With the Golden Jubilee of The World Federation’s founding approaching, we reflect on a remarkable journey defined by faith, resilience, and unity. The following piece, penned by Dr Hasnain Walji, former President of The World Federation and the current Head of the Khoja Heritage Project, beautifully captures this half-century voyage. Through his thoughtful verses, Dr Walji honours the milestones, challenges, and collective spirit that have shaped our shared history. This poem stands as a tribute to the vision, dedication, and tenacity that have bound our community together across generations and continents.
A Federation of Faith: A 50-Year Travelogue Through Time, Tea, and Tenacity Chronicling the formation of The World Federation
By Hasnain Walji. Ph.D
Every journey needs a departure lounge. Ours was the smoky, chai-scented, carpeted floor of Hammersmith Imambargah, London, in April 1975. Picture this: a delegation from Africa, a few ex-Ugandans still nursing their trauma, and a bunch of wide-eyed young Khoja accountants and lawyers—barely old enough to grow grey sideburns—huddled together in a fog of Rothmans smoke and purpose.
Me? I was the chaiwala-in-chief. Assistant Secretary of the London Jamaat. My job was to keep the chai flowing and Kadiri’s samosas replenished—while history happened around us.
The community was reeling from the pain of the 1972 Ugandan expulsion. Families had scattered across the globe, turning up in strange lands with familiar faith—but no anchors. Apart from a few cities in the West, we had no formal Jamaats. But that didn’t stop us. We held Dua e Kumail in basements, borrowed halls, and warehouses. We rolled out carpets from the back of cars and made spiritual sanctuaries out of second-hand furniture.
One conversation from that day is still etched in my mind, over half a century later: Mulla Asghar, back in Kenya, was coaching volunteers over a crackly landline in some remote corner of the Western US—walking them through how to perform Ghusl Mayyit on a deceased brother. Imagine that. No manuals. No YouTube tutorials. Just faith—and a rotary dial connection.
Layover 1: The Luggage We Carried
We didn’t pack light.
Our luggage was heavy with legacy—the spirit of Zanzibar, the scent of khichdo, the collective sighs of those who left everything behind to begin again. Some brought traditional values, others brought transistor radios and majlises on cassette tapes. But we all carried one thing in common: a stubborn belief that no Khoja, anywhere, should ever feel alone.
In the UK, the old East African dukawalla had transformed into the local tobacconist. Same hustle, different high street. The London Jamaat had just transitioned from the old East Africa House to Hammersmith. The elders, like the late Haji Habibbhai Walji, poured their souls into purchasing that humble property. We’d gather on Ashura at Hammersmith for khichdo and sweet pink sherbet—a ritual more sacred than it sounds. The older generation longed to recreate the Uganda experience. The younger professionals just wanted structure and systems. The tension was palpable—but the sherbet was divine.
Khichdo, you ask? Not just food. It was egalitarian history in a pot. Back in Kathiawad, the rich brought meat, the poor brought rice, and everyone shared the same niyaz. A forgotten socialist culinary revolution, Khoja-style. The ritual remains—except that now, Khichdo is reserved for special occasions.
With it came those unquantifiable moments: children racing through the corridors of a modest Imambargah; elders recounting tales from Kampala and Kabiramaido under flickering tube lights; the hush of majlis, broken only by the occasional cry of a child or the jangle of a teaspoon. That aroma of chai mixed with nostalgia? That was our foundation stone.
It was within these makeshift sanctuaries—rented halls and school gymnasiums—that our shared yearning for something more permanent, something global, began to simmer.
It wasn’t about bricks and mortar.
It was about creating a home for our scattered souls.
A Federation wasn’t formed because we had a grand plan.
It was formed because we had nowhere else to turn.
And the kettle kept boiling.
Stop 2: October 15, 1976 – The Federation Is Born
Just over a year later, we returned to Hammersmith—not just with folded arms and notepads, but with intent. Delegates had arrived from Toronto, New York, Leicester, Los Angeles, and the heartland of East Africa. Jetlagged. Unsure. But unified by a singular truth: we could not walk alone any longer.
The three-day constitutional conference was not for the faint-hearted. Debates raged—sometimes with the decorum of a courtroom, other times like an intense family dinner. The question of identity—“To Khoja or not to Khoja?”—took center stage. The British Khojas tried to mediate; the North Americans pushed for a broader Shia identity; the East Africans were rooted in preserving the Khoja legacy.
Hours passed. Arguments swirled. And then, in true Khoja fashion, a solution emerged—pragmatic and graceful: we would keep the name but open the doors.
Thus, The World Federation of Khoja Shia Ithna-Asheri Muslim Communities was born—anchored in its roots, inclusive in its reach.
In his inaugural speech, Marhum Mulla Asghar declared,
“The concept of The World Federation dawned upon us by the events in Uganda.”
He wasn’t just acknowledging a crisis. He was charting a course from tragedy to triumph.
We had no funding model. No blueprint. No staff. But we had something better: Purpose.
We operated out of filing cabinets, spare rooms, and sheer willpower. Volunteers handwrote letters. Minutes were typed on ribboned typewriters. Every penny recorded. Every dollar debated.
And yet, somehow, it worked. Because it wasn’t about perfection. It was about conviction. And that conviction carried us far.
Mapping the Mission: Poverty in the East, Identity in the West
Once the Federation was born, the letters poured in—from Gujarat, from Vancouver, from Tokyo. Families asked for school fees. Jamaats asked for Alims. Japan asked for a Constitution. (No, they weren’t Khojas—just freshly converted Shias!) We were overwhelmed—but never overawed.
Our first priority: uplift the needy.
India—especially Kutch and Kathiawad—was reeling from poverty. Education was a luxury. Healthcare? Scarce. But dreams? Plentiful. So we stepped in.
With stalwarts like Gulamali Bhanji (Bapu) and the leadership of Mulla Asghar, we partnered with Masoomeen Trust in Bombay. Not just for handouts—but to build. Schools. Housing. Water projects. Madrassas. And we introduced something radical: the Samuh Lagna—collective weddings. Dignified. Affordable. Blessed.
But we knew handouts weren’t enough. So, in 1981, in a quiet room in Rayners Lane, a revolution began. Mulla Asghar pulled out £500, slapped it on the desk, and said, “Let’s start now.”
The Zainabiyya Child Sponsorship Scheme—ZCSS was born. Nine children. Fifty cents a day. Within a decade, it educated thousands. Each child’s profile was hand-matched to a sponsor. Progress tracked. Reports mailed. Behind every child stood a relieved parent, a hopeful teacher, and a community rising from its knees.
Reclaiming Identity in the West
As we built futures in India, we fought to preserve identity in the West. Freedom came with its own struggles: assimilation, invisibility, loss of language. So we adapted. And we anchored.
In 1980, the Islamic Education Board (IEB) was formalized. Its mission? To make Islam make sense—for the second generation.
We created madressa syllabi. Hosted teacher training. Distributed Islamic books. Ran correspondence courses. Mailed cassette tapes of majlises and Qur’an recitations.
We weren’t trying to make scholars. We were trying to make children unapologetically aware of Muharram.
IEB’s curriculum soon spanned continents—from Leicester to Los Angeles, Karachi to Kitchener. It became the spiritual glue for children living between two worlds.
Behind every lesson? Mothers copying notes. Volunteers editing booklets. Alims reviewing translations. Not glamorous. But glorious.
Scaling the Summit: Enter the 1990s
By the 1990s, the Federation evolved from survival to sustainability.
In 1991, the Somali civil war broke out. Chaos. Gunfire. Fear. And yet, under the leadership of Hon. Sajjad Rashid, we coordinated the evacuation of over 1,000 people—including 783 from our own community.
We negotiated ceasefires. Escorted families. Got them home.
When Ulema were imprisoned in Iraq, we raised awareness, delivered medicine, and lobbied governments. A million pounds in aid crossed borders.
Because we believed—still do— To serve the oppressed is an act of worship.
From Relief to Restoration
Then, 2001. The Gujarat earthquake.
We responded in four phases: Relief. Rehabilitation. Revival. Restoration.
We didn’t just send tents—we built homes. We didn’t just feed—we revived dignity. We helped restart businesses. Rebuilt schools. Rekindled dreams.
It wasn’t about charity. It was about justice.
A Global Voice: From Kutch to the UN
By 2005, the UN granted us NGO consultative status.
From bullock carts in Kutch, we’d reached Geneva.
We didn’t go to take selfies. We took values. We spoke on refugee rights, human dignity, access to education. Proudly Shia. Authentically Khoja. Globally responsible. We proved we belonged. And we stayed.
Digital Dawns: The 2010s
The world went digital. So did we.
MCE. Hawza Online. OneStopFiqh. Ask An Alim.
We met people where they were—on screens. During COVID-19, we ramped up. Food parcels in Pakistan. Vaccines in East Africa. Mental health webinars. Unity sessions.
Our bandwidth became our barakah.
Fifty and Forward: 2024 and Beyond
Today, we’re active in over 40 countries, with just under 150,000 members. In 2024 alone, we raised over $19 million.
But our real currency? Trust. Trust that when a youth is lost, we guide. When a community stumbles, we serve.
Let the Jubilee in Oct 2026 not be a full stop. But a comma. A pause. A breath. Then: Forward.
With purpose. With unity. With faith in the greater good.
Epilogue: The Power of the Greater Good
This 49-year journey taught us one truth:
When we come together for the greater good, our spirit becomes unstoppable.
It wasn’t deep pockets that built this Federation—it was deep resolve.
Not spreadsheets, but sincerity.
Not just funds—but faith.
It was the woman in London donating from her pension. The teenager in Dar teaching in borrowed space. The elder in Vancouver sending handwritten cheques year after year.
Each played their part in a symphony of service.
The Federation has been our vessel. The fuel? Love.
Love for the Ahlul Bayt (a.s.)., Love for humanity., Love for each other.
Let this be our legacy: Not that we served, but that we served together.
Not that we built an organization, but that we built a bond.
And so we march on. Not as lone travelers— But as a caravan.
With shared burdens. Shared blessings.
And an unshakable belief in the greater good.