That i still live is because of the works of nature and paths we choose are made and set, unchangable, not discussable, by our creator Allah almighty. We do not have to win, we have to succeed. Succeed in walking the paths of our nature by the grace of Allah, to find and understand what path he has planted in us, and discover the purpose of it. I believe the upcoming writings, can help making sound descisions what path to walk in the furure of others. This post is part of our special edition for our book Hidden Gems what behelds next to the same index as the first edition, as extra the first nine biographic chapters of my story about how messed up we can be entering the world, society, civilisation ought to be an adult. And how islam can be a compass finding your way home. This post, gives a glimpse of the stories to read how a young boy named Freud............well, let me invite you to read it yourself. The publishing date of Part 1 for collectors wil be announced her on site. Or write us a message asking to be informed. Ibrahim Chapter One: Freud in the Garden of Groovy Before the world fell apart—or at least before it started wobbling dangerously on its axis—there was Freud. Not the beardy Austrian shrink (although we’ll get to him), but me: Freud, the boy. Named after the character in The Hotel New Hampshire by John Irving, not after the guy who thought everyone secretly wanted to marry their mother. My mom insisted on that clarification whenever she introduced me. Which was often. At farmers’ markets, at yoga retreats, or during arguments with traffic wardens. “He’s named after a character, not the pervert!” she’d say with painted nails waving in the air like prayer flags. We were a fantastic family. Not in the “everybody-has-clean-socks” way, but in the "who-needs-socks-when-you-have-a-dreamcatcher?" way. Our concrete garden wall—bland and gray like an office intern—had been transformed by my mom into a psychedelic tapestry of mushrooms, golems, and the occasional smiling dolphin. It was like a fever dream from a fairytale told by someone who had just licked a toad. My dad, the eternal optimist, still smiled with every tooth he had (and even the ones he didn’t). He wore linen trousers with holes so spiritual they probably had their own chakras. He was the type to greet the postman with a hug, and the taxman with herbal tea. Then there was Bunny—my big sister by one year and a trustable soul by several lifetimes. Bunny had the serene energy of a Buddhist cat. She was the kind of girl you could trust to hold your secrets, your candy, and your kite string—all at once. Summers meant familyparcs. Yes, plural. Not parks like the normal folk go to. Parcs—the Dutch kind where the trees are labeled in three languages and there's always a suspiciously happy man in a mascot costume waiting to hand you a map. We never owned a car, which meant vacations were a kind of spatial Tetris in my grandfather’s Opel Kadett. If we were lucky, he’d agree to drive us to the parc—with, of course, my grandmother and her two ancient sisters in tow, because they had to inspect the cabin to ensure “the sheets weren't communist.” We were so packed in that car, seatbelts wept quietly. I always ended up in the same place: nestled in my grandmother’s buzem. Now, buzem is the polite term. Hooters is more accurate. They were as high as Kilimanjaro and as broad as a healthy elephant after a spiritual awakening. When she sighed, I was nearly launched into orbit. But she smelled of butterscotch and old lavender, so I didn’t mind. Back home, we showered naked in the garden. Not because we were nudists, but because my mom believed water flowed more naturally through garden hoses. She rigged an "eco-shower" with a green bucket, a bit of string, and an admirable amount of enthusiasm. Privacy was optional. The neighbors either looked away or joined in—we were that kind of street. Evenings were magic. My dad would read from his beloved esoteric BRES books—impossibly obscure tomes with titles like Awakening the Inner Ibex. He’d sit cross-legged in the living room, vinyls spinning: Bob Dylan mumbling riddles, the Bee Gees wailing, or Procol Harum playing A Whiter Shade of Pale. That song—oh, that song. Whenever it came on, Dad would get up, take my mom’s hand, and twirl her as if they were alone in a ballroom of stars. Bunny would stand at Mom’s feet. I’d claim Dad’s. We’d sway as a family bouquet, barefoot, tangled, off-rhythm but absolutely in tune with each other. We were happy. Really happy. Hippie happy. Painted-wall, garden-shower, Bee-Gees-and-goosebumps happy. We didn’t know, of course. No one ever does. But just around the corner, a storm was already stretching its legs. And it had taken one look at our garden and decided—it was coming for the mushrooms first. Chapter Two: My Grandfather the Outlaw The nature of my mom’s—well, let’s call it “creativity”—didn’t come from another planet, even though sometimes it felt like she’d been dropped on Earth by a UFO piloted by Bob Ross and Salvador Dalí. No, her groovy brain-juices came straight from the family tree, and that particular branch was my grandfather. The man was a myth. A storm in suspenders. Until adolescence—around the time my superhero bedsheets were traded in for flattened cardboard boxes under a bridge—I was practically raised at his farm. That place was heaven, if heaven smelled faintly of hay, gunpowder, and fermented pears. The farm itself was an open-air museum of rebellion. Monumental cowsheds stood like ancient temples, their roofs home to storks who'd clearly overstayed their visa. The apple orchard was my jungle, and I, Tarzan, armed not with a loincloth, but with a length of kitchen rope (ideal for tying salami to your belt) and a thick leather strap stolen from Uncle Ben—whose beer belly was so big it had its own gravitational field. I’d swing between plum trees like a sticky, sugar-high monkey, naming my wounds after exotic tribes. “This one? That’s from the ancient Pear People of the East Lawn.” And what society forbid, my grandfather taught me with a wink and a wheeze. At twelve, he handed me my first Stuyvesant Red cigarette and said, “Want a coughin' blow, little Freud?” I coughed, of course. But you don’t say no to a man who keeps a live goat in his kitchen “for companionship.” I smoked that cig like a prepubescent Clint Eastwood and nearly fell off the milking stool. The story of how he got the farm was hazy and whispered—something about a sinister card game and a man who left without his shoes. But my grandfather never confirmed or denied it. “Let people talk,” he’d say, taking me along to brothels that regular people didn’t even know existed. Don't worry, I wasn’t in the business—just around it. Usually perched on a barstool next to Linda, the barkeeper-slash-watchdog who looked like she could bench press a Volvo. “Only chocolate milk for the kid till I’m back!” he’d shout as he disappeared with a woman who was technically wearing clothes, though mostly in the legal sense. I’d sip my chocomel and talk about livestock with Linda like any other totally normal ten-year-old. And then there was the summer of the rifle. You see, our farm was inconveniently located between a tennis club and a golf course—two communities not known for tolerating children with firearms. But my grandfather had his principles. When city planners came with maps and money to “buy him out” to complete the sports park, he laughed so hard he cracked a rib. “Just shoot the damn fox, Freud,” he’d mutter, peering through binoculars toward Court 7, “and no one gets hurt.” By the end of six weeks, I could shoot a hummingbird from 300 yards—while lighting a coughin’ blow off a burning haystack. Sure, he was hard. Sure, he got us banned from a surprising number of local bakeries. But he was fair. Honest in his dishonesty. Loyal to his own unpredictable moral code. People whispered, wagged fingers, even crossed the street to avoid him. But not me. To me, he wasn’t just my grandfather. He was my outlaw. My field guide to forbidden fun. My best friend. And I’d take his coughin’ blows, chocolate milk wisdom, and rifle-training over a hundred well-behaved PTA meetings. Even if I did once accidentally shoot the weather vane off the mayor’s summer house. (I still say it was an ugly weather vane.)

At a time when most of the world wouldn’t even allow women the right to read, She taught them to teach. In a men’s caliphate, She raised up a network of women scholars who traveled from village to village, bearing knowledge like sacred fire. She was also Nana Asma’u — daughter of the great reformer Usman dan Fodio but a legacy in her own right. Nana Asma’u was born in 1793 into the Sokoto Caliphate (today’s Nigeria) and came of age in the aftershocks of jihad — not the perverted kind, but a spiritual and intellectual uprising intended to restore Islam to its ethical foundation. She was different from the very start. By 20, she was fluent in Arabic, Fulfulde, Hausa and Tamachek. By the age of 30, she had written dozens of poems, treaties and teaching guides. But her genius wasn’t only in writing — it was in creating a system in which no woman was abandoned. The Yantaru: A Sisterhood of Light Nana Asma’u understood that one voice, no matter how eloquent, would not suffice. So she trained hundreds of women — known as the Yantaru — to be traveling scholars and teachers. They weren’t preachers. They were women of knowledge, hijab-clad, armed with memorized Qur’an and verses of her poetry — ambassadors. They would then go on villages, round up the women, and teach them the basics of Islam, morality, literacy, and justice. This wasn’t Western feminism. This was Islamic pedagogy cloaked in poetry and prayer. She wrote: “So educate a woman, you educated a nation.” But her approach wasn’t theoretical — it was kinetic. She released her Yantaru like arrows of light. And generations later their legacy continues to ripple through West African madrasahs, poetry circles and oral traditions. Qur’an as Compass, Poetry as Path Nana Asma’u’s writing is laced with Qur’anic allusion. She didn’t compartmentalize faith and education — she made education an act of worship. Her poems weren’t only beautiful — they were strategic: ✦ Memorability ✦ Qur’anic principles ✦ Oral transmission ✦ Rural access Poetry became pedagogy, scholarship became a spiritual crusade. And all of it while navigating the complexities of empire, gender and resistance. She showed that a woman with a pen is a revolution, even when veiled. A Legacy That Would Not Die When she died in 1864, she left more than writings. She left a system. A model. A wave of female scholars who did not require validation from the West — for they had already been crowned by the Qur’an. In a world that continues to debate whether Islam “empowers” women, Nana Asma’u is still an answer in human form. A poet. A scholar. A strategist. A flame between folds of a veil. None that could ever hide from truth — a hidden gem. Her name is alive now again — not only in libraries but also in the beating hearts of every girl taught to read with reverence.

By the late 1960s, jazz was already something sacred to those who understood it—not just as music, but as meaning. It had gone from dance halls to concert stages, from swing to bebop to something deeper—more questioning, more cosmic. And just as America was unraveling in protests, war, and generational unrest, jazz too began to unravel its own form. The result wasn’t chaos—it was awakening. This new sound would later be called Spiritual Jazz—a genre not defined by chord progressions or time signatures, but by intent. It was jazz that searched for God, that cried out for justice, that wandered into the unseen and tried to return with answers. It wasn't about entertaining anymore. It was about elevation. And for many of its key players, Islam was the compass. There’s something quietly profound about this shift. At a time when some artists were seeking escape through drugs or fame, these musicians turned inward. They weren’t trying to escape the world. They were trying to understand it. To find stillness in the storm. To reach the One who hears even the notes unplayed. Some turned to the Nation of Islam, others to Sunni Islam, others still to Sufi paths with their dhikr, their poetry, their inwardness. But across those variations, a common desire pulsed: to live deliberately. To play with purpose. To worship not just in the masjid, but through every breath, every measure. This spiritual shift changed the music itself. Drummers began structuring solos around the rhythm of heartbeat and breath. Saxophonists stretched their notes like prayers, as if sound itself could ascend. Melodies no longer rushed to resolve—they lingered, floated, waited. As if the musician was listening for something before playing the next phrase. Improvisation became more than skill—it became surrender. A kind of musical tawakkul. Trusting that if you showed up with sincerity, something higher would guide your fingers. This was not just jazz evolution. It was a kind of revolution of the soul. A reclaiming of Black identity, of spiritual dignity, of music not as escape, but as a path back to fitrah—the original state. And Islam—structured, beautiful, rhythmic, and rooted—offered a way forward. To hear this era of jazz is to hear a people coming home. Not just to faith. Not just to sound. But to themselves. Pharoah Sanders & The Call Beyond Pharoah Sanders didn’t need words to preach. His saxophone was enough. It screamed, wept, soared—and somehow, always circled back to silence. He wasn’t Muslim, not in any formal sense. But if music could perform sujood, his surely did. Born Farrell Sanders in Little Rock, Arkansas in 1940, he rose to fame as a disciple of John Coltrane, joining the legendary saxophonist during his most experimental, spiritual years. But while Coltrane wrestled with the cosmos in search of God, Pharoah seemed to come bearing news from beyond the veil. His playing wasn’t a question—it was an answer wrapped in mystery. You hear it most clearly in his masterpiece: "Karma" (1969), and especially the opening track, The Creator Has a Master Plan. Clocking in at over 30 minutes, it’s less a song and more a sacred trance. The track opens with meditative bells and a gentle groove, and then Sanders begins to wail—wild, raw, unfiltered. It's not clean. It’s true. Like a soul purging itself in the presence of the Divine. What made this track so impactful wasn’t just the improvisation—it was the intention. The lyrics, written and sung by Leon Thomas, read almost like Qur'anic tafsir through jazz: The Creator has a master plan Peace and happiness for every man It wasn’t an Islamic chant. But it echoed deeply Islamic truths: Divine Will, Universal Mercy, Tawḥīd. Pharoah dressed the part too—robes, kufi, sometimes a turban. His look and language reflected the same shift that many Black musicians were undergoing: eastward. Toward Africa. Toward Islam. Toward a spirituality that wasn’t colonized. And while Sanders never publicly converted, many Muslims embraced his work as kin. Because his music didn’t fight the ego—it emptied it. He played like a man in dhikr, sometimes whispering into his horn, sometimes exploding with intensity—but always circling back to a kind of spiritual stillness. Like tawaf around the Kaaba: intense, swirling, but centered. In later years, Sanders grew more reclusive. His last major collaboration was with electronic artist Floating Points and the London Symphony Orchestra, in a piece called Promises (2021). It was a slow, aching elegy of life and death, light and shadow. A fitting farewell. He passed away in 2022, but his sound still lingers—floating in the air like incense after prayer. Pharoah Sanders didn’t call the Adhan. But his saxophone called hearts to something Higher. And in a world of noise, he taught us that the holiest sounds may come from instruments tuned by longing. Idris Muhammad: Groove with Ghusl Some musicians leave their mark in notes. Others, in the silences between them. But Idris Muhammad? He left his in the groove—deep, deliberate, drenched in soul. He made the kind of rhythms that pulled your spirit into motion before your mind even knew what was happening. Born Leo Morris in 1939 in the cradle of rhythm—New Orleans—Idris grew up in a city where second lines and street parades were the heartbeat of daily life. Music wasn’t just entertainment there. It was life. A birthright. A ritual. And from an early age, Idris absorbed it all. By his teens, he was already working with legends. But something shifted in the 1960s. He embraced Islam, changed his name to Idris Muhammad, and began a life that would quietly redefine what it meant to be a Muslim musician in the West. Unlike some of his peers, Idris didn’t speak much about his faith in public. But those who worked with him knew: his Islam was not performative—it was embodied. He prayed. He fasted. He kept himself clean, in body and intention. He once left a recording session to make ghusl (ritual purification) before returning to lay down one of his most iconic tracks. And you can feel it in his playing. Whether on Lou Donaldson’s Alligator Boogaloo, or his own solo masterpiece Power of Soul—there’s a sense of presence. He wasn't just playing with rhythm. He was inside it. Like a man whose body had become a dhikr bead, counting praises with every snare hit. His drum patterns weren’t flashy. They were grounded. Disciplined. Like salat: consistent, powerful, timeless. Even when the music got funky—and Idris could get funky—there was something clean about it. No excess. No ego. Just energy and sincerity. Behind the scenes, he lived with the same intentionality. He refused gigs that compromised his values. He treated fellow musicians with quiet respect. And even when his career intersected with pop and disco (yes, he played on some of those too), he never lost his footing. What Idris Muhammad offered was proof that you could be deep in the pocket—musically—and still be deep in sujood—spiritually. That devotion doesn’t always look like silence or seclusion. Sometimes, it sounds like a perfectly placed kick drum. Sometimes, it dances. He passed away in 2014, leaving behind not just tracks, but a trail—a way of being Muslim in the music world without apology or compromise. In a time when the line between sacred and secular often feels sharp and unforgiving, Idris Muhammad softened it. Not by diluting faith, but by embodying it—quietly, consistently, and with groove. The Aesthetic Shift: Album Art, Arabic Calligraphy, Eastern Modes At some point in the journey of spiritual jazz, something subtle but profound began to happen: the faith that had entered the hearts of these musicians began to show up in their visuals, their titles, their tones. It wasn’t just about what the music sounded like—it was about what it looked like, what it evoked, what it carried. You could spot it on the record shelves before even hearing a note. A shift in colors. In names. In symbols. Something unmistakably Islamic—yet deeply personal, beautifully Black, and spiritually layered. Take a look at Yusef Lateef’s 1957 album Prayer to the East. The title alone reads like a quiet declaration of qiblah—a turning of the soul. The cover shows him gazing downward, wrapped in thought, framed by simple design. No spectacle. Just intention. Later albums across the genre picked up this thread: Arabic calligraphy, stars and crescents, Middle Eastern architecture, titles like "Eastern Sounds", "The Maghrib Prayer", Jihad, and even album notes quoting the Qur'an or Sufi poets. What was happening here wasn’t branding—it was barrakah. These musicians were no longer separating their faith from their creative process. They were inviting it into the full experience—from the liner notes to the last cymbal crash. Jazz covers, once all swanky suits and smoky clubs, began to reflect something older, deeper. The geometry of Islamic design crept into layouts. Desert palettes replaced neon city lights. Artists wore kufis, abayas, sometimes posed in prayer postures—not to perform piety, but to reclaim space. To say: I can be jazz, and I can be Muslim. Fully. Freely. But the aesthetic shift wasn’t just visual. It was musical. Musicians began to move away from Western scales and time signatures, exploring: Maqamat (Middle Eastern modes rich in spiritual resonance) African polyrhythms rooted in ancestral memory Free-form structures that mirrored the unpredictability of divine inspiration Sax solos began to mimic adhan-like cries—elongated, yearning, echoing. Drums pulsed like dhikr circles, repetitive yet transformative. Even silence was treated differently—not as emptiness, but as sacred space. Sukūn, the Qur’anic pause. And while not every artist explicitly claimed Islam, many moved within its orbit—drawing from its aesthetics, ethics, and sense of transcendence. The influence was so widespread that even non-Muslim artists began to adopt the language: "Om", "Karma", "Peace in the Middle East", "Mystic Revelation". This was more than fusion—it was fusion with reverence. Because in the Islamic worldview, beauty (jamāl) is not superficial. It’s a sign of the Divine. And these artists, whether born into Islam or arrived by choice, began to let that beauty shape every layer of their art. What emerged was a visual and sonic universe where album covers became mihrabs, songs became supplications, and the music itself became a canvas for barakah. Legacy and Echoes: Contemporary Reverberations Jazz has never stood still. Like a prayer that adapts to each moment yet never forgets its form, it bends with time but keeps its essence. And even as the golden era of spiritual jazz faded into the rearview, its echoes didn’t vanish—they deepened. They found new homes. They whispered their way into the next generations—sometimes in sound, sometimes in silence. And if you know how to listen, you’ll still hear them today: the pulse of Black Muslim identity, the yearning for the Divine, the refusal to separate art from akhlaq, rhythm from remembrance. Take Kamasi Washington, for example. A towering figure in today’s jazz revival. He’s not Muslim, but his 2015 album The Epic feels like a meditation on qadr—destiny. His orchestral arrangements swell like du‘ā at the end of a long night, and his playing draws from the very well that Pharoah Sanders helped dig. Tracks like "The Rhythm Changes" and "Truth" are drenched in moral and cosmic questions. His sound is spiritual jazz for the modern soul—searching, vast, and deeply sincere. Then there’s the blurred, beautiful space where jazz meets hip-hop, and Islam finds fresh breath. Yasiin Bey (Mos Def). Lupe Fiasco. Brother Ali. Omar Offendum. All artists who’ve woven Qur'anic references, Islamic ethics, and Black consciousness into bars that hit like hadiths. And when these artists sample old jazz records—sometimes even sampling Ahmad Jamal, or referencing “East” in their track titles—it’s not just musical nostalgia. It’s legacy. A hand reaching across generations. Even producers like Madlib and No I.D. have tipped their hats to spiritual jazz, building beats on top of dusty vinyl that still carry the scent of oud and prayer rugs. And let’s not forget the global impact. British jazz collectives, like Sons of Kemet and Shabaka Hutchings, are reviving not just jazz but its spiritual lineage. Shabaka, often described as a prophet with a saxophone, creates music that feels like it belongs in a masjid and a revolution march. His 2020 album We Are Sent Here by History reads like a khutbah in rhythm. Even in Muslim-majority countries—Egypt, Turkey, Indonesia—jazz festivals now host artists blending traditional Islamic melodies with modal jazz. The sound is spreading, and with it, the spirit. But perhaps the most powerful legacy isn’t in albums or accolades. It’s in the quiet confidence these pioneers left behind. The message they encoded into every breath of their music: You can be Muslim. You can be Black. You can be spiritual. You can be creative. You can be all of it. And you don’t have to apologize for any of it. That legacy is alive. It hums beneath the surface of beats and breath. It lives in the young Muslim artist sampling a jazz horn while writing verses after Fajr. It lives in the listener who hears a saxophone and suddenly feels the heart open, like the start of a prayer. This is what jazz became. Not just a sound, but a silk thread of tradition—one that stretches from the call to prayer to the call of a horn, both aimed at Heaven. Personal Reflection: Reconciling Sound and Soul There was a time when I thought I had to choose. Between my faith and my love for music. Between sujood and swing. Between the man I was becoming and the songs that once shaped me. I walked away from jazz for a while—not out of conviction, but confusion. I’d hear a melody, feel my chest rise, and then the whispers would come: Is this love of yours a veiled disobedience? Is it your nafs hiding in reverb and rhythm? I didn’t have the answers. So I let it go. I closed the piano. Muted the speakers. Chose silence over uncertainty. But in that silence, I began to hear something else—something quieter than a question, deeper than doubt. It was the sound of return. Not a return to music as escape, but music as meaning. Music as memory. Music as remembrance. I started listening again—but this time, not to entertain myself. I listened like one listens to rain after a drought. Like one listens to an elder. Like one listens to the rustle of leaves that reminds you God is near. And in that listening, I found my way back to jazz—not as a past pleasure, but as a living testament. Because the stories of Art Blakey, Yusef Lateef, Ahmad Jamal, Idris Muhammad—they aren’t just stories of sound. They are stories of submission. Of men who didn’t leave Islam at the studio door. Men who walked into the spotlight with their faith intact. Who turned the stage into a minbar, their instrument into an extension of their soul. They reminded me that Islam is not afraid of beauty. That Allah is Al-Jamīl—The Beautiful. That perhaps the right question was never “Is music haram?”—but “What does this sound make of my heart?” Now, when I hear a warm bassline or a searching saxophone, I don’t run from it. I lean in. I ask: Is this helping me remember? Is it stirring something noble in me? Is it pointing me home? Jazz still doesn’t give easy answers. But it gives space. And maybe that’s enough. It taught me that faith is not always found in stillness. Sometimes, it’s in the rhythm. In the space between notes. In the silence after the final chord. In the breath before the next. And so this journey—this deep dive into the legacy of Muslim jazz musicians—has become a form of worship in itself. A kind of tafsir through trumpet. A way of saying: Ya Rabb, I see You even here. So here I am again. Older. Softer. Listening with a different ear. And what I hear now is not just music. It’s a sound that swings like dhikr. That stirs like du‘ā. That stands, like the soul, in search of God.