My early years, through age eleven, were spent in bustling cities, particularly Brooklyn, New York. The dark trains were loud and the coarse metal of their tracks, from overhead, lined the streets and blocked out the sunlight. I never knew much else until I visited the Islamic village, in upstate New York, provided by my Murshid, El Sheikh Syed Mubarik Ali Gilani; he who planted the seeds of life and hope in such a young girl.

I was nearly twelve that summer and I remember the long ride being unfamiliar, but rich with green, lush vegetation that seemed to climb high in the sky of the Catskill Mountains. The excitement of something new coursed through my veins and I recall an alertness that was new to me.

The swirling memories of those first few days consisted of fields of grass that mocked the green tuffs I would find between the sidewalks of New York City; smells of the community meals prepared by men and women of the village, roasting and sweet, with the rich promise of bread that fried on the nearby griddle; and the laughter of children my age splashing in the cool water creeks, while ducks (which before I had only seen on television) peacefully dipped for an occasional crumb thrown their way.

Too soon, the days came to an end and my heart now recalls the heartbreak that came with knowing I had to return to the wailing sirens and deeper ills of the existence I knew in the city. That night, I cried silently waiting by the car, embarrassed by hot tears though I was nearly twelve. In angst, I looked up at the stars, which I had never seen before so huge and bright. The beauty of the black velvet of this night amazingly reminded me of my Creator. I asked my Rabb to allow me to return, to live, and to be a part of something that my words could not describe. After my dua, I felt certain that Islamberg would be my home. Indeed, less than a year later, my family moved to the village.

With further promise, the years that followed were even more of what my experience was that first weekend in the Muslim village of Islamberg, New York. Winters are crystallized in my mind where we children would sled and slide along the great hills along with Islamic holidays and parades every year that boasted song and praises of Allah (SWT) and His Beloved, Syedina Muhammad Mustafa . Words poorly express my delight in the freedom and independence to celebrate Islam, to live peacefully along Christian neighbours who would hear the adhan and remark how beautiful it was, and seeing them smile broadly with recognition of our deliverance to purity and morality when they would attend the affairs that took place in the village.

Now more importantly, as I look at the fruits of this experience, myself a recent Master’s in Education graduate and Certified Teacher for the State of New York, I cannot deny that a great debt is owed for the richness in the exchange of living under such nurturing circumstances.  All my companions who shared living in the village are now lawyers, nurses, engineers, etc. and are successful upstanding Muslims who contribute and are a tribute to the Islamic village in which they were groomed, as well as the surrounding communities and, by extension, our country.

For me, the city had neither promise nor hope. I was rescued from ghettoes that have now escalated far beyond what they were in the early eighties and proof lies obvious in friends and associates who stayed behind and are now misplaced on those same dark streets and alleyways; friends and associates who have sadly lost their lives, literally or figuratively.

Islamberg is my home. Wherever I go, those mountains, hills, and rich earth are a part of me. Over the years and now, I continue to give much shukr (thanks) to Rabbil Alameen (He who sees to the needs and provisions of all of His creation), The Holy Last Messenger  (who was sent as the mercy to all mankind), and my most precious Murshid. Indeed, Islamberg is a mercy to the youth and may it continue to shower on us all. It was my Murshid who sincerely sowed the seeds (youth) of his community, and by establishing Islamic villages, tenderly nurtured and cared for us far beyond what a true gardener does for his crops and earnest parents do for their children. Considering the debt we owe him, I pray our harvest continues to be beautiful proof and truth of the peacefulness of Islam and way of The Holy Last Messenger.