Introduction

The first half of the twentieth century in South Asia was marked by passionate struggles for freedom and the harsh repression of the British Raj. Prison became a shared experience for many leaders, as incarceration was used to crush the voices of resistance. Yet, from this hardship came powerful memoirs, letters, and diaries written in Urdu, Bengali, and Tamil—offering deep insight into the independence movement’s politics and ideals. While scholars often highlight these writings for their political importance, they sometimes miss the personal stories they tell. Behind the struggle were moments of quiet reflection, spiritual strength, and hope. These texts reveal not only defiance but also the inner courage that sustained people through oppression and uncertainty.

Historical and Theoretical Framework

To truly understand the profound role that prophetic reflections played in South Asian prison memoirs, it is essential to first place them within the historical reality of colonial imprisonment and then approach them with a thoughtful theoretical lens that highlights spiritual dissent. This chapter lays out that framework, explaining how the British prison system was designed not just to confine bodies but to crush minds and spirits. It introduces key concepts—spiritual resistance, emulation (ittibāʿ), and devotional memory (dhikr)—which will guide our deeper analysis of how faith became a tool for endurance and defiance.

The Architecture of Oppression: The Colonial Carceral System

The British Empire’s prison system was far more than a place to hold political opponents—it was a carefully constructed machine of psychological warfare. Every detail was crafted to strip prisoners of their identity, dignity, and willpower, turning them into broken shells rather than active resisters.

The most infamous example was the Cellular Jail in Port Blair, Andaman Islands—widely known as “Kālā Pānī” or Black Waters. Its location across the sea wasn’t accidental; it symbolised exile from community, culture, and homeland. For many, this geographical isolation carried deep religious and social implications, reinforcing a sense of spiritual pollution and abandonment. The jail’s architecture was based on the panopticon model: a central watchtower with radiating wings of solitary, soundproof cells. Prisoners were under constant surveillance while being physically and mentally cut off from one another, a strategy designed to heighten fear and helplessness.

Across the subcontinent, central jails employed a series of brutal practices to break inmates’ spirits:

• Hard Labour: Meaningless and exhausting tasks like grinding oil or twisting rope aimed at physical and emotional depletion.
• Censorship of Scripture: Personal papers, religious texts, and books were routinely confiscated, denying prisoners access to the written word and forcing them to rely on memory—a quiet rebellion against enforced ignorance.
• Isolation: Solitary confinement prevented communication and fostered despair, leaving prisoners vulnerable to introspection that would ideally lead to surrender.
• Regulated Diets and Humiliation: Even food, a basic necessity and spiritual practice, was controlled to further degrade morale.

In this grim context, the act of remembering the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) took on extraordinary significance. The prison was not merely a backdrop—it was an active force attempting to dismantle the human spirit. Every whispered prayer, every mental recollection of scripture, and every poem composed in praise of the Prophet became deliberate acts of defiance against a system designed to strip away one’s humanity.

Theoretical Lenses for Analysing Devotional Defiance

To interpret these expressions of faith, this study draws on three interwoven concepts.

1. Spiritual Resistance: Resistance is often thought of in terms of protests, strikes, or political actions. But in the prison environment, where overt defiance was met with harsh punishments, resistance took subtler forms. Spiritual resistance used inner faith, rituals, and devotional practices as tools to protect the mind and assert autonomy. Political theorist James C. Scott’s ideas of “everyday resistance” and “hidden transcripts” are particularly useful here. Acts such as repeating divine names (dhikr), recalling hadiths, or composing poetry were invisible to the oppressors but deeply empowering for the prisoners. These practices transformed the prison cell into a sanctuary where faith shielded them from despair.
2. Emulation (Ittibāʿ): In Islam, emulation is not a passive imitation but a conscious effort to mirror the Prophet’s moral resilience and character. Prisoners, in drawing parallels between their own suffering and that of the Prophet during his persecution in Mecca or exile in Ta’if, reframed their experience. Their imprisonment was no longer a meaningless punishment but a test of faith and spiritual strength. In this way, they actively turned suffering into worship, thereby stripping the jailers of their psychological power and elevating endurance into an act of piety.
3. Memory Studies and Devotional Memory (Dhikr): Memory, especially under extreme conditions, becomes a vital tool for survival. With books and scriptures often inaccessible, prisoners relied on their own minds to preserve their religious identity. Recitation of the Qur’an, recollection of hadiths, and the mental reconstruction of poems kept them cognitively sharp and spiritually connected. Dhikr, or remembrance, served as an exercise of both intellect and faith, preserving the prisoner’s sense of self. Through these practices, the Prophet’s presence remained alive within the walls of isolation, offering comfort and companionship where no one else could.
   By combining historical analysis with these theoretical lenses, we are better equipped to read prison memoirs not merely as personal recollections but as profound accounts of spiritual courage. These writings reveal how prisoners transformed oppression into an arena for inner triumph, creating a legacy of resilience, faith, and moral defiance that remains essential to understanding their psychological and ethical world.
4. Case Studies: Analysing the “Fragments”

This chapter forms the heart of our study, shifting from theoretical frameworks to the lived experiences recorded in prison writings. By closely analysing selected fragments from various detainees, we aim to show how spiritual resistance, emulation (ittibāʿ), and devotional remembrance (dhikr) were not abstract concepts but practical tools used to endure incarceration. The analysis is arranged thematically to highlight how the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) was invoked in different ways, transforming the prison from a space of despair into one of spiritual resilience.

The Prophet as Companion (Sāḥib) in Solitude

A recurring theme across these writings is the Prophet as a companion (ṣāḥib) during times of deep isolation. Prisoners found solace not merely in memory but in an experiential sense of presence, where remembrance of the Prophet turned loneliness into spiritual connection.

Maulana Abul Kalam Azad’s reflections in Ghubaar-e-Khaatir offer a profound example. While imprisoned in Ahmednagar Fort, Azad distinguishes between loneliness that crushes and solitude that uplifts. He observes, “In these long hours… the heart turns inward. It is then that the presence of the Holy Prophet (peace be upon him) becomes most palpable. He is the companion of those who are alone. To remember him is to be in the company of the finest, most compassionate of creation. This is not a memory of the past; it is a companionship in the present.”

For Azad, the Prophet’s presence is not a fleeting recollection but a living connection, reshaping the prison cell into a sanctuary. Spiritual resistance, in this sense, arises from reclaiming the heart’s freedom, untouched by external control.

A similar experience is recorded by Maulana Husain Ahmad Madani in Naqsh-e-Hayat. Imprisoned during World War I in Malta, Madani describes the emotional anguish of confinement and how spiritual connection became a lifeline. He recounts the quiet, pre-dawn hours where he recited prayers and sent blessings (darūd) upon the Prophet, mentally picturing the serene life in Medina. For him, this was not escapism but an assertion of his scholarly identity, anchoring himself to the traditions of ḥadīth and resisting the prison’s attempt to reduce him to mere captivity.

Even beyond these learned scholars, simpler expressions reveal the same longing for companionship. Hasrat Mohani, the revolutionary poet and politician, turned to poetry as a form of remembrance. Imprisoned in 1908, he composed verses such as “Chupke chupke raat din aansoo bahaanaa yaad hai” (“I remember weeping night and day”), which, while not strictly prison poetry, deeply resonated with his inner world. The act of reciting and composing became an invocation of the Prophet as a confidant, where political defiance intertwined with spiritual yearning.

Together, these case studies demonstrate how the Prophet’s memory was not a distant ideal but a living, sustaining force. Through companionship, scholars and poets alike transformed confinement into a space of dignity, endurance, and hope.

The Mirror of Trials – Parallels with the Meccan Boycott

A deeply thoughtful theme that emerges from the prison writings is how detainees intentionally compared their hardships with the specific trials faced by the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH), especially the Meccan boycott (Ṣaʿb Abī Ṭālib). This was more than just remembering the Prophet—it was an act of emulation (ittibāʿ), identifying closely with his suffering and finding strength in that shared experience.

Maulana Muhammad Ali Jauhar, imprisoned for his role in the Khilafat movement, draws this parallel explicitly in his letters. He writes, “What is this confinement but our own little Ṣaʿb Abī Ṭālib? The British Raj has cast us out just as the Quraysh cast out the Messenger of God and his family… Our patience today is the same patience perfected in that valley.” By reframing their imprisonment within the sacred history of Islam, Jauhar transforms suffering into a path already walked by the Prophet, making endurance easier and fear less daunting.

This powerful motif was also embraced by Khan Abdul Ghaffar Khan, famously known as Bacha Khan, and his Khudai Khidmatgars in the North-West Frontier Province. Though inspired by Gandhi’s non-violence, Ghaffar Khan’s approach was deeply rooted in Islamic teachings. His followers were encouraged to view their imprisonment and hardships as direct parallels to the Meccan boycott. For many Pakhtun soldiers, imagining their sacrifice alongside revered figures like Bilal or Hamzah made their struggle spiritually meaningful and emotionally bearable.

Even secular intellectuals found strength in these comparisons. Shahidullah Kaiser, a Bengali Marxist and activist, describes in Jail Jibon how fellow Muslim prisoners from rural East Bengal would interpret their suffering as a divine test, similar to those faced by the prophets. This shared cultural and religious language of resilience transcended theological boundaries, offering a unique framework that strengthened solidarity and hope within South Asia’s diverse Muslim communities.

Devotional Creativity – Na’ts, Ḥadīth, and Prayers on Prison Paper

The third theme focuses on how prisoners, despite severe hardship, expressed their devotion through creative and spiritual practices. Their poetry, prayers, and recollection of sacred sayings became powerful tools for resilience, offering both comfort and strength.

Na’t poetry, in particular, played a central role. Prisoners composed verses that highlighted the Prophet’s attributes—Shafīʿ (Intercessor), Ḥabīb (Beloved), and Al-Ṣābirūn (The Patient Ones)—which resonated deeply with their own suffering. Akbar Allahabadi, the celebrated Urdu poet, though known for satire, revealed a profound spiritual side during his later years. His poetry, often memorised and shared among inmates, served as a source of inspiration. One couplet widely recited stated, “Dūrī-e-ḥaḍrat se us kā jahāñ meñ kyā gila / Har nafas us kī ṣūrat ko hai pukārta” — “What complaint can the world have about the distance from the Prophet? Every breath calls out to his form.” For prisoners, this verse symbolised that physical confinement could never sever their spiritual bond.

The very material used for writing also held meaning. Coarse prison paper, deliberately restricted by colonial authorities, became a canvas for beauty and faith. Inscribing delicate poetry or sacred sayings onto rough, limited resources was an act of spiritual defiance—an assertion of dignity amidst deprivation.

The practice of recalling and recording ḥadīth from memory was another profound effort. Many prisoners, especially those following Maulana Ahmad Raza Khan Barelvi’s teachings, would write down sayings about patience and resisting oppression, fortifying their minds with divine wisdom in moments of despair.

Dr Saifuddin Kitchlew, a prominent Congress leader jailed after the Jallianwala Bagh massacre, embodied another form of devotional creativity. Though his focus was political, he remained steadfast in performing daily prayers. His disciplined observance, despite hostile conditions, became an act of spiritual resistance, reaffirming that his loyalty lay not with colonial powers but with his faith.

Contextualising the Discourse

The intimate, fragmentary nature of prophetic remembrance in prison memoirs was not a random stylistic choice. Rather, it emerged as a response to specific historical, political, and spiritual pressures. The form and function of these devotional acts were shaped by the harsh conditions of the colonial prison system, the diverse intellectual debates within early 20th-century South Asian Islam, and the complex interaction between religious identity and anti-colonial nationalism. This chapter explores how these forces came together to shape a unique form of Islamic expression that offered resilience, identity, and hope amid repression.

The Imperative of the Fragment: Colonial Surveillance and Subterfuge

The fragmentary nature of these spiritual reflections—brief quotations from the ḥadīth, short poetic verses, or private analogies—was, above all, a survival mechanism. Colonial prisons operated as panoptic institutions, where inmates were subject to constant surveillance. Letters were censored or confiscated, and any material deemed subversive could be destroyed. Solitary confinement further limited communication, isolating prisoners from each other.

Under such circumstances, composing a structured, extended theological discourse was nearly impossible. Instead, inmates adapted by embedding meaning in small, portable fragments that could evade scrutiny. A full theological argument invoking the Prophet’s patience might be confiscated as sedition, but a two-line poem scribbled at the edge of a page could pass unnoticed as harmless reflection. A political critique disguised as a meditation on the Prophet’s moral strength could also slip past prison censors.

The fragment thus became a tool of intellectual camouflage. It allowed prisoners to preserve their core beliefs while outwardly adhering to prison regulations. Moreover, writing on coarse prison paper or scraps of material that were barely fit for correspondence transformed even the act of writing into resistance. These fragments functioned as spiritual seed banks, protecting the essence of faith and identity until conditions allowed for fuller expression.

This stylistic adaptation also reflected the mental reality of incarceration. Long, coherent trains of thought require calmness and stability—both of which were in short supply within the walls of a colonial prison. The fractured, episodic nature of memory and contemplation made the fragment the most appropriate form for spiritual reflection. It was resilient, concealable, and emotionally charged, allowing the prisoner’s inner life to persist despite external oppression.

The Spectrum of Invocation: Intra-Muslim Debates and Interpretations

Though united in devotion to the Prophet (PBUH), prisoners’ reflections were shaped by their specific theological traditions. South Asian Islam in the early 20th century was marked by debates between reformist schools such as the Deobandis and Ahl-i Hadith, and more traditional or mystical schools like the Barelvis. These debates influenced how prisoners invoked the Prophet and articulated their connection to him.

For example, Maulana Husain Ahmad Madani, a Deobandi scholar, drew upon rigorous ḥadīth scholarship in framing his devotion. In his prison writings, particularly in Naqsh-e-Hayat, the Prophet’s example was presented as a guide for ethical conduct under trial. Patience, prayer, and adherence to religious duties under duress were emphasised as acts of obedience and discipline. For Madani, the Prophet was a teacher whose sunnah provided the framework for endurance and spiritual purity.

In contrast, prisoners influenced by the Barelvi tradition expressed their devotion through more emotive and mystical language. They emphasised the Prophet’s intercession (shafāʿah), his compassion, and his spiritual presence as a source of comfort in suffering. Their writings often included heartfelt poetry (na’t) expressing longing and connection, as well as devotional practices such as repeating the Prophet’s name or reciting blessings (durūd). For them, the Prophet was not merely a lawgiver but a living, compassionate presence offering solace and divine support.

Prisoners associated with the Aligarh school or influenced by modernist thinkers like Maulana Abul Kalam Azad occasionally reinterpreted the Prophet as a universal leader of justice and resilience. They connected the Prophet’s struggles against tyranny in early Islam with contemporary anti-colonial efforts, drawing parallels between historical and present oppression. In such reflections, the Prophet was less a mystical intercessor and more a revolutionary figure—one whose moral leadership inspired resistance.

These theological orientations were not mutually exclusive. Many prisoners blended ideas from different traditions, creating personal devotional practices that reflected both intellectual conviction and spiritual yearning. The fragments they wrote reveal that incarceration did not erase their religious identities; instead, it forced them to distil these identities into their most essential and portable forms.

Harmony and Tension: Islamic Devotion and Nationalist Ideology

The discourse of prophetic remembrance was also intertwined with the nationalist struggle for independence. For many prisoners, Islamic devotion and anti-colonial resistance were not separate domains but mutually reinforcing commitments.

For leaders like Maulana Abul Kalam Azad, the integration of faith and nationalism was seamless. His devotion to the Prophet formed the ethical foundation of his political activism. In his writings, he drew historical parallels between the Prophet’s endurance in Mecca and the resilience required to withstand imprisonment. The pursuit of justice—central to the Prophet’s mission—was mirrored in the nationalist struggle against imperial domination. For Azad, faith was not a private consolation but a moral imperative to resist oppression. His prison reflections reveal that the act of remembering the Prophet infused his political resistance with spiritual purpose.

However, for others, the relationship between religion and nationalism was more nuanced. Secular activists such as Shahidullah Kaiser respected the spiritual practices of fellow inmates but framed their political efforts primarily in secular terms—emphasising language rights, class struggle, or regional autonomy. Yet even in such contexts, the widespread presence of Islamic idioms within prison life demonstrated that religion was a vital language for mass mobilisation. The Prophet’s story of suffering and perseverance resonated deeply with prisoners, especially those from rural and traditional backgrounds, offering a framework through which they could interpret and endure their oppression.

Thus, prophetic remembrance in prison memoirs existed at the intersection of spiritual resilience, doctrinal diversity, and political activism. It provided prisoners with strength, meaning, and continuity, while simultaneously serving as a subtle form of resistance under the watchful eyes of colonial authorities.

Conclusion

This study has journeyed into the quiet, often overlooked corners of South Asian prison literature to uncover a narrative that rarely finds its place beside grand political histories. By carefully analysing scattered devotional expressions—na’t verses scribbled on prison paper, remembered ḥadīth, and personal reflections penned in isolation—we have shown how Muslim political prisoners (1900–1965) transformed the oppressive confines of colonial prisons into spaces of spiritual resilience and creative devotion. In their writings, the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) appeared not as a distant icon of the past, but as a living presence: a companion in solitude, a reflection of personal trials, and a guide for moral endurance. Reframing their hardships through the Prophet’s struggles, detainees found meaning in suffering and reclaimed inner strength, resisting both despair and the will of their captors.

The implications of this research are profound. First, it highlights how Islamic devotion was neither rigid nor confined but adaptive, deeply personal, and empowering. Practices of remembrance (dhikr) served as tools to preserve identity and hope in the harshest of conditions. Second, it expands our understanding of anti-colonial resistance as a spiritual as well as political battle. For many prisoners, their struggle for sovereignty extended beyond political freedom—it was a fight to safeguard the soul and ethical values. Their nationalism was inseparable from their faith. Third, this study calls for a broader view of prison literature, recognising it as an archive of emotional and spiritual perseverance, not merely political commentary.

This exploration also points toward future research. The framework of devotional resistance could be applied to other contexts, such as Palestinian prison writings or testimonies from places like Guantanamo Bay, where faith becomes a shield against oppression. Studying modern prisons might reveal how spiritual practices continue to offer dignity and hope in today’s carceral systems.

In closing, the echoes of devotion from South Asia’s colonial prisons remind us that history lives not only in proclamations but in quiet, unwavering acts of love, memory, and faith. Their voices endure as a testament to human resilience and spiritual strength.

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