The Islamic Nasheed Singer | منشد الأناشيد الإسلامية
"He sings nasheeds that make millions cry. She's the journalist who profiles him—and discovers the man behind the voice."
The Islamic Nasheed Singer
منشد الأناشيد الإسلامية
Yusuf Ahmed's nasheeds have a billion streams.
No instruments—just voice and faith. He's the biggest Islamic artist in the world.
I'm supposed to humanize him for the Guardian.
I'm Safiya.
Thirty-four, British-Pakistani journalist. I've profiled prime ministers. A nasheed singer shouldn't be intimidating.
He is.
He's forty.
Born in Birmingham, converted at twenty, started singing at mosque events. Now he sells out arenas.
"Why do you do this?" I ask first.
"Because music is haram but voices are gifts. The Prophet loved beautiful voices."
"Your critics say you're commercializing Islam."
"My critics don't pay for my children's education. Next question."
"That's defensive."
"You came with assumptions. I'm correcting them."
The interview is tense.
He's guarded. I'm probing. Neither of us finds what we expected.
"Can I shadow you? For a week?"
"Why?"
"Because this interview isn't capturing you. I need to see you live."
He agrees.
I follow him—rehearsals, meetings, family dinners. The private Yusuf is different from the stage version.
"You're softer when no one's watching," I observe.
"The stage requires armor. Home requires... less."
"Why are you really doing this profile?"
"Because Muslims need good press."
"That's not an answer."
"Because I wanted to see if you were real. Or just marketing."
"Verdict?"
"Still deciding."
The last night, he performs at Wembley.
Twenty thousand Muslims singing along. When he finishes, he's crying.
"It never gets old," he tells me backstage. "That feeling."
"What feeling?"
"Connection. To something bigger than myself."
"Can I tell you something off-record?"
"The interview's over anyway."
"You're the first person who's asked real questions. Everyone else just wants the star. You wanted the man."
"Is that bad?"
"It's... unexpected."
The article publishes to acclaim.
Nuanced, fair, showing him as human. He calls to thank me.
"It was just truth."
"Truth is rare. Thank you."
"Maybe we could... continue talking? Off-record?"
"Safiya, I'm a public figure. My relationships are scrutinized."
"I'm not asking for a relationship. I'm asking for coffee."
"Coffee is how relationships start."
"Then maybe I'm asking for that too."
Coffee becomes dinners.
Dinners become late-night calls. Both of us navigating public eyes.
"This is complicated," I say.
"Everything worth having is."
The first kiss is after a concert.
Backstage, sweat-damp, his voice raw from singing.
"Astaghfirullah," he breathes.
"For what?"
"For wanting this for months."
We marry quietly.
His fans are curious, then welcoming. The ummah needs love stories too.
"Happy?" he asks.
"Happier than any profile."
"Better than the one you wrote?"
"That was journalism. This is life."
Three years later
I'm pregnant now.
He sings to my belly—nasheeds for our child.
"Boy or girl?"
"Doesn't matter. They'll have your voice."
"They'll have your eyes."
Alhamdulillah.
For nasheeds that open doors.
For journalists who seek truth.
For voices that become duets.
The End.