“Have you ever tampered with a faulty electric switch and felt that sudden jolt race up your arm?” It’s not the pain that lingers; it’s the realization that something invisible and indifferent just reminded you of its presence. Yours sincerely hopes to offer a similar jolt. Not to shock, but to awaken. Not to paralyze, but to revive. A nudge from the margins of forgotten truths, urging us to pause, recalibrate, and wonder if, perhaps, something sacred has quietly withdrawn from our gatherings.

In a time where outrage is curated and activism often staged for applause, it may be worth revisiting a verse not necessarily designed to trend, but to transform. Surah Al-Anfal, verse 46 offers a formula that is less of a political strategy and more of a divine blueprint: “Obey Allah and His Messenger. Do not dispute, or your courage will vanish, and your strength dissolves. Be patient. Allah is with the patient.” The lesson here isn’t new, but timeless. It doesn’t shout. It whispers. And unfortunately, we may have grown too loud to hear it.

Today activism, like many other noble pursuits, is entangled in a culture of propinquity. Everyone speaks of perfidy. Of being slighted. Of being demeaned by others who did not see their worth. These feelings are real. Yes. But they also deserve to be handled with maturity. Must every disappointment lead to escalation? Must every perceived slight trigger revenge?

What if the higher form of dignity lies not in reaction, but in restraint?

Movements falter not merely because they lack resources or face external threats. Often, they weaken from within. When egos begin to replace principles. When roles overshadow responsibilities. And when internal cohesion is quietly traded for visibility and validation. The verse from Al-Anfal does not call for splendour. It calls for order. It is not a slogan. It is a framework. A structure built on obedience, unity, and patience, not as signs of weakness, but as instruments of divine complement.

And yet, in moments of silence and self-inquiry, we must ask: Are we truly obeying the Message, or selectively embracing it where it flatters our emotions? Obedience here is not about servitude to personalities or positions, but alignment with a sacred axis that transcends us all. As Imam Khomeini once declared in the heat of revolution, “The measure is Islam, not me.” A humbling reminder that even sincerity must be measured by something greater than self-conviction.

When the Qur’an warns “do not dispute,” it is not silencing healthy disagreement. It is cautioning against a particular kind of fragmentation, one fed not by truth-seeking, but by ego. The Arabic word tanāzaʿū implies pulling down and tearing apart, not probing for clarity. As Imam Ali said, “Disunity is the sword of Allah that never misses.” This is not poetic exaggeration. It is a lived experience across centuries.

The desire to do good is universal. But it can be derailed when unity is confused with uniformity and discipline mistaken for authoritarianism or vice versa. Even noble causes risk decay when members see themselves not as parts of a whole, but as the whole itself. This is not a condemnation, it is a resounding words of caution. Ayatollah Mutahhari warned of “dogmatic sincerity,” where zeal outpaces wisdom. In such climates, strategy becomes a casualty, and every divergence becomes an existential threat.

One begins to reflect on how we treat those who choose a quieter form of commitment. 

And if you still require precedent, look no further than the House of Prophethood. Imam Hasan (peace be upon him) signed a truce to save lives, even as Imam Husain (peace be upon him) later laid down his own life for the same sacred cause. Neither accused the other of cowardice or stubbornness. There was no name-calling between the two Imams. Each stood at his post, guided by the wisdom required of the moment. To every situation, a particular stand. And to every stand, individuality counts. What matters most is unity of purpose, not uniformity or identicalness of strategy. For every minute you spend attacking a fellow comrade over tactics, is an hour lost that have been channelled into the very approach you claim to champion.

At times, what we interpret as betrayal is simply clarity arriving late. What you mistook for affection may turn out to be a smile on loan, a courtesy extended by circumstance, not conviction. It fades when your light dims, and you are left wondering if you were ever truly seen, or just momentarily valuable. But such revelations, painful as they are, offer liberation. They remind us not to anchor our worth to borrowed warmth.

Today’s environment makes that harder. The loudest and often the fitsariest may get attention more. Social media rewards sensationalism more than principle. In such a climate, it is difficult, but not impossible, to preserve the original spirit of service, humility, and surrender that characterized prophetic and muttaqi leadership. The Prophet absorbed criticism with grace, forgave betrayal without vengeance, and never let discipline mutate into domination. He led not through walls erection, but bridge construction.

The reflections of Ayatollah Jawad Amuli and Ayatollah Dastghaib echo this spirit. Patience is not delay. It is a spiritual discipline. It enables an individual to resist the temptation of short-term gains and place their trust in divine timing. When things fall apart, perhaps it is not due to external failure, but internal erosion, the slow evaporation of internal cohesion, followed by the quiet retreat of divine support.

Sayyid Hasan Nasrallah once observed that endurance came from not allowing egos to grow larger than the cause. That is not easy. But it is essential. Likewise, Dr. Kalim Siddiqui once noted that many Islamic movements did not fail because they were defeated. They failed because they began to replicate the very systems they set out to change. A sobering reminder that our methods matter just as much as our goals.

So, we are invited to ask again: Am I truly striving for truth? Or for approval and validation? Is my voice a beacon or just another echo in the chamber of busybodyism?

Perhaps it is time to embrace stillness, not as surrender, but as strategy. Not every torch must be waved. Some are best passed on. Some are best preserved as strategic reserve. There is wisdom in quiet dignity. Imam Musa al-Kazim’s restrain did not hinder him; it defined him. He transformed lives without spectacle. In a world high on noise, he whispered serenity.

Let us be like water, resilient, adaptive, and enduring. Not the kind bottled and marketed, but the kind that carves valleys over centuries. Water does not argue. It flows with measured viscosity that dictates its fluidity.

And if, in moments of solitude, we still yearn for clarity, perhaps this prayer from Surah Yusuf should suffice:

“My Lord, … Creator of the heavens and the earth. You are my protector in this world and the Hereafter. Cause me to die a Muslim and join me with the righteous.” (Surah Yusuf 12:101)

This is the real prize!