The Light that Awakens (Fascinating Lives Series)

The Untold Story of the World's First University

In ninth-century North Africa, where women's roles were dictated by custom and constraint, one young woman dared to imagine something different. The Light That Awakens is the sweeping, historically grounded novel of Fatima al-Fihri—the visionary behind the world’s first university.

Born into privilege but shaped by loss, Fatima’s journey begins with a simple idea: “to seek knowledge is to build a house for the soul.” As wariness turns to opposition, and opposition to open hostility, Fatima’s determination only deepens. Alongside her sister Maryam, she fights prejudice, endures personal tragedy, and leads the construction of al-Qarawiyyin—a mosque and centre of learning where all are welcome: women and men, rich and poor, Muslims, Jews, and Christians alike.

From the teeming streets of Fez to the intellectual crossroads of the medieval world, this is a story of resilience, faith, and the transformative power of education. With rich historical detail and emotional depth, The Light That Awakens brings to life a woman whose legacy continues to illuminate minds a thousand years later.

Start reading The Light That Awakens today and discover the extraordinary woman who made knowledge a gift for all.

Excerpt from the book

Qayrawan, Ifriqiya – 810 AD

The golden light of late afternoon slipped through the latticework of the mashrabiya , spilling honeyed patterns across the rough-hewn floor and transforming the courtyard into a shifting mosaic. Shadows of geometric stars and interlocking vines trembled over the clay tiles, crawling up the stone walls of the al-Fihri house and onto the wide reed mat where Fatima sat cross-legged and intent. The city’s hum rose intermittently above the hush of her concentration: the shouts of muleteers from the alley beyond the gate, the distant clangour of a coppersmith’s hammer, the cadence of women bartering over baskets of dates, and, rising above them all, the muezzin’s call from the grand mosque’s minaret—a trembling, uncoiling thread of sound that wove the city together five times a day.

Fatima’s ink-stained fingers hovered above her waxed tablet, tracing the difficult, looping tail of a letter as if coaxing it into obedience. She was not yet ten, but already her hand, so slight and bony, bore the purple-black stains of tireless practice. Her mother once joked that, given such hands, Fatima was destined for either scholarship or forgery. But Fatima, even at this age, already carried herself with a solemnity at odds with her years—a gravity that made the joke feel more like an augury.

The courtyard was their sanctuary. Three sides were enclosed by tall, thick walls, shoring up the coolness against the North African heat, while the fourth side opened onto the garden, where Fatima’s mother’s lemon tree had rooted itself with improbable vigour. Its branches bowed under the weight of green and yellow fruit, so abundant that the household ate lemon with every meal, and still the tree drooped with excess. The fruit’s sharp tang hung in the air, entwining with the sweeter perfume of jasmine that climbed the wall by the fountain. On the far side, a clay urn stood sweating with beads of cold water, sending slow, lazy rivulets down its sides.

It was here, on this mat, in the low light of afternoon, that her father, Muhammad al-Fihri, found her after his return from the souk. His footsteps rustled on the flagstones, a sound she recognised even before his shadow loomed—tall, spare, and as unyielding as his reputation among the city’s merchants. He crouched beside her, folding his legs with the quiet grace of a man accustomed to long hours spent listening in majlis , and let the dust settle into the ridges of his robe. The day’s fatigue was written plainly on his face—a web of lines radiating from his eyes, the faint tic in his jaw—but it always seemed to soften at the sight of his daughters.

He watched her silently for a moment, letting her finish the word she was shaping. When she looked up, it was with a mixture of pride and worry, as if each new page of letters brought her closer to a precipice only she could see.