February is Black History Month and WDET’s Detroit Evening Report collected stories from listeners for the Black History Listening Project.

Hadiyah Ahmad is the wife of late Imam Nadir Ahmad, founder and director of Al-Ikhlas Training Academy, one of the first Islamic schools in Detroit. She serves as the Administrative Assistant at the school.

In an interview with WDET, Hadiyah Ahmad shares the story of her husband’s life.

Religion brings Ahmad to Detroit

She says they both converted to Islam from Christianity in 1973. They lived in Virginia before moving to Detroit.

Imam Nadir came to Detroit in 1980 to study Islam at Wayne County Community College’s Muslim World Studies program. Ahmad says Imam Nadir was working on writing a book.

“He’s always been an avid reader and researcher. He studied the religion constantly,” she says.

Ahmad says Imam Nadir studied under Dr. Shahbazz from Masjid Wali Muhammad. The mosque was given historical designation in Detroit in 2013. It was the first temple for the Nation of Islam before becoming a Sunni Muslim mosque.

From student to teacher

Nadir Ahmad became an Imam and taught at the Sister Clara Muhammad School, starting as a 5th grade teacher and eventually making his way up to assistant principal and principal.

“He’s always been committed to giving the children an Islamic education,” Ahmad says.

Ahmad says following the closure of the Clara Muhammad school, Imam Nadir opened Al-Ikhlas in 1991 as a space for kids to continue their Islamic education.

“We had our children, and many parents had their children that they didn’t want them to go to public school. So we decided that… we weren’t going to wait. We were going to continue with Islamic education. He said that, well, we’re going to branch out and open our own school,” she says.

In an effort to allow all students to attend, he created a sliding pay scale for tuition.

Family and community focus

Ahmad says Imam Nadir balanced his home life as a father and husband while working for the community.

“He was doing what he loved doing,” she says.

“We worked hard together, and he always let me know what his mission was and where we were going and what the plans that he had,” she says.

The couple was married for 53 years and worked together in the schools.

Ahmad says Imam Nadir did a lot of work behind the scenes.

“Allah had blessed him with so many talents; he could basically do anything that he decided to do. We didn’t hire a lot of different people to do a lot of different skills, but he did most of it himself,” she shares.

After Imam Nadir’s passing last month, several students shared their memories online, saying they were inspired to come together. They also created a fundraiser in his honor to raise funds for the school.

Ahmad says he was a little obsessed with his role.

“He could not even think unless he thought about the children, what they need, when they need it, how they need it. He loved those children,” Ahmad expresses.

A life of service and a lasting legacy

Imam Nadir previously served in Vietnam, having been affected by Agent Orange from his time in service. Ahmad says he got cancer in 1997 and had to remove a kidney. But that didn’t stop him from continuing his work.

“It didn’t really start affecting him until 10 years ago. He had to get on dialysis. He was the type of person that he never really let anything stop him from what he wanted to do in terms of leading the school he was teaching during this time, he was Mashallah,” she says.

Ahmad says Imam Nadir’s legacy is his love of Allah and the love of community. He died in January 2026.

There are weeks when the news feels like weather; something that happens over there, something you brace for and then move through.

And then there are times when it lands in your body.

In the last few weeks, vigils have spread across the country after a federal immigration officer killed Renee Good. People are mourning, but they’re also organizing — and not just with signs and speeches. Some are choosing disruption. Some are choosing civil disobedience. They’re asking a blunt question: if systems can take a life in broad daylight and then argue about vocabulary, what exactly are we supposed to do with our grief?

Detroiters know what it means to be extracted from, written off, and still survive. And that makes these stories feel like different chapters of the same book— a book about power, and whose lives it’s allowed to break.

To help us read that book more clearly, Robyn Vincent spoke with Saqib Bhatti of the Action Center on Race and the Economy. His work traces the money behind public pain, and it asks what happens when communities confront the power brokers who, he says, are facilitating that pain.

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