Even before I could finish reading one of my books of the month titled “Sufism” by Hamid Algar, something began to stir in me. In fact, I hadn’t even spelled out the word s-u-f-i-s-m completely when I felt myself being pulled, not by the elegance of the text alone, but by something older, deeper, more familiar. I was swept into a nostalgia of “those days”. Those quiet, burning, soul-searching days when we passed around weathered copies of The Meaning of Man, when the words of Light Within Me by Imam Khomeini lit fires in our chests and gave us a language for what we dared not say aloud. And now, decades later, this book, Sufism, reopened an ancient door I thought I had already walked through.

In the stillness before dawn, when the soul has not yet picked up the burdens of the day, I sat and spoke to myself, as if the heart were a quiet guest in a house built of breath. One day, a dawn far brighter than this one will come, and I will stand before the One who sees the whispers of my chest. I tremble not from fear, but from awe. For how can the tongue answer for every word it used to please men while neglecting to please the Creator?

The years pass like a caravan through a desert. Every grain of sand that slips through time asks me: whom are you trying to impress? The people who forget by noon what they praised at dawn? Or the Lord who writes every intention before the action is even born? The silk robes of flattery rustle beautifully, but they hide a naked soul. I want garments of truth, even if they are stitched with discomfort.

I have learned this from the ones who walked before us — those whose words were forged in solitude, whose tears watered their wisdom. From Ayatollah Bahjat I learned that silence is not a pause, it is a prayer. From Allama Tabatabai I learned that the soul does not speak in noise, but in meanings. Imam Khomeini, who wept for the nation and for the self, taught that the greatest revolution is the one within. And Ayatollah Jawad Amoli taught that reality reveals itself to the one who washes his heart of applause.

We speak often of changing the world, of revolutions and movements and reform, but rarely do we speak of changing ourselves. And yet, is it not the same nafs that ruins a home and sabotages a nation? Societal transformation must be born of self-purification. A people who have not scrubbed the rust from their hearts will only spread that rust through entrusted responsibilities, through activism that wobbles for want of balancing and alignment under their our weightily hysteria. The man who has not subdued his ego will only reproduce tyranny with different slogans.

This is why the prophets began with the soul before the society. The Qur’an speaks of those who purify their souls as having succeeded, while those who corrupt it are doomed. We cannot build a just world with unjust souls. We cannot lead others if we cannot lead ourselves to divine presence in subulus salam.

People today are drowning in the applause of those who do not even know their name. The screen smiles, the hearts sigh. We have mistaken incandescence for divine illumination. There is a difference between speaking the truth and being performative. The tongue that seeks likes will never speak the words that change lives. And the heart that fears people will never fly towards the Absolute.

So I keep reminding myself: choose truth even when it isolates you. Say what must be said, and if silence is purer, then wear it. I recall the words of Ayatollah Sabzawari who said, “The weight of a word not spoken is sometimes heavier than a thousand shouts.” We are not in this world to accumulate admiration. We are here to return.

I forgive, not because I am above anger, but because I am below the Day of Judgment. Hatred burns too hot to carry towards that meeting. As Imam Ali said, a heart filled with rancour cannot be filled with light. I let go not because it is easy, but because carrying it would crush my prayer.

But forgiveness is not flattery. I will not wrap truth in honey when the wound needs vinegar. If I love you, I will tell you where your roof leaks. If I fear God, I will not clap for your self-destruction. If I see my own lips begin to fib, even politely, I must burn that habit before it smokes my soul. Hallaj did not die because he hated the world. He died because he refused to whisper what ought to be shouted.

There is too much performance and too little presence. We praise each other in public while our private prayers complain of one another. We wear the robe of sincerity over the jeans of selfishness. And on that day when all layers fall, what will we be? A name on a flyer, or a soul in sujood?

Some days I reflect on a conversation I heard: “Do you smoke?” “Yes.” “How many packs a day?” “Three.” “How much per pack?” “Ten bucks.” “How long have you been smoking?” “Fifteen years.” The man calculates: “So $30 a day, $900 a month, $10,800 a year, $162,000 over fifteen years. You could have bought a Ferrari.” The smoker shrugs. “Do you smoke?” he asks. The man says, “No.” “Where the heck is your Ferrari then?” The smoker inquired.

And that, I realise, is the point. Talk is cheap. permutations are easy. But transformation? That takes discipline, silence, purification, and a lifetime of walking and working inward. We all claim to want change. But the only change that lasts is the one we suffer to become.

I would rather sit silently and cry for my pretence than speak fluently and lie. If my words do not clean hearts, let them stay unspoken. If my smile masks a grudge, let my face be plain. For Allah is not deceived by charisma, and the angels do not clap for cleverness.

Each night, I interrogate my intentions. Where did I hide the truth? Where did I decorate my ego with good deeds? Where did I say yes when I should have said nothing? And when my pride flinches, I remember: death flattens all performances.

Let me be raw. Let me be honest. Let me disappoint the people and the few fools in me so I can face God with a face unpainted by lies. Let me wear the dusty robe of repentance rather than the polished shoes of pride.

The movements that fail are not those that lacked planning, but those that lacked discipline. The activists who collapse are not those without charisma, but those without khushu’. And the revolutions that become what they once fought against are not betrayed by strategy, but by the ego that was never tamed before the throne was reached.

If these words cut, let them. The surgeon’s blade does not hate the flesh, it only wishes to heal. My own tongue has been a source of wounds; may it become a source of balm. Walk with me if you will, not to be seen, not to be praised but to reach a place where the soul drinks from the cup of truth, and where, one day, the Beloved says, “Peace be upon you for what you patiently endured.”

That is the occasion I prepare for.

And for it, I will wear only truth.

“Rabbana la taj’al fi qulubina ghillan lilladhina amanu.”