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As the sun dips beyond the horizon and the night prepares its silence, Lusail Marina in Doha, Qatar awakens with another rhythm. Not the pulse of its city lights, but the quiet thunder of footsteps, engines, and hearts drawn toward Mohammed bin Hamad Al Mana Masjid Mosque. On ordinary days, it’s a serene sanctuary, elegant in its beige walls and golden-hued lighting. But in the blessed nights of Ramadan—especially the odd nights—this mosque becomes the centre of a city’s yearning.

The adjacent sprawling grounds overflow with parked cars—some arrive hours before the prayer, others just in time. Streets nearby begin to look like extensions of the masjid itself, lined with cars and shaded by the still night. You feel the weight of devotion not only in the rows of worshippers but in the sheer presence of those who came from every direction—families, elders, youth, all surrendering sleep for something far more fulfilling.

The masjid’s structure itself feels designed for these sacred nights. Wide entrances ease the flow of the crowd, while the soft light across the semi-open courtyard guides you in. The air feels different here—gentle, hushed. It prepares your heart even before the Imam begins.

As Sheikh Abdul Rashid Sufi lifts his voice, everything else dissolves. All fall away in the presence of Qur’an. And as you fall in sujūd under the tall minaret, barely inches from others who also chose this night over rest, it becomes clear: you feel you're part of something greater. A congregation not just gathered in one place, but drawn together by a shared longing—for Allah, for His closeness, for His forgiveness.

The Sheikh’s recitation is a spiritual odyssey. Each night, as he leads Qiyām al-Layl, his deep pauses aren’t just rests—they are moments of divine invitation. His mastery of various qirāʾāt transforms every rakʿah into a rich experience of the Qur’an’s multifaceted beauty. When he reaches āyāt about Allah and His signs, his voice shifts—rising, softening, trembling—as if the verses are descending upon his own heart anew.

Then comes his rukūʿ: prolonged, humble, weighty. It feels like an extension of his recitation—an embodied dhikr. His sujūd, equally profound, pulls hearts into prostration not just in posture, but in presence. You begin to realise: this is the ṣalāh; munājāt with your lord, an invitation to be completely present with the Divine.

Ramadan nights here are unlike any other. Three full khatms in Qiyām alone, and another in Tarāwīḥ. Each night extends to nearly three hours in night prayers only, yet not once does the heart wish it to end. If anything, we wish for time to slow down—to remain enveloped in the stillness, the Qur’an, and the voice of a man who recites as though he hears the revelation himself.

Unveiling the Sabʿah Aḥruf: Qirā’āt in Action

One of the most awe-inspiring elements of praying behind Sheikh Abdul Rashid Sufi is the exposure to the Qur'an in its full oral richness. This year, the Tarāwīḥ prayers echoed with the recitation of al-Dūrī ʿan al-Kisāʾī, while the Qiyām al-Layl prayers graced us with the refined melodies of Warsh ʿan Nāfiʿ, through al-Aṣbahānī. For those unfamiliar with the Qirāʾāt, these are not “variations” but sacred transmissions—each deeply rooted in authentic chains, dialects, and phonetic nuances, gifted to this Ummah as a mercy and sign.

Sheikh Sufi is a master of all ten Qirāʾāt, and he moves between them with effortless grace, not for display, but as worship and preservation. For the untrained ear, one might think the Sheikh has erred— “Why does this sound different?” But that’s precisely where the miracle lies. Through his voice, the ḥadīth comes to life:

ʿUmar bin Khattāb (RA) reported:

“I heard Hishām ibn Ḥakīm reciting Sūrat al-Furqān during the lifetime of the Messenger of Allah ﷺ. I listened to his recitation, and noticed that he was reciting in several different ways that the Messenger of Allah ﷺ had not taught me. I was on the verge of interrupting him during his ṣalāh, but I waited until he completed the prayer. Then I grabbed him by his cloak and brought him to the Messenger of Allah ﷺ. I said, ‘O Messenger of Allah, I heard this man reciting Sūrat al-Furqān in a way that you did not teach me!’”

The Messenger of Allah ﷺ said: ‘Release him, O ʿUmar. Recite, O Hishām.’ So he recited the same way I had heard him. The Prophet ﷺ said, ‘This is how it was revealed.’ Then he said, ‘Now recite, O ʿUmar.’ So I recited, and he ﷺ said, ‘This is how it was revealed.’

Then the Messenger of Allah ﷺ said:
“Indeed, this Qur’an has been revealed upon seven aḥruf (modes), so recite whatever is easy for you from it.”
(Ṣaḥīḥ al-Bukhārī)

One common variation everyone notices is the word mālik (مالك) in Sūrat al-Fātiḥah, which reads in many narrations without prolongation. Warsh often drops the hamzah in certain cases (mu’minīn becomes mūminīn), giving the recitation a smoother, flowing rhythm. In many instances,  In Ḥafṣ ʿan ʿĀṣim, typically, you’ll hear: "ʿalaykum" — with a sukūn at the end. In Warsh or al-Dūrī,  you may hear: "ʿalaykumu".

Then there is the unique imālah and taqlīl in the narration of al-Dūrī ʿan al-Kisāʾī, heard vividly in words like Mūsā (موسى) or ʿĪsā (عيسى), where the final ā is not pronounced with a flat alif, but slightly tilted—giving it a tone closer to Mūsǎ or ʿĪsǎ. These gentle inclinations of vowel sounds not only enhance the melodic lilt of the recitation but also reflect specific Arabic dialectal traits from the early regions of Quraysh, Najd, and surrounding tribes.

In the recitation of Ḥamzah, for instance, one finds frequent ishmām (a blending of ḍammah and sukūn) and rawm (softened endings of words), especially in waqf (pausing) positions—subtle phonetic touches that require keen ear and deep discipline.

To experience the Qur’an through Sheikh Sufi’s Qirāʾāt is to experience its universality—how it descended not just in one form, but in a spectrum designed to accommodate the tongues and hearts of a diverse Ummah. And as the Sheikh recites, alternating narrations across nights, you realise this isn’t just recitation. This is an act of living tradition, a transmission of what Jibrīl ﷺ recited to the Prophet ﷺ in all its forms.

When the Qur’an Fills the Night: The Rare Nights of Khatm Starting

There are three nights in Ramadan behind Sheikh Abdul Rashid Sufi that feel almost otherworldly. These are the nights of Khatm starting, and those who’ve stood through them know—they are not just long prayers; they are journeys through revelation.

On these nights, the Sheikh begins the first rakʿah with Sūrah al-Baqarah, which alone stretches to nearly 1.5 hours, recited in deliberate majesty, verse by verse. The second rakʿah brings Āl ʿImrān, nearly an hour more. Over five hundred āyāt roll off his tongue in two rakʿah, almost four juz’s. You’re not just standing—you’re walking side by side with the Prophets, with Banū Isrāʾīl, with the family of ʿImrān, with the martyrs and the sincere. The body may ache, but the soul is wide awake.

And this is not new. This is the Sunnah revived.

What makes this more powerful is how deeply rooted this experience is in the Sunnah of the Prophet ﷺ.

It was narrated by Ḥudhayfah ibn al-Yamān (رضي الله عنه):

"I prayed with the Prophet ﷺ one night. He began with Sūrah al-Baqarah. I said: ‘He will bow at one hundred.’ Then he continued. I said: ‘He will complete it in one rakʿah.’ But he went on. I thought he would bow, but then he began Sūrah al-Nisāʾ and recited it. Then he began Sūrah Āl ʿImrān and recited it. He recited slowly and distinctly. When he came to a verse that mentioned tasbīḥ, he glorified (Allah). When he came to a verse of request, he asked. When he came to a verse of seeking refuge, he sought refuge. Then he bowed and said: ‘Subḥāna Rabbī al-ʿAẓīm’, and his rukūʿ was about as long as his standing. Then he said: ‘Samiʿa Allāhu liman ḥamidah, Rabbanā laka al-ḥamd,’ and stood for nearly the same length as his rukūʿ. Then he prostrated and said: ‘Subḥāna Rabbī al-Aʿlā,’ and his sujūd was close in length to his standing.”
(Ṣaḥīḥ Muslim, 772)

This prophetic tradition is not simply echoed but revived behind Sheikh Sufi. His recitation is not hurried. It is mutarassil—deliberate and measured. When an āyah calls for tasbīḥ, you feel the glorification ripple through his tone. When a verse carries a duʿāʾ, his voice trembles with hope. When he reaches āyāt of punishment or divine refuge, his tone lowers, trembling with awe.

And then comes his rukūʿ, unhurried, whispering glorification in a bow so long it feels timeless. His sujūd too is not rushed—his body on the earth, but his voice lifted in majesty: Subḥāna Rabbī al-Aʿlā. Through it all, you're not just following an Imam—you are walking in the very footsteps of the Prophet ﷺ.

These rare nights remind us that length in prayer is not a burden, but a station of love. The Salaf knew this. Tamīm al-Dārī (رضي الله عنه) would recite the whole of al-Baqarah in one rakʿah. Imām Abū Ḥanīfah would weep through an entire night with a single verse. They understood what it means to be held by the Qur’an until dawn.

And so, standing shoulder to shoulder in the stillness of Lusail, surrounded by hundreds yet alone with your Lord in dim light, you come to understand that these aren’t just long prayers. They are a return—to the way of the Messenger ﷺ, and to the nights where the Qur’an came alive in the hearts of men.

When the Voice Trembles at the Name of Allah

There is something utterly unique about Sheikh Abdul Rashid Sufi’s voice when the name of Allah is mentioned. His tone doesn’t just shift — it surrenders. In the middle of the long night, after hundreds of āyāt, just when your body begins to feel the weight of standing, his voice lands on a verse about Allah ﷻ, and suddenly your soul wakes up.

When he recites:

﴾الَّذِينَ يَذْكُرُونَ اللَّهَ قِيَامًا وَقُعُودًا وَعَلَىٰ جُنُوبِهِمْ وَيَتَفَكَّرُونَ فِي خَلْقِ السَّمَاوَاتِ وَالْأَرْضِ رَبَّنَا مَا خَلَقْتَ هَٰذَا بَاطِلًا سُبْحَانَكَ فَقِنَا عَذَابَ النَّارِ﴿
(Āl ʿImrān 3:191)

— there’s a subtle inhale in the entire congregation. A breath held. The Sheikh’s voice lowers, stretches each word of “Rabbana mā khalaqta hādhā bāṭilā…” with such hushed reverence that you feel as though the Qur’an is being revealed in real time. It’s not uncommon to hear soft weeping, broken whispers of Allāhu Akbar, or even hearts sighing audibly from different corners of the masjid. This is not an ordinary soundscape; it is a symphony of longing.

It may remind us of one of the most moving accounts in our tradition, the night ʿĀʾishah (RA) described the Prophet ﷺ in tearful, devoted prayer. She recalled that on one night the Prophet ﷺ said to her, “O ʿĀʾishah, allow me to worship my Lord this night.” She responded, “By Allah, I love your company and I love what pleases you.” The Prophet ﷺ then stood in prayer, pouring his heart out to Allah. ʿĀʾishah watched as he wept so much that his garment became soaked, then his beard, until even the ground was wet with tears​

When Bilāl (RA) came at Fajr and saw the Prophet’s state, he exclaimed, “O Messenger of Allah, you are weeping while Allah has forgiven your past and future sins?!” The Prophet ﷺ replied, “Should I not be a grateful servant? Indeed, this night a verse was revealed to me—woe to the one who recites it and does not reflect upon it!

This was the verse:

﴾الَّذِينَ يَذْكُرُونَ اللَّهَ قِيَامًا وَقُعُودًا وَعَلَىٰ جُنُوبِهِمْ وَيَتَفَكَّرُونَ فِي خَلْقِ السَّمَاوَاتِ وَالْأَرْضِ رَبَّنَا مَا خَلَقْتَ هَٰذَا بَاطِلًا سُبْحَانَكَ فَقِنَا عَذَابَ النَّارِ﴿
(Āl ʿImrān 3:191)

Another night, sheikh recites:

﴾إِنَّمَا الْمُؤْمِنُونَ الَّذِينَ إِذَا ذُكِرَ اللَّهُ وَجِلَتْ قُلُوبُهُمْ﴿   

“The true believers are only those whose hearts tremble when Allah is mentioned…”
(Al-Anfāl 8:2)

And it happens. A shiver spreads across the room. The verse says, "the hearts tremble" — and you witness it, feel it. The tremble is not metaphorical anymore. It’s a lived moment. People hold their breaths, some clutch their chests, and in that stillness you realise: we were created to respond like this.

Then comes perhaps the most unforgettable moment:

﴿إِنَّمَا يُؤْمِنُ بِآيَاتِنَا الَّذِينَ إِذَا ذُكِّرُوا بِهَا خَرُّوا سُجَّدًا وَسَبَّحُوا بِحَمْدِ رَبِّهِمْ وَهُمْ لَا يَسْتَكْبِرُونَ﴾
(As-Sajdah 32:15)

“Only those believe in Our verses who, when they are reminded of them, fall down in prostration and glorify the praises of their Lord, and they are not arrogant.”

The Sheikh recites it with a crescendo, rising in awe, and the moment the word “kharroo sujjadan……” reaches your ears — he falls into sujūd, and so do we. Sujūd al-Tilāwah. Wallāh, in that sajdah, it feels like the entire masjid is bowed before the Throne of Allah. Not a collective act — but a personal one, multiplied by a thousand souls.

These aren’t just moments of listening. They’re moments of presence — moments where the verse meets the voice, and the voice meets the heart. You feel you’re no longer in Lusail, Qatar — you’re in the shadow of divine speech. The walls of the masjid, the arches, the air itself — everything seems to witness.

These are the nights where the Qur’an is not just recited. It is lived.

The Night Reaches Its Peak: The Qunūt that Touches Every Heart

And then comes that final moment—the climax of the night prayer—the Qunūt in the last rakʿah of Witr. After the long journey through recitation, sujūd, and silence, this moment feels like standing at the door of the Divine, knocking with your whole being.

Sheikh Abdul Rashid Sufi’s Qunūt is no ordinary supplication. It is distinct, personal, and deeply soulful. Sometimes, he begins with the familiar words:

اللهم اهدنا فيمن هديت، وعافنا فيمن عافيت…
“O Allah, guide us among those You have guided, and grant us well-being among those You have granted well-being…”

His voice trembles with humility, the words slow and soaked in reverence. But on other nights, he begins differently—with a river of praises for Allah:
“Allāhumma lakal-ḥamd, anta nūru as-samāwāti wal-arḍ, wa anta rabbī…”
Glorifying Allah with the names that reflect His Majesty, His Mercy, His Might. The way he speaks those praises, sometimes rising, sometimes whispering—makes your heart feel like it is being cradled in dhikr.

Then, like waves, the duʿāʾ begins to unfold. He prays for Gaza, for the Ummah, for the oppressed and the orphaned, for those under siege and those buried under rubble. He remembers the ill and the poor, the mothers who weep, the youth who are lost, the children who are growing in a world confused. He doesn’t forget anything—if time allows, his heart opens fully.

And when the prayer is long, and the night is heavy, and the clock draws near to Fajr, he might shorten it. But even then, his Qunūt never lacks soul—a few short phrases, but each one full of depth:

“Allāhumma innaka ʿafuwwun tuḥibbul-ʿafwa faʿfu ʿannā.” And hearts break open.

He prays for our personal lives—our weaknesses, our struggles, our sins we can’t even name. For our children, our families, for those we have lost and those still striving. He begs for forgiveness, for protection from Hellfire, for the gates of Jannah to be opened for us. He weaves in duʿās from the Qur’an and Sunnah, making you feel you’re listening to the voices of the Prophets.

People around you begin to sob. You might feel your lips trembling, your eyes unable to hold back. He reminds us of the Shahādah, and makes us renew it with tears in our hearts.

And then, as the āmīns of hundreds fill the masjid rolling softly across the night, you realise that his is a moment of being poured out before Allah.

It is the slave finally speaking from the depths of his soul, asking not just with his tongue but with every cell in his body. When the Qunūt ends and he bows into rukūʿ, you feel the whole masjid exhale—a sacred silence after a storm of longing.

And as you walk out light-heartedly, you know this night has changed you. You stood with your brothers and sisters, behind a man whose voice carried the legacy of the Qur’an and the Prophets, and you spoke to your Lord as a grateful, hopeful, trembling servant.

These are the nights you never forget. These are the nights that shape your soul.

And When Ramadan Passes...

As the nights of Ramadan draw to a close, a quiet ache settles in the heart. We know we will miss this—the stillness of the night, the recitation that moved us to tears, the long sujūd that felt like resting at the feet of our Lord, and the Qunūt that carried every unspoken pain and hope to the heavens.

We will miss standing behind Sheikh Abdul Rashid Sufi, hearts trembling with the Qur’an, surrounded by a congregation united in longing and love for Allah. These nights are not just memories; they become part of who we are.

And as we return to our everyday lives, we will carry this yearning with us—a longing for the next Ramadan, for one more chance to stand again, if Allah wills, in the light of His words.

O Allah, allow us to reach Ramadan again, and grant us the ability to stand its nights and recite Your Book with humility and tears.