Imam Al-Hajj Talib ‘Abdur-Rashid is a tall man with a round face and full cheeks when he smiles. Last Sunday afternoon, he tucked his large, round hands inside the pockets of his loose-fitting indigo pants as he explained why he would be leading this class at Harlem’s Mosque of Islamic Brotherhood, Inc., for the next three months. He jiggled the coins in his pockets, and light radiated from his warm, dark eyes. It was that light and warmth which he hoped to pass on to the seven followers of Allah seated in folding chairs before him.

The Nafs, ‘Abdur-Rashid told the sisters and brothers of this mosque at West 113th Street and St. Nicholas Avenue, are a “body of knowledge” within Islam. They are not the central tenets of the faith, but knowing them will strengthen a believer’s relationship with Allah. If you look through a lens that is “dirty or cracked or covered over somehow, then your perception of what you’re looking at is going to be less than complete,” he began. “Well, the Nafs is our looking glass for perceiving the almighty Allah.”

But before introducing the six stages of this ancient and mystical body of knowledge, the veteran leader of this Harlem spiritual landmark gave his students an etymology lesson. “Arabic is a multi-dimensional language,” ‘Abdur-Rashid said, picking up a piece of tangerine-colored chalk. To understand Islam’s religious concepts, it is first necessary to understand where they come from, he continued, and scrawled the word “Rūh” on the chalkboard behind him.

He then turned back to his students. The men were physically separated from women by a small aisle, but all leaned forward in their seats, and enthusiasm was plain on their faces. “What does it mean when Allah says, ‘my rūh’?” ‘Abdur-Rashid asked. “Sister Maryam?”

Looking up from her notebook, the middle-aged woman with the mustard colored headscarf answered, “My consciousness, my essence.”

‘Abdur-Rashid smiled and nodded. “It’s that life force, that animated life energy created by almighty Allah that comes into being at his command,” the imam’s voice gaining volume and speed as he delved deeper into his lesson. Rūh comes from the same Arabic root as rīh, or “wind.”

“The wind has no physical or material form or substance, just a moving force,” he said. His excitement for the subject was palpable and, as if to hold himself up amid all his enthusiasm, ‘Abdur-Rashid leaned against the wall. “The wind can be a lovely breeze on a summer day or it can be a hurricane. It can be light or extreme—as is the rūh inside the human being.”

Circling back to the topic at hand, ‘Abdur-Rashid then picked up the chalk. He turned to the board and wrote, “nafasa.” The word that gives the name to The Nafs means, “to be precious,” and, “to breathe.”

But the breath in nafasa differs from that in rūh—in both intensity and intent. “Rūh communicates an image of this,” said ‘Abdur-Rashid, and exhaled wholly and hastily. He then inhaled and added, “Nafasa, the image is this—” And he breathed in and out, calmly and steadily. Rūh gives humans life; nafasa sustains it and makes each person’s spirit unique.

Recognizing that every human being has a different breath within will help you understand one another better, ‘Abdur-Rashid told his students. And understanding one another better will lead to increased patience and acceptance. “This is essential in the practice of brotherhood and sisterhood,” he said to the brothers and sisters seated before him. “It’s essential to the cultivation of good character and a soft heart.”

‘Abdur-Rashid paused a moment. Almost as an after thought, he then added, “Only the person with a soft heart gets into paradise.”

And from the small cluster of women seated in folding chairs swelled a hushed but warm, “Mhmm.”