Becoming a Scholar: Beyond Traditional Education
A few days ago, a student of Nadwat al-ʿUlamāʾ wrote to me. His question bore both the restlessness of one seeking knowledge and a deep anxiety about his scholarly future. He wrote: “Iqbāl referred to Sayyid Sulaymān Nadwī as ‘Farhād who channels the milk-stream of the Islamic sciences’. My question is this: I study at Nadwa, yet in many of the students here I do not perceive the breadth of vision and Nadwī insight. They display the same narrowness, rigidity and partisanship that one finds in other traditional madrasahs. What qualities must we cultivate within ourselves so that Iqbāl’s words may be true of us as well? I heard your recent lecture in the Nadwa mosque; it impressed us all. Kindly guide us.”
This question is important, interesting and, to some extent, bitter; for it points to an ailment that we usually hide beneath the veil of our supposed virtues. Yet, before answering, the student must understand a basic truth: merely taking admission in Nadwa does not make anyone Sayyid Sulaymān Nadwī, just as sitting at the foot of a mountain does not make a person a stone-breaker.
Institutions show human beings the road; they do not themselves become the destination. They provide lamps, but to bring light into one’s own eyes is the work of the student. The building of the madrasah, its traditions, its teachers and its academic ambience are all important in their own place, yet none of these can think, understand, labour or effect inner change on behalf of the learner. Planting a seed in an orchard is not enough; it must burrow into the soil, break its shell and reach for the sun.
Consider the very tale of Farhād. He hewed the mountain, but his greatness did not lie merely in the toil of his hands. Strong arms are required to break rocks, yet to become Farhād demands a heart stronger still and a mind filled with light. You will find many who can cut stone, but not everyone is granted the eye that discerns a pathway within the rock. Digging a mountain does not make one Farhād; Farhād is he whose manual labour is driven by an awakened intellect, whose resolve is animated by a lofty purpose, and in whose breast a living heart beats.
The world lacks neither labourers nor mountains; what it lacks is that love which gives courage to make the impossible possible.
View the personality of Sayyid Sulaymān Nadwī in this very light. He did not become a great scholar simply because he studied at Nadwat al-ʿUlamāʾ. Behind his stature stood depth of knowledge, breadth of thought, literary taste, command of language and expression, extraordinary industry, a refined method of research, and a sincere, pure character. The range of his reading was vast, his gaze penetrated to the layers of problems, and his thirst for learning increased rather than diminished with age. He was not merely an accumulator of information; he transformed information into thought, thought into insight, and insight into creative knowledge.
Here the paths of a student and a true scholar diverge. A student reads books; a scholar enters into dialogue with them. A student memorises the text; a scholar discovers the meaning concealed behind the text. A student takes the teacher’s answer as his destination; a scholar generates new questions from that very answer. For one, knowledge is a means to pass an examination; for the other, it is the lifelong discipline of the soul.
Alas, among us the purpose of education is at times so curtailed that the student swallows the words of a book yet never reaches its spirit. He perfects the diacritical marks of a sentence but does not correct the crookedness of his own mind; he learns the subtleties of argument yet does not free himself from bias; he studies the etiquettes of disagreement yet does not develop the capacity to bear disagreement. It would seem that in a school designed to open the windows of the mind, at certain doors the bolts have been slid home from within.
When the name of Nadwa arises, some people feel displeasure, as though pointing out its weaknesses while praising its merits were an act of insolence. Yet to love an institution does not require declaring everything about it flawless. Love is the mirror in which a person wishes to see even the dust upon the beloved’s face. The scholarly tradition of Nadwa, its historical role and its great predecessors are certainly treasures of honour for us; but reciting the rosary of the elders’ names does not transfer their qualities into us. The easiest way to venerate the great is to mention them; the hardest is to absorb their intellectual labour, their courage of thought and their moral elevation into one’s own life.
If, therefore, a student remains narrow-minded even while studying in Nadwa; if his reading never crosses the border of prescribed texts; if he shrinks from viewing the world beyond his own maslak or school of thought; if he begins to regard questioning as impertinence and disagreement as enmity; then the buildings of Nadwa cannot broaden his mind. The institution can provide opportunities, but to benefit from those opportunities he must himself be awake. When spring arrives in an orchard, not every branch blossoms; some remain withered through their own heedlessness.
A Persian maxim says: khar-i ʿĪsā agar bi-Makkah ravad, chūn āyad hanūz khar bāshad — “Even if the donkey of ʿĪsā travels to Makkah, on returning it is still a donkey.” The aim is not to belittle any student, but to treat the delusion that proximity to a sacred place, a great institution or an exalted person automatically alters one’s reality. The blessing of a journey is reaped only by the one who learns from it; the benefit of a companionship reaches only the one who develops receptivity within; and the fruit of education is gained only by the one who makes it a means of building character.
What, then, should the student do?
First, he must learn how to read — not merely to complete a syllabus, but to expand the mind. Let him deepen his mastery of his disciplines, attain command of Arabic language and literature, acquaint himself with history, philosophy, the social sciences and the intellectual debates of his age. This does not mean neglecting his inherited scholarly tradition; rather, it means augmenting his intellectual resources in order to understand that tradition and to converse with the times. One who views the entire world from a single window comes to imagine that the horizon is only as wide as his window.
Second, he must learn to think. Do not accept every statement simply because it is written in a book, nor reject it merely because it issues from an unfamiliar mind. Regard evidence for what it is, learn the etiquette of asking questions, recognise the limits of your knowledge, and know how to act justly even in disagreement. Broad-mindedness does not imply having no position at all; it means that one’s position is founded upon knowledge, not prejudice.
Third, he must reform his inner self. If knowledge does not render a person humble, then somewhere a fundamental defect remains. He who, after reading a few books, begins to consider others ignorant has reached the door of knowledge but has not entered. From the lives of men like Sayyid Sulaymān Nadwī we must learn not only their data and their writings but also their seriousness, sincerity, ethics and devotion to the service of knowledge. The edifice of learning cannot stand long without the foundation of character.
Above all, he must cultivate the habit of hard work. On seeing the lives of great scholars we are sometimes impressed by their fame, yet we overlook the years of reading, solitude, exertion, reflection and unceasing self-accounting hidden behind that fame. We desire the fruit but wish to avoid the trouble of planting the tree; we are delighted by the picture of the destination yet unwilling to traverse the path towards it. The greatest lesson of Farhād’s tale is perhaps this: lofty goals are not attained by lofty emotions alone; they require continuous action, steadfastness and sacrifice.
My dear student! You have asked how we may become such that Iqbāl’s saying may be fulfilled in us. The answer will not be found in a single prescription, a single book or a single lecture. You must bring forth within yourself a new scholarly life. While you remain in Nadwa, benefit from its academic legacy, but do not confine your thought within its walls. Learn from your teachers, yet continue learning outside their assemblies. Love books, yet do not measure the depth of knowledge by the number of volumes. Respect your elders, yet translate that respect into following their scholarly struggle.
Remember also that more important than obtaining a place in any sentence of Iqbāl is that you become a beneficial human being for your own time. Not everyone will be remembered by the name Farhād, nor does every student require the poet’s certificate of greatness. True success is that your knowledge unties some knot in another mind, your thought sheds light upon some problem, your pen removes some misunderstanding, and your character increases the honour of learning.
Finally, once again I say: digging a mountain does not make one Farhād. Digging is an act; becoming Farhād is the construction of a personality. Studying at Nadwa is an opportunity, not a guarantee of becoming Sayyid Sulaymān Nadwī. To transform opportunity into success demands an awakened mind, breadth of reading, depth of thought, purity of character and relentless discipline in action.
The mountains stand, the paths are present, the lamps are alight. It is now for you to decide whether you merely sit at the mountain’s foot recounting the tales of Farhād, or cultivate within yourself that courage and that insight which discover a way even through stone.
