The passing of Mufti Omar Idris of Genete on October 17, 2025, resonated deeply, impacting individuals, communities, and religious institutions throughout Ethiopia and internationally. In the quiet hours that followed, his name filled the air—spoken softly in prayer, whispered in grief, repeated in awe. His death, though inevitable as all human endings are, carried the weight of a nation’s conscience.
When he died, some cried for him; I cried for myself. My tears, I knew, could not bring him back. Others wept for fathers, brothers, and teachers—for all that he symbolized in their lives. When a man of such gentleness and moral clarity departs, tears become inevitable, for kindness once lived among us and has now withdrawn. Yet beyond emotion, his death unfolded as a great act of communication—a conversation between souls, between generations, between the living and the departed.
It was interpersonal in the comforting embrace between friends; intrapersonal in the quiet grief within each heart; public in the countless messages and tributes shared; and nonverbal in the bowed heads, the tearful eyes, the solemn walk of thousands. From his home to the Nur Mosque, to Millennium Hall, and finally to Sefera, the city became a moving current of faith. Roads closed, but hearts opened. People walked—some for hours, some for miles—to witness his final journey. News of his passing spread like dawn light, reaching even those far from the capital.
Across social platforms, the nation wrote its collective elegy. Words, verses, and memories filled Facebook, TikTok, and YouTube. Some recounted his sermons; others his humility and humor. Their expressions, each in its own tone, became a living monument more lasting than marble. He was called “the father of peace,” “the teacher of truth,” and “the compassionate one.” These were not mere titles—they were reflections of a man who lived what he preached.
Mufti Omar Idris had long been a pillar of religious guidance in Ethiopia. As the Mufti of the Supreme Council of Islamic Affairs, he carried the responsibility of interpreting divine law and offering moral direction to millions. He spoke not only to scholars but to the ordinary believer in the marketplace, the farmer in the field, and the student in the classroom. His voice, steady and reasoned, invited unity when division threatened, and reminded the nation that piety and peace are inseparable.
He believed Islam was not a boundary but a bridge—that the faithful should serve as a moral compass for society at large. His Friday sermons were simple yet profound, laced with stories from the Qur’an and life lessons drawn from Ethiopian reality. He defended justice without hostility, spoke truth without arrogance, and lived modestly even as his influence grew.
It was said that when Mufti Omar walked into a room, debate softened; when he spoke, confusion dissolved into clarity. He treated questions with patience and answered them with reason rather than rhetoric. Many remember how he would pause before replying, as though measuring not the words, but the impact they would have on hearts.
Despite these qualities, as millions mourned, a few questioned his chosen resting place. They feared, they said, that his grave might be worshipped. But what is there to fear? The true believer knows that when life departs, the body returns to dust, and only the soul journeys on. If one seeks idols, they can make them anywhere—even from the moonlight. It is not graves that create worship; it is ignorance that does.
Should a Muslim be buried outside a Muslim cemetery, or should he not?
Allah has commanded our scholars and sheikhs to teach us the truth. It is our duty to listen to them, respect them, and refrain from insulting or humiliating them. Speaking of them in an unbecoming manner brings its own consequences—it is a deviation from the path of Allah. At the same time, our scholars carry a great responsibility: they must provide complete and honest guidance to the Muslim community.
After the passing of the great scholar, Mufti Omar Idris, two opposing views emerged regarding the matter of burial. One group said, “The place where he was buried is sufficient,” while the other insisted that “Muslims should only be buried in Muslim cemeteries.” Social media amplified this debate, with powerful voices declaring that Muslims should never be buried outside designated Muslim graveyards. Others, however, argued that such a view is too rigid and that history itself provides examples of exceptions—especially for great scholars and saints whose entire lives were spent in service to Allah and the Muslim community.
To understand this issue more clearly, we must look beyond our borders and into Islamic history, where we find both traditions: those buried within graveyards and those buried in or near mosques, schools, and centers of learning.
Great Scholars and Saints Buried Outside Regular Cemeteries
Those who oppose burial outside traditional Muslim cemeteries often argue as though no such precedent exists in Islamic history. Yet the record of the past tells a different story. Across centuries and regions, many great scholars, saints, and reformers—men and women who dedicated their lives to knowledge, worship, and service—were laid to rest near the very places where they taught and prayed. In Saudi Arabia, for instance, Imam Malik ibn Anas, founder of the Maliki school, rests in Jannat al-Baqi‘ in Medina, close to the Prophet’s Mosque, while early scholars and jurists in Mecca were buried near the Ka‘ba itself. In Egypt, the tomb of Imam al-Shafi‘I in Cairo stands as one of the Muslim world’s most revered sites of learning, surrounded by mosques and madrasas, while the nearby resting place of Sayyida Nafisah—descendant of the Prophet—continues to inspire Qur’anic study and devotion.
In Iraq, Imam Abu Hanifa and Sheikh Abdul Qadir al-Jilani, founder of the Qadiri Sufi order, were buried close to their centers of teaching, their tombs still serving as hubs of scholarship and spiritual renewal. In Syria, figures such as Imam Nawawi and Ibn Asakir were interred near mosques and schools in Damascus, symbolizing the enduring link between knowledge and piety. Turkey, too, holds the resting places of Jalal al-Din Rumi (Mawlana Rumi) within his Sufi lodge in Konya, and of Abu Ayyub al-Ansari—companion of the Prophet—within the city walls of Istanbul, where he fell during the first Muslim siege of Constantinople.
The Indian subcontinent bears similar marks of reverence: Khwaja Moinuddin Chishti of Ajmer, Nizamuddin Awliya of Delhi, and Shah Jalal of Sylhet all lie near their khanqas or madrasas, sites that remain alive with learning and devotion. In Southeast Asia, two of the Wali Songo—the nine saints who spread Islam in Indonesia—Sunan Ampel and Sunan Gunung Jati—are buried in the mosques they founded, while in Malaysia, early da‘wah leaders such as Sheikh Abdul Samad al-Palembani were laid to rest near their schools, their legacy preserved among students of Qur’an and Shariah.
Even farther east, in China, Sayyid Ajal Shams al-Din Umar, a scholar and governor under the Yuan Dynasty, was buried near the mosque he built in Yunnan, a lasting testament to the deep roots of Islam in East Asia. In Africa, similar traditions endure: Sheikh Abadir, founder of the Islamic school of Harar, rests in Jigollo, surrounded by mosques and schools; Sheikh Nur Hussein lies beside his mosque, a place of remembrance and unity. In Sudan, Sheikh Hamad al-Nil rests in Omdurman; in Somalia, Sheikh Awes al-Barawi; and in Morocco and Senegal, Moulay Idris, Sidi Ahmed Tijani, and Sheikh Amadou Bamba are buried within their zawiyas—centers that continue to nurture faith, work, and learning.
These examples show that the burial of great scholars near mosques or madrasas was never a form of idolatry, but a way of honoring their lifelong devotion to Allah and the Muslim community. Their tombs were meant not for worship but for remembrance, education, and spiritual renewal.
Broader Context
Mufti’s death invites us to consider not only the question of burial but the deeper purpose of human remembrance. Across nations, tombs and memorials preserve the memory of those who served their people. They are not idols but reminders of virtue, discipline, and moral courage.
Mufti Omar, through decades of scholarship and leadership, became such a figure in Ethiopia. From his early education in traditional Islamic studies to his role as a national religious leader, he cultivated knowledge, wisdom, and spiritual insight. His work bridged generations, urban centers, and rural communities. Under his guidance, mosques became centers of learning, social welfare, and interfaith understanding.
Those who interacted with him speak of a man who never sought recognition for himself. He mediated disputes quietly, advised the young earnestly, and reminded the powerful of justice. Yet his influence was profound. He embodied the principle that leadership is service, not authority; knowledge is duty, not privilege.
Even in death, the Mufti continues to teach. The debates over his resting place reflect more than legal interpretations—they reveal society’s ongoing struggle to balance tradition, knowledge, and modernity. His burial outside a formal cemetery does not diminish his legacy; it illuminates the question of why we honor and remember.
Across the Muslim world, scholars’ resting places have been preserved not for worship but as living testaments to faith, learning, and moral integrity. Ethiopia, with its centuries-old Islamic tradition, continues this practice through figures such as Sheikh Abadir and Sheikh Nur Hussein. Mufti Omar Idris’s resting place now joins this lineage of scholars who remain a source of inspiration long after they leave this world.
Personal Reflection and View
A million arguments can be presented to show who is right and who is wrong in a single debate. Supporters can always be gathered with passion and persuasion. Yet, beneath the surface, this debate—like many others—is not only about faith but also about power. Those who possess authority strive to keep it; those who lack it struggle to gain it.
In that struggle, truth is often refined, reshaped, sweetened—or, at times, deliberately made bitter. Much of what is presented as theological conviction may, in fact, conceal a deeper human desire: the pursuit of influence and control over hearts, minds, and history itself.
As long as the thirst for authority remains, debate will continue. Some will find sweetness in their cause; others will taste bitterness. Yet history reminds us that true faith endures not through the destruction of stones, but through the sincerity that lives within hearts.
Would it not be wiser to teach than to fear? To guide rather than to condemn? Allah has endowed humankind with understanding—the power to discern truth from illusion.
Mufti Omar’s tomb, like those of great scholars before him, should not be feared. It is a place of remembrance, reflection, and inspiration—not an altar of worship. Across continents, Muslim scholars and saints have been honored in ways that encourage learning and piety, not idolatry. The same principle applies here.
And so, the Mufti rests—his soul in the mercy of Allah, his body in the earth, his legacy in the hearts of millions.
Contributed by Teshome B. Kemal
