In the late 1970s, before Maryland had established Islamic schools, parents relied on their own homes to keep faith alive for their children. Among them was Sister Khadijah, a mother of three who turned her Catonsville dining table into a classroom every Sunday morning.
Her students were a mix of children, her own, plus half a dozen from nearby families. They arrived with giggles and fidgeting, carrying notebooks and pencils. Khadijah began each lesson with recitation of Al-Fatiha. She would trace the Arabic letters on a chalkboard propped against the wall, patiently guiding small fingers to repeat: alif, baa, taa.
For the children, the lessons were less about grammar and more about memory. They learned short surahs, prayers before meals, and the basics of wudu. But what stayed with them most was the warmth of those mornings, the laughter that interrupted lessons, and the gentle way Khadijah corrected their mistakes.
Her efforts were not always easy. Some parents wanted faster results; others struggled to get their children to attend after long weeks of school. Khadijah herself sometimes felt overwhelmed, balancing her own housework with the responsibility of teaching. Yet she pressed on, convinced that if the children learned even a little, it would anchor them in their faith.
Over time, her home classes grew. More parents asked if their children could join. She organized recitation circles, and even arranged a little “graduation” where each child recited a surah before the group. For the parents, it was proof that their children could grow up Muslim in America.
What began as a dining table lesson would eventually inspire larger efforts. When mosques were established in the 1980s, weekend schools became formal institutions with dozens of teachers. Yet, those who attended Khadijah’s classes never forgot where it began: in a modest Maryland living room, where one woman decided the next generation would not grow up without the Qur’an.