The uniform that shaped me: A journey of reflection and renewal.

Looking back at my younger self, I can still hear the sounds, the powerful echoes of takbeer, the rhythmic flapping of flags, the grit, the passion. The thunderous footsteps and the chaotic yet unified voices of over 4,000 members of the Jamaat filled the air with praises. Little did I realise back then how much those moments would shape me. But today, draped in black and white, wrapped in the vibrant colours of the Khuddam uniform after so long, it all hit me at once, this organisation, this brotherhood, it changed me in ways I had never fully appreciated.

The last time I wore this uniform was as a Tifl in 2012. So much has happened since then. Life has taken its twists and turns, but now, as I look at myself, I know deep down—who I am today, I owe to this uniform and everything it stands for.

I think back to my elder brothers, those Ansarullah now, who once crawled so we could walk. They guided us and gave us their time and energy, never knowing our names, and we didn’t know theirs, but they saw the uniform, and that was enough. They were always there "Usman, get ready, we’re winning this for Greater Accra. Usman, read it this way, be confident. Usman, don’t prolong this." They’d say, "Have the Atfal eaten? Serve them first." Back then, I thought it was trivial, but now I understand, it wasn’t about us as individuals, it was always about the uniform and what it symbolized. Their guidance, and their sacrifice, shaped us, and somehow, here I am today, wearing this uniform once again.

Now, as a Khadim, I find myself looking at the Atfal around me in what feels like the prime of my years. I ask myself and my fellow Khuddam, what have we done to deserve this uniform? What have we contributed, the way our elder brothers did for us? Can anyone look at me today and say they were inspired by my service to the Majlis, the way those before me inspired me? The simple, painful answer is—I have failed.

And I don’t speak for just myself. I speak for my peers and my age mates. Let’s cast our minds back to those days when all we wanted was to dress up in black and white, to carry the staff painted in those colours, to attend conferences, to compete, to cheer our region to victory. If we don’t see that same spirit in today’s Atfal, we have no one to blame but ourselves. We failed to give them the space to experience that pride, that sense of belonging. Somewhere along the way, we started to think the uniform was for those out of touch with fashion. We dismissed the ones who wore it as irrelevant. Conferences became pointless, and Khuddam activities were seen as a burden. Security duties became punishments, and route marches were too much effort. We spent more on frivolous things than on our dues. And because of that mindset, the new generation stands where it is today.

I write this with a sense of shame, but I’m also relieved because I’ve finally realized it. The question that remains is, what’s next? The answer is simple. Here I stand, drenched in sweat, my body aching as if it’s been beaten, yet my heart feels light, and my mouth can’t stop chanting: Laa ilaaha illallaah Muhammadur Rasoolullah. It dawned on me—this pledge I’ve repeated countless times, I never truly pondered over it before. But today, it all became clear. The answer to my question was there all along. I solemnly pledge that I shall always be ready to sacrifice my life, wealth, time, and honor for the sake of my faith, country, and nation. Likewise, I shall be ready to offer any sacrifice for guarding the institution of Khilafat-e-Ahmadiyya. Moreover, I shall deem it essential to abide by any "Maroof" decision made by Khalifatul Masih.