I immigrated to Canada in 1998, beginning a new chapter of life in a new land. Like many immigrants, those early years meant unfamiliar grocery stores, winter coats bought in a hurry, and evenings spent in a quiet apartment where the phone rarely rang. Yet it was in the year 2000, just two years after arriving, that I experienced one of the most spiritually memorable Ramadans of my life.
That year, the Christmas break fell right across the last ten days of Ramadan. When I realized the overlap, it felt like a door had quietly opened. I could observe Itikaf without professional constraints. I applied for Itikaf, and Alhamdulillah, it was approved.
The Small Mosque
At that time, the mosque was located at 90 Mission Road SW in Calgary. It was modest in size. The carpet was worn thin near the entrance from years of shoes being removed, and the same few folding chairs sat stacked against the back wall, ready to be pulled out whenever needed.
Other than myself, the Mu’atakafeen in December 2000 included brothers Noor Muhammad Salek Sahib, Aftab Kang Sahib, and Sheikh Hameed Sahib.
Sheikh Hameed Sahib settled into a small room next to the Mehrab. It doubled as storage for the mosque’s A/V equipment, so his prayer mat sat between stacked speakers and coiled cables. He did not seem to mind.
The remaining three of us, Noor Muhammad Salek Sahib, Aftab Kang Sahib, and I, were assigned space in a small mezzanine area of the mosque. If one of us turned over at night, his elbow would brush the next man’s curtains. Yet despite the physical constraints, there was an aura of spiritual togetherness.
Short Days, Long Nights
It remains the shortest fast I have ever experienced. The winter days were brief, and Maghrib came quickly. But the nights were long, beautifully long. By two in the morning, the only sounds were pages turning and the soft murmur of someone reciting the Holy Qur’an a few feet away. Time moved differently in those hours. A single rakat of Tahajjud could feel like it held the whole night inside it, and yet it was still far too short.
There was something uniquely peaceful about those long Canadian winter nights. Outside, the city was quiet under the cold sky. Inside, the warmth of prayers illuminated our souls. In those still hours, one felt deeply connected not only to Allah, but to the small circle of brothers striving together.
Simple Living
Our arrangements were simple. There was a small kitchen in the basement where we gathered for Sehri and Iftari. We each brought our own food and stacked our containers on the shelves of the fridge. By the third day, everyone knew whose Tupperware was whose. Occasionally, an Ahmadi brother would appear at the basement door just before Maghrib, carrying a warm pot of food and a bag of naan, saying nothing more than Assalamu Alaikum before leaving.
One memorable incident stands out. One day, my wife came via local transit to drop off food. We had barely spoken a few words when one of the Mu’atakafeen raised his hand gently and said that a man in Itikaf should not be speaking with his wife. Later, I respectfully shared that Hazrat Muhammad (peace and blessings be upon him) used to speak with his wives during Itikaf. It was a gentle reminder that while spiritual discipline is essential, it must always align with authentic teachings.
An Earlier Experience in Lahore, 1997
Before immigrating to Canada, I had the opportunity to observe Itikaf in 1997 at Baitunnur, Model Town, Lahore. That experience was quite different. By the time the Mu’atakafeen arrived, everything was already in place. The setup had been done before our arrival. Special arrangements had been made for dars and tilawat, and mosque discipline was implemented throughout. Everything was coordinated, spacious, and handled by the Jama’at.
In contrast, Calgary’s Itikaf in 2000 was managed largely on a self-organized basis. We arranged our own spaces, managed our own meals, and coordinated informally among ourselves. Yet there was a special beauty in that simplicity. It reflected the early immigrant spirit of the community, making do with whatever was at hand and finding something greater in the effort.
A Lasting Memory
Looking back, I can still picture both places clearly. The structured discipline of Baitunnur (Lahore), where everything had been prepared before we even walked in, and the narrow mezzanine in Calgary, where three of us tried not to bump elbows.
Sometimes the most spiritually uplifting moments are not found in grandeur, but in sincerity. That small mosque on Mission Road, with its tiny mezzanine and humble arrangements, became a place of immense blessing.
Sometimes, even now, when I close my eyes during Tahajjud, I am back in that small mezzanine. The Calgary cold outside, a brother’s quiet recitation beside me, and the feeling that the room, for all its smallness, had no walls at all.
