the very shores of the sea he longed to dive into. The first place he visited was the Grand Umayyad Mosque. This was customary: when a stranger arrived in a new land, he would begin at the mosque. In those days, mosques were not just places of prayer—they were sanctuaries, universities, and public squares of learning.

Inside the Umayyad Mosque, he met his first Damascus scholar—Shaykh Jamal al-Din ʿAbd al-Kafi ibn ʿAbd al-Malik, the mosque’s Friday preacher (khaṭīb). A man of towering intellect, he had once served as a qāḍī (judge), but later renounced the post to devote himself fully to preaching.

Nawawi approached him respectfully, expressing his burning desire for knowledge. He wanted to know where to begin—who to study under. Jamal al-Din, struck by the young man’s intensity, recognized the flame immediately. He directed Nawawi to none other than the grand mufti of Damascus at the time: Tāj al-Dīn ʿAbd al-Raḥmān ibn Ibrāhīm al-Firkāḥ.

Al-Firkāḥ was a name already known across the land. Nawawi lost no time. He found his way to the mufti, introduced himself, and shared his dream. The mufti welcomed him warmly.

From that moment onward, Nawawi immersed himself in study. Not a minute was wasted. Every breath was turned toward learning.

But there was one problem.

Though he had found the right teacher, he had no place to stay. And this lack of shelter began to eat into his time. He found it difficult to focus when his mind was preoccupied with where he would sleep.

He approached Shaykh al-Firkāḥ again—for a corner to rest his body so his mind could remain awake.

The Shaykh regretted that there were no vacant rooms in any of the madrasas he knew, except in the Sāriimiyyah, and even there, nothing was available.

But finally, al-Firkāḥ suggested he try the renowned Rawāḥiyyah Madrasah, where Shaykh Kamāl Isḥāq al-Maghribī was principal.

Nawawi made his way there, and joy filled his heart. He was given a modest, small room—but to him, it was a palace. That little cell would become his world. In fact, it remained his dwelling almost until death.

Why did Nawawi love the Rawāḥiyyah so dearly? Imam al-Yāfiʿī would later explain: the income that sustained Rawāḥiyyah was entirely ḥalāl, free of doubt. The madrasa had been built by a group of righteous merchants, and its kitchen was connected directly to its own farmlands. The food was simple—some barley flatbread, a few grains. Nawawi took only what was allotted to him and gave much of that away. He rejected all additional comforts.

Two years after settling in Damascus, in the year 651 AH, Nawawi performed Hajj. He traveled with his father, and recalled later: “We set out at the beginning of Rajab, and I spent over a month and a half in Madinah.”

Ibn al-ʿAṭṭār, his student, quotes Nawawi’s father describing that journey: “As soon as we set out, my son was struck with fever. It lasted all the way until the Day of ʿArafah. But not once did he complain. He completed every rite of Hajj. Afterwards, we returned to Nawa. He then went back to Damascus.”

Once he returned, Nawawi never looked back. He threw himself deeper into learning—accompanied now by rigorous fasting, intense spiritual discipline, and detachment from worldly distractions. One could say he was now walking entirely in the footsteps of his spiritual guide, Shaykh al-Marrākishī.

That Hajj transformed him. He would often hint that his insatiable hunger for knowledge after that journey was due to the blessing (barakah) he received from the Two Sanctuaries—especially from the dust beneath the feet of the Beloved Prophet ﷺ. After that, there was no such thing as “free time” in Nawawi’s life.

He himself once said: “For two years straight, I never lay down to sleep on purpose. My body did not touch the ground to rest. I studied day and night. If sleep overtook me, I would doze with my head resting on the books. Only for moments. Then I’d awaken, startled, and resume.”

Imam al-Dhahabi notes that Nawawi had already become a shining model of scholarly discipline in his time. To him, the pursuit of knowledge wasn’t just noble—it was sacred.

Nawawi often said: “To be attached to knowledge is the most excellent form of worship. It is among the highest of righteous deeds. It is the strongest act of devotion. It is the finest use of one’s time. But… it must be sought only for the sake of God—not for fame, fortune, or status. Only then does it carry true virtue.”

And though his time was short, Nawawi ascended to heights few ever reach. In his first year in Damascus, he memorized the entire famous legal text “at-Tanbīh” by Abū Isḥāq al-Shīrāzī. He did this in just four and a half months.

He then went on to memorize the section on ʿIbādāt (acts of worship) from Abū Isḥāq’s magnum opus, al-Muhadhdhab, dedicating the rest of that year to its mastery. To test his grasp, he recited all of “at-Tanbīh” aloud to Ibn al-Razīn—entirely from memory. That happened in the year 650 AH.

Ibn al-Razīn confirmed his memorization, signed off on it, and preserved the record. That certificate still lives in the archives of scholarship to this very day.