By Nur Aaila Ayesha Sim

Usually, Muslims avoid traveling during Ramadan to make fasting “easier.”

In fact, Islam is encompassing and practical—if one is traveling, there’s even a concession to delay the fast to ease the journey.

But this trip was different.

What made it special?

For one, it coincided with the Urs (Return to his Lord / passing away) of our beloved Dada Sheikh Muhibbullah Shah.

And secondly, it took place during the final ten nights of Ramadan—the most sacred, spiritually charged nights in the Islamic calendar.

I didn’t go searching for a dramatic transformation or some kind of revelation. I went because I needed space—to slow down, to disconnect, and to realign my heart with what truly matters.

Penang, with its slower rhythm, offered a sharp contrast to the constant buzz of Singapore.

That change alone forced me to pause.

There were no endless notifications, no back-to-back meetings, no deadlines. Just time—structured around prayers, lessons, remembrance, Qur’an recitation, and quiet reflection.

Each day of the retreat followed the natural rhythm of fasting and prayer. We’d rise well before dawn for Qiyam, beginning our day with a heart open to forgiveness and full of gratitude.

Then came sahur (pre-dawn meal), often eaten in silence, followed by Fajr in congregation. Somehow, these early prayers felt more profound—being present with our teachers and fellow seekers gave them weight. During the day, we made a conscious effort to stay off our phones.

We listened attentively as Ustaz Sameer guided us through timeless reminders, delivered with renewed clarity. His teachings weren’t new, but they felt fresh—like puzzle pieces finally clicking into place.

A mental map started to form,
one that helped us connect deeply with questions we often overlook:

Who am I?
What am I living for?
Why do I need God?
Who is God?

We spent hours sitting with those questions in solitude. The kind of reflections you don’t get to have in the noise of daily life.

The nights carried a different energy altogether. We broke our fasts together, like a family away from home. We shared quiet encouragement as we prepared for Terawih—a cup of coffee, a cup of tea, a little snack to keep us going. Every night, we gathered for Zikr Majlis (remembrance), immersing ourselves in praise and invocation, unhurried and unbothered by the demands of the world outside.

There was a stillness in those nights that I hadn’t felt before. Not joy. Not sadness. Just peace. A kind of peace that only comes when your heart is finally quiet enough to notice it.

And in that stillness, I realized: this is what I came for. Not answers. Not resolution. Just a shift. Subtle, but real—the kind that only happens when you make space for it.

This retreat didn’t “fix” me. It didn’t erase my struggles or offer me complete clarity. But it reminded me that growth happens quietly.

That tawakkul—trust in God—isn’t something you suddenly have; it’s something you build, bit by bit. And that a spiritual reset doesn’t need grand gestures.

Sometimes, it’s just six days in a slower place, away from your usual life, showing up sincerely in prayer.

Now that I’m back in Singapore, the noise has started to creep back in. But I’m holding onto the quiet I found.

I know what it feels like now—to pause, to reconnect, to stand still in the presence of something greater.

And that’s a gift I’ll keep returning to, inshaAllah.

Do You Believe in One God
& Ready to [Re]start your Journey of Faith & Gratitude as a Muslim?