There is a moment in every activist’s life when the fire dims, not because the cause has become less just and justifiable, but because the soul begins to suffocate. Exhaustion sets in, not from confronting oppression, but from enduring the noise, the perfidy, and the impediment that too often emerge from within. Movements that once felt sacred begin to feel suffocating. Slogans start sounding like scripts. Hearts once burning with sincerity now carry embers of resentment.
Today, across causes and communities, there’s a quiet crisis no one wants to admit: the activist is wounded. And not by the tyrant. But by his own circle. The wounds are internal. It is perfidy by the familiar, silence by those who promised loyalty, and hostility from those once considered comrades. So, many take a bow, not because they no longer believe in the cause, but because they can no longer breathe within it.
But before walking away, a simple, soul-searching question must be asked:
“Why did I come here in the first place?”
This is not a poetic exuberance. It is a practical one. It is the only one that can save the heart from imploding. Because if one came to seek Allah’s pleasure, then it is impossible for the flaws of people to justify abandoning Him. If you came for God, why are you leaving because of people?
In the Qur’an, two verses stand like a mirror. In Surah al-Tawbah, Allah describes the Prophet not as a commander or strategist first, but as a mercy.
“There has certainly come to you a Messenger from among yourselves.
Your suffering grieves him.
He is deeply concerned for you.
To the believers, he is kind and merciful.”
(Qur’an 9:128)
And immediately after, a verse that completes the picture:
“But if they turn away, say:
‘Sufficient for me is Allah.
There is no deity but Him.
In Him I place my trust.
And He is the Lord of the Glorious Throne.”
(Qur’an 9:129)
These are not merely devotional verses. They are diagnostic. They explain what it means to stay on the path even when everything around you falls apart. The Prophet Muhammad (SAWA) was not only a reformer. He was a rahma. A mercy. He wept for the ignorant. He stayed up nights worrying for the very people who insulted him by day. Yet, when even those closest to him worried or upset him, he did not harden. He trusted Allah, not popularity. Many activists today are not broken by tyrants. They are broken by their own circles. Not by enemies, but by “comrades.” Movements become breeding grounds for egos. “Offices” become arenas of silent rivalry. People turn on each other not over values, but over visibility.
If you came for God, why are you leaving because of people? If you come for Him, why leaving because of _“zem”?_
When that happens, the sincere often walk away. Not because they no longer care, but because they’re too wounded to continue. But again, if you came to serve God, how can people be the reason you stop? If your intention was to please the Divine, why does someone’s cruel behaviour get to drive you out? This is not to downplay the hurt. The wounds are real. But Allah never promised ease. He promised trials. But, sometimes, that trial comes through being tested not by the Pharaohs of the world, but by the missteps of our own brethren.
One of the most painful truths is this: God may choose to test you through the people you love, adore and respect. Through those you trusted. Through your own team. Through your own sincerity. This is not unfair. This is training. Because sincerity, like gold, must be refined. This metaphor is rooted in both physical and spiritual reality. To understand its depth, one must first understand how gold is actually purified, and then how that process mirrors the purification of the human soul.
Gold does not emerge pure from the earth. It comes embedded in rock, mingled with dirt, copper, silver, and other metals. On the surface, it may appear dull or even worthless. Its brilliance is hidden. To access its value, gold must undergo intense heat, a process known as refining.
There are different methods of gold refinement, but one of the most ancient and enduring is fire purification. In this method, raw gold is placed in a crucible and exposed to temperatures exceeding 1,000 degrees Celsius. A water boiling point multiplied by ten! At that point, impurities, what goldsmiths call dross, rise to the top and are skimmed off. This is not a one-time process. The gold is melted again and again, until what remains is nothing but pure brilliance. Only then is it worthy of adornment, currency, or legacy.
In the same way, sincerity is not born pure. Our intentions, like raw gold, are mixed with ego, fear, pride, expectation, and the craving for validation. We may enter a movement to serve God, but quickly become distracted by position, attention, or power. Our original sincerity is buried beneath layers of self. And like gold, it remains invisible until tested.
That is why Allah does not just accept our slogans. He refines our souls. Kuuda, alaji.
He places us in the heat of disappointment. He exposes us to betrayal. He tests us with fellow activists who fail us. He lets the ego rise to the surface so that we might skim it off. These are not punishments. They are the fire that makes sincerity shine. They are the crucible of the soul.
So when we say, “sincerity, like gold, must be refined,” it is not poetic decoration. It is spiritual physics. You cannot access the purity of your heart without being tested. You cannot become a servant of God until you are made to kneel in humility, not once, but repeatedly. In this way, the activist’s frustration is not a failure. It is part of the process. The betrayal you face. The gossip. The ingratitude. That is the furnace. And the question is not, “Why is this happening to me?” but rather, “What is God trying to remove from me through this?”
Just as gold must lose its impurities to gain its worth, you must lose your attachments, your pride, your need for recognition, to be worthy of what you’re fighting for. In the end, both the gold and the sincere servant are beautiful not because they avoided the fire, but because they survived it, and emerged purer.
In Surah al-Tawbah, the Prophet is told to say: “Hasbiyallahu”, Allah is enough for me. That’s not just a statement. It’s a spiritual turning point. A reminder that the moment people turn away, the moment things fall apart, is not the time to walk away. It is the time to realign.
Hence, when you feel like giving up, ask yourself: Why did I come here in the first instance? Why?! Was it for recognition or reward? Or was it to seek Allah’s pleasure? If it’s the latter, then how does quitting helps your eternal future? So, “you go here am”.
Activism, like life, is not about how long you last. It’s about the state of your soul when it ends. Many people serve for decades, only to walk away bitter at the end. Others serve quietly, briefly, but with hearts burning with sincerity, and leave this world in a state of grace.
Ultimately, the question is not: “How well did you serve?”
It is: “Were you are found still serving when your breathed your last?” That’s what counts.
The day you forget your first intention is the day your activism becomes a baragada. So if you find yourself disillusioned, don’t run away. Retreat inward. Go back to that moment when you first said: “I want to do this for the sake of Allah.” Go back to that du’a before the protest. That tear before the fundraiser. That quiet night when your heart was pure and your hands were empty. Ask yourself: Have I changed? And if the answer is yes, then change back. Because you don’t need a perfect team to keep walking. If Ronaldo wants to play soccer in Rigasa, who would be his play mates, Rigasa united. Of cause! Not Van Passe and Messi. Thus, you just need a reason. And if that reason is God, then no perfidy should remove your footing.
“If you must fall, fall in sujood. And if you must rise, rise with trust.”
Movements will have politics. Friends will fail. You will get tired. You may even stumble.
But only in prostration does the heart remember what this struggle is for. And only there will your soul say again, and mean it: “Hasbiyallahu. La ilaha illa Huwa. Alayhi tawakkaltu. Wa Huwa Rabbul Arshil Azim.” Allah is enough for me. There is no god but Him. Upon Him I place my trust. And He is the Lord of the Glorious Throne.
Your name may be forgotten. Your effort misrepresented. But Allah sees. And the soul that came for Him has already succeeded. No matter how long or loud the journey. So ask yourself again: You came for Him, so why are you leaving because of them?
