In the Name of Allah, the Most Beneficent, the Most Merciful

When I first came to hawza, I thought I knew what I was signing up for. I didn’t.

Hawza has a way of reshaping you from the inside out. It’s not about being “tough enough” — it’s about being willing to ride the waves, both calm and wild, and trust that they’ll take you somewhere beautiful.

Those first weeks were humbling. I felt like a child again — learning alphabets, forming clumsy sentences, building my understanding slowly, piece by piece. Back home I’d been used to learning in neat, spoon-fed chunks. Here, every word had to be earned. But there was something deeply satisfying about that process — the moment when a new word finally sticks, or when you read a whole page and realise you didn’t need a translation.

Language became one of my greatest treasures here. Farsi helped with daily life, but Arabic… Arabic is where my heart landed. It’s the language of the Qur’an, and sitting with its words in their pure form felt like being handed the original key to something priceless. Reading only a translation now feels like seeing a sunset through someone else’s photograph — you miss the warmth, the colours, the way it makes you feel.

Life in Iran itself became part of my love story with the hawza. I fell in love with the rhythm of talabeh life — walking to and from class under the hot sun, stopping at little juice stands for something cold and sweet, the quiet hum of the streets around me. Sometimes, I’d catch the scent of fresh bread baking in the bazaar, hear the adhan rolling across the rooftops, and think, This is home now.

Some days brought moments of pure excitement — like when we’d find out an esteemed scholar was visiting. The notice board would go up, and suddenly everyone was rushing to get a front spot, chadors flowing about, & notebooks ready more than ever. Sitting just a few feet away, soaking in their words, felt like being given a rare glimpse into centuries of wisdom.

As a single student, dorm life was its own safe, bustling little world. Late-night chai and whispered conversations in the corridors, the smell of food drifting from the kitchen, the echo of footsteps in the hallway. And yes — a massive swimming pool just for women, something I’d never even imagined having back home. Married friends lived at a different pace — more independence, no curfews — but also the responsibility of managing their homes and commutes. Both had their beauty.

People came and went. At first, I wondered why they left. But eventually, I realised everyone’s “why” is their own. Mine kept me here. And when your reason for being here is stronger than any doubt, the journey stops feeling like something you have to survive — it becomes something you get to live.

Looking back, hawza didn’t just teach me books. It taught me patience, resilience, joy in simplicity, and a love for learning that has nothing to do with grades or certificates. It tested me, yes — but it also rebuilt me in ways I didn’t know I needed. And if you come here with sincerity, you’ll find that it’s not only possible to stay — it’s possible to fall completely in love with the journey.

AUTHOR:

iStudyCircle | Learn Islam