Allah ﷻ in Islam: Preface

 

I still remember the day my mother took my hand after helping me put on a new white jalabiya and a small turban. I was really proud—felt like everyone was looking at me—as we walked to Bilal Ibn Rabaḥ Mosque, a small neighborhood mosque just a few blocks from our home. I was five years old and, as you might expect, had no idea what was waiting for me there.

I sat with a group of children and started reciting the Qur’ān. I enjoyed it. I really did. It was never something I did just to please my mother or because I had to. I felt comfortable there. I was… happy.

That feeling never really left me—wa al-ḥamdu lillāh.

Until today, every time I enter a mosque, I feel a sense of familiarity. And whenever I travel to a new city, the first thing I look for is a mosque. I still remember the look on my friend’s face after we spent three days camping in the Tunisian desert. When he asked what I liked most, I said: praying in the Mosque of ʿUqbah ibn Nāfiʿ.

When I think about that time now, I do not think about responsibility or expectations. I just remember how it felt. Life was simple back then. We did not have long, exhausting philosophical arguments—maybe because we were just kids. We rarely debated; it was more about how things felt than how we explained them.

It was just me and God.

* * * * *

My journey with the Qur’ān continued for many years. I memorized it at a young age and spent nearly eighteen years in the Al-Azhar education system.

The Qur’ān always brought me a sense of calm I cannot really explain. If I’m being honest, it was not deeply personal back then. I had immense respect for it, reciting it daily without paying attention to its deeper meanings—especially what I’m exploring here.

At some point, I assumed I saw God the same way most people did.

I did not realize how naïve that was.

* * * * *

The first shift happened when I traveled abroad for the first time. I went to Romania to deliver a few lectures at the University of Bucharest. I hadn’t spent Ramadan in a non-Muslim country before, so I took the opportunity to speak with Christians, atheists, and Muslims from different backgrounds.

But whether I was navigating the snowy streets of Bucharest or returning home to the quiet of the desert in Egypt, I began to notice something I could not ignore—a kind of spiritual forgetfulness.

On one occasion, I was standing on a mountain in the Siwa Oasis in Egypt with a group of friends. We were watching the sunset, and the sky had turned into a masterpiece—colors I did not even have names for. Everyone around me was silent, clearly taken by the view.

But as I looked at their faces, I felt a strange disconnect. They were absorbed in the scene… but not thinking about the One who made it. I did not want to break the silence or "preach," so I just started reciting supplications under my breath.

The question never left me: how can someone stand before all this and not think of the One who created it?

With time, it made sense to me that people from different backgrounds would see God differently. Their understanding came from their scriptures, experiences, and religious traditions.

But what surprised me even more was something else: the Muslims I met did not all share the same understanding.

* * * * *

My first observation was that people—including myself, of course—often suffer from what I later came to call ‘imbalance of attributes’: the tendency to isolate one of God’s Names and project it as the complete picture, while neglecting the harmony of the others. When this happens, a person begins to see reality in a skewed way that often justifies their own weaknesses or tendencies.

For example, someone who uses mercy as an excuse for negligence is not experiencing Ar-Raḥmān; they are experiencing a "permissive" version of God they’ve shaped for themselves to escape the need for effort or growth.

Conversely, someone who only sees Al-Jabbār (the Compeller) often uses God’s Might to justify their own harshness. They begin to confuse their own rigidity with strength in faith.

In both cases, the mirror is cracked, and the reflection is distorted.

* * * * *

At the time, I did not think deeply about it. I was still studying computer science, focused on my degree and future. But years later, after I started talking openly about God, I began noticing it more clearly.

I saw how people spoke about God—how they interpreted the Qur’ān—and how those interpretations quietly shaped their lives.

It made me pause. I began to ask myself:
If the Qur’ān was revealed to guide humanity, then why are we not using it as the main source for understanding who God is?

I found myself thinking: Surely, someone must have gone back to the basics. Someone must have looked at the Qur’ān to understand how Allāh describes Himself, rather than how we imagine Him to be.

Otherwise, what are we building our understanding on?

If the foundation is based on cultural assumptions—or worse, on the private, unexamined interpretations we create to suit our own lives—rather than the revelation itself, the whole structure of our faith is at risk.

* * * * *

That question stayed with me.

So, I went back to the Qur’ān, but this time was different. I slowed down. I was reflecting on the words, not just reciting them. I’d repeat a verse, sit with it for a while… and questions started coming up—ones I’d never really asked before.

I stopped taking things for granted—even the things that felt “obvious.”

I was not just reading anymore.
I was searching.

* * * * *

I began writing some of these reflections and sharing them. I did not expect much, but to my surprise, people responded to them very positively.

That gave me some confidence—but also raised a deeper concern.

I am not a scholar.
I do not feel I have the authority to speak about God.
I am not even a writer.

Sometimes, I still feel like I shouldn’t be doing this.

* * * * *

At the same time, something about it feels necessary.

I keep coming back to one goal: finding a way to help myself—and maybe others—reconnect with Allāh. I’ve always felt that if we could just see Him the way He describes Himself, we wouldn’t be able to help it; we’d fall in love with Him.

These days, that image is buried. It has been covered up by layers of culture, assumptions, and misunderstandings until the light is almost dim. It is like dust settling over a lamp. My hope is not to create a new light, but simply to wipe some of that dust away.

Maybe this is just my way of letting that light shine through again.

* * * * *

This book doesn’t come from authority.

It comes from searching.

* * * * *