The Wird

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Ahmad Fahmy got his first job at an investment bank at eighteen, as a second-year engineering student, before anyone used the word engineer for it. He didn’t balance it with school. He worked all day, taught himself at night out of books, and dropped semesters when the two collided. He describes the method as jumping into the lake and then buying a book on how to swim.

By twenty-three he had all of it: married, a son, a house, two cars, a career inside a firm he’d grown up in. He says he felt like his life was over, not beginning.

What followed was twelve years in London, a climb toward managing director, and a definition of success he now calls a pie-eating contest where the reward is more pie. Then nine days running across the deep Sahara with no signal and nothing to do but think. He describes the order his thoughts arrived in: work, for the first two days. Then life. Then his parents. Then his children, and a question he couldn’t answer. Provide them with what?

He left, eventually. A mentor wouldn’t let him quit until he could say whether he was running towards something or running away from something. He couldn’t, so he stayed until he could.

Today he coaches organizations through change and tells most of them not to hire him. He lives in Istanbul, homeschools four children, and runs his home on systems instead of willpower. And he built 114, a challenge that asks you to run a distance and memorize a portion of the Quran, on the theory that memorizing is to an adult what the open-water swim is to an Ironman: the part that sounds impossible, filters nearly everyone out, and turns out to be the easiest leg of the race.

When one community asked him to make it easier, he made it harder.

His own wird is small. Surah al-Kahf on Fridays with friends at Şemsi Paşa, read out loud rather than listened to, and then a run.

Man laysa lahu wird, laysa lahu wārid.

CHAPTERS

00:00 What the wird is

02:03 Growing up in his father’s shadow

06:10 A job at an investment bank at eighteen

08:10 Jumping in the lake, then buying a book on swimming

10:57 London, and losing himself

11:44 Success as a pie-eating contest

12:44 Nine days in the Sahara

14:38 Crying over an iPod

15:38 “Provide them with what?”

16:45 Falling for organizational change

20:05 What AI does to the line manager

24:32 Coaching executives

29:40 Who actually wants to change

32:13 The one-inch hurdle

33:34 What would an Islamic Ironman look like

36:54 Memorization is the swim

39:01 The terrain of the Mushaf

39:55 “They asked us to make it easier”

41:01 Everything by twenty-three

43:35 What a work year actually looks like

47:22 What’s below the lake

48:56 “Are you running towards something?”

49:29 Lining up the first client

50:43 Ultraman, and the end of chasing

53:10 Stopped convincing, started finding

57:17 How he defines success now

58:30 Values versus the calendar

1:00:31 Surah al-Kahf at Şemsi Paşa

1:03:45 Niyyah, and what he actually thinks about

1:04:18 Hadith Jibril, and ihsan in a medal

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Asma Waheed tried to go to art school three times.

The first time, at fourteen, her father talked her out of it. He told her that if he sent her to art school, he would lose her, so she studied home economics instead and carried on like that for years. The second time, at West Virginia University, she was one semester in when she became pregnant with her first child and had to withdraw. The third time, a master's at Hood College, she made it three weeks before learning she was pregnant with her fourth. Five years went by.

This is a conversation about what she did with the waiting.

Asma is a multidisciplinary artist from Ellicott City, Maryland, working in clay, metal, fiber, wood and mirrors, with an MFA from the Mount Royal School of Art at MICA. She came to the United States from a small town outside Faisalabad, too nervous at first to answer the telephone in English. She learned the language in a year, raised four children, and found her way back to the studio one class at a time.

She came to clay in 2011, the year her mother died, through a workshop called Healing Through Clay. The first time she touched it, she describes a state of khushu: her brain quiet, nothing else in the room. She has worked with it ever since, and she calls it her fifth child.

Much of this episode is her reading her own faith through the material. Centering a ball of clay on the wheel, which took her a year to learn, as the foundation underneath everything built on top of it. Firing as the trial that either breaks you or makes you stronger. Compression as the squeeze that strengthens. Unfired clay, which can be rehydrated and reclaimed, against fired clay, which is changed forever. And clay as a record: it remembers how it was handled, down to the fingerprints of whoever shaped it.

She closes on the dua (prayer) she has made for years: Ya Allah, don't let me waste me.

Follow her work on Instagram: @asmawaheedart and website: https://asmawaheed.com/

CHAPTERS

00:00 Intro

00:42 A typical day, and a week that repeats

02:12 Growing up in Jaranwala

03:07 The aunts, the munji, and what got passed down

06:35 Wanting art school at fourteen

07:23 "If I send you to art school, I'll lose you"

08:45 Home economics in Lahore, and the hostel at fifteen

12:30 Marriage, and the flight to America

13:29 Learning English, and being afraid of the phone

14:51 Starting art at West Virginia University

15:26 One semester in, and switching to education

18:24 Morgantown21:02 Chopping onions

24:06 Inside the 9 to 3

29:27 Why clay

29:42 Losing her mother

31:35 A class called Healing Through Clay

33:16 "I am Allah's artwork"

36:04 Centering on the wheel

38:51 Firing, breaking, and reclaiming

42:46 The clay remembers

48:12 Petrichor

52:20 Niyyah, and why it has to be renewed

55:48 Hood College, a fourth child, and five years

58:34 The pandemic, and "you asked for pebbles"

1:02:22 "Don't let me waste me"

1:04:27 The three nests

1:05:50 Where to find her work

Man laysa lahu wird, laysa lahu wārid.

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Dr. Sayılgan's day starts before most people's. Fajr (morning prayer), then writing while his mind is fresh, then coffee, then ten pages of Quran, three hadiths, a few pages of the Risale-i Nur, and some lines of poetry. He calls it the thing that sets up the day.

He grew up herding cows in a village in eastern Turkey, named by a Naqshbandi shaykh who came to visit when he was born. He went to boarding school in Konya, the city of Rumi. Then Istanbul, Estonia, a Christian seminary in Virginia, and eventually a Jesuit university in Washington, where he teaches a course called The Problem of God.

He teaches that course because of a question he has spent a decade on: why is there suffering? In 2022 the question stopped being academic. His daughter Maryam was killed in a car accident weeks before her fourth birthday, while he was finishing a book on evil and suffering in Islam. He will tell you plainly that he has no answer. What he has is taslim, submission, and a practice that did not stop.

We talk about Bediüzzaman Said Nursi, who wrote his life's work in exile and in prison, sometimes on matchboxes, and produced hope out of it. About what jihad actually means, and why Nursi called for the jihad of the pen. About why he says there is no word in any language for a parent who has lost a child. And about an Ottoman poem in which every single line ends with the word for water, and the water is the Prophet ﷺ.

Man laysa lahu wird, laysa lahu wārid.

CHAPTERS

00:00 Introduction

01:05 Ten pages, three hadiths, and a few lines of poetry

03:19 Why he reads Nursi every day

05:58 A village in eastern Turkey

06:51 Boarding school in Konya, the city of Rumi

07:44 Named by a shaykh

09:47 Istanbul, Estonia, and a Christian seminary

11:33 Why he chose religion

13:37 Said Nursi: writing on matchboxes in prison

15:59 Weakness as a starting point

19:31 What jihad actually means

21:35 The jihad of the pen

24:14 Islam in America: visibility and reaction

26:36 Why a cemetery matters

31:19 Studying Christianity

33:05 The Problem of God

35:26 Maryam

38:05 No word for a parent who lost a child

40:09 Taslim: the call from the hospital

42:30 A community that isn't afraid of death

46:56 Following the Prophet ﷺ

49:35 Imam Suyuti's treatise on losing a child

51:39 "The Prophet is the one who raised me"

53:43 Layla, Majnun, and seeing through another's eyes

57:16 Every line ends in water

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Hernán Guadalupe became Muslim on the morning of September 11th, 2001, in a dorm room, minutes after the towers came down across the water. That's the part people know about him. This conversation is about the twenty-five years since.

He's an engineer who'll tell you he isn't a technical person; what he actually does is find what people are capable of and get them there. He runs a Brazilian jiu-jitsu school. He co-founded Hablamos Islam, building Islamic resources in Spanish. He went to Egypt intending to study at al-Azhar and came home before he started.

What makes this episode unusual is that he doesn't present a practice that worked. He describes a plateau; a stretch where he did the minimum and told himself it was enough, and only in the last two or three years has he started climbing back. Through dhikr. Through a set of prayer beads he'd avoided on principle. Through al-Ghazali, at an age when it finally landed.

An imam told him something that undid him: that he'd learned a little knowledge, but he was actually living it.

Chapters

00:00 What the wird is

01:59 How he defines success

04:40 Ecuador, Jersey City, and his parents' definition

07:52 The zeal of a new convert

10:33 His father's question: "Why now?"

13:13 Why he waited, and what changed that morning

16:26 Altar boy: faith and logic in conflict

20:11 Losing a community

22:51 "I didn't convert for a community"

25:00 Starting Hablamos Islam

28:45 Latino Muslims since the 1930s

30:53 You don't have to change your name

33:01 An imam from Ecuador, and a turning-point Ramadan

36:46 Egypt: what he learned without the language

40:31 Dar Al-Salam, and finding jiu-jitsu

44:16 Roll Star, and a father crying on the phone

46:56 "Whatever you're meant to make, you're gonna make" 4

9:05 Hitting a plateau

50:41 Dhikr, and the beads he avoided

52:49 The sky looks different now

54:26 Al-Ghazali cleaning the floors

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Khalid Helmi spent 23 years in Tech at the Social Security Administration. Finance was the thing he actually loved, but every path into it ran through something he wasn't comfortable with. So he kept narrowing: out of most stocks, into gold, into real estate, and eventually into a corner of the energy market almost nobody knows exists.

What he found is that the narrowing was the opening. "That restriction on myself made me open up my mind to other opportunities."

In 2025 he took a one-time federal resignation offer, walked away from a stable job in his mid-forties, and went full-time on Date Palm Resources.

But the part we came for is smaller. Every morning: a short du'a, and about five minutes of Quran. He's clear that he can't tell you what it's produced; only that he trusts it has.

We talk about:

— Monopoly money, muscle men, and what childhood play predicts

— Tripling his mother's IRA in the dot-com bubble, then losing all of it

— Why he left traditional finance before he ever entered it

— Mineral rights: how owning what's under the ground pays you when someone drills

— Cold-calling a stranger from a decade-old newspaper article, and where that call led

— The first year of losses, and the one deal that turned it

— Taking the leap at 45, against nearly everyone's advice

— Five minutes of Quran, and calendar reminders for du'a he doesn't want to forget

— Success measured against a Galaga high score

— Why Allah's generosity means you don't have to knock down anyone else's tower

Man laysa lahu wird, laysa lahu wārid.

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The Wird Intro

Whoever has no 'wird' has no 'waarid'...

مَنْ لَيْسَ لَهُ وِرْدٌ لَيْسَ لَهُ وَارِد