By Ismaeel Essack (Grade 10A)
The first sound that ever reached me was the Azaan. Whispered by my father into my right ear as a newborn, followed by the Iqaamah in my left. I did not understand it then, of course. In that sacred ritual lies a truth I have only begun to appreciate: our entire lives are bookended by the call to Salaah — and what lies between is far shorter than we imagine.
Last April, the day after Eid ul-Fitr, I stood inside Musjid al-Aqsa at sixteen years old and called the Azaan. It was a moment I had begged for since my earliest youth. I had always been drawn to the mu’azzin’s voice — the way it rises at Fajr, the way it gathers strangers into rows of brotherhood. I began giving the Azaan at my local musjid, and quietly, a dream took root: to one day stand in one of Islam’s most sacred spaces and invite the faithful to Salaah.
That dream found its door in Jerusalem.
My family and I were there for the Eid holidays, and with a hope that felt almost too large for my chest, I asked to meet the Amir of Musjid al-Aqsa. To my gratitude, I was received in his office within the compound, just behind the Dome of the Rock. I asked him directly, respectfully, if I might have the honour of calling the Azaan. He considered me, then agreed.
When the time came and my voice echoed through centuries of devotion, I thought of every dua I had ever made — and every “Ameen” offered by my parents and grandparents. I understood then that this was never only my moment. It belonged to everyone who had prayed for me, who had taught me that no sincere aspiration is too distant for Allah’s mercy. My family wept with joy. We all did. Some blessings arrive in forms you do not expect, through doors you barely dared to knock upon.
Standing there, I also thought of something deeper.
We enter this world to the Azaan and the Iqaamah. When we leave it, there is no Azaan. There is no Iqaamah. There is only Salaah. The scholars say this is no accident. It is a reminder that life itself is as brief as the moments between the Iqaamah and the start of the Salaah. A pause. A breath. Then we are before our Lord.
That realisation does not sadden me. It sharpens me.
It sharpens the way I look at every opportunity I once thought I was too young for, too unqualified for, too ordinary to deserve. It sharpens the way I see the dreams we carry quietly in our hearts — the ones we are almost afraid to speak aloud. If life is that brief, then every sincere chance matters. Every whispered dua matters. Every moment we are given to stand where we never thought we could stand matters.
I do not know what doors will open for you. I do not know what quiet longing you carry as you read this. I know what it is to hope for something that feels larger than yourself, and I know what it is to watch that hope become real — not because I was extraordinary, but because I asked, because my family made dua, and because Allah is never miserly with those who call upon Him sincerely.
We are all, in the end, living between the Iqaamah and the Salaah. The question is not whether our lives are long. The question is whether we used the breath we were given to call others toward something greater — toward Salaah, toward purpose, toward the Only One who remains when everything else falls away.
Make the dua. Knock on the door. Raise your voice while you still have it.
The pause is shorter than you think.