I didn’t know what to expect when we landed in Athens. I knew we were going to be meeting with refugees and hearing their stories, but I did not expect what I saw and heard. For one thing, I may have expected a strong narrative of unbearable suffering that ran through every one of these meetings. A narrative of victimhood and helplessness. A narrative which wanted so badly to be heard and listened to so that it could expose its most tragic and historic aspects to create greater awareness and anger for it. I may have expected helpless, uncontrollable tears rolling down my cheeks in response to harrowing tales of torture, imprisonment, of separation – mother from child, husband from wife, brother from sister.

What happened, instead, has left me incredibly perplexed. I heard the harrowing tales of torture, imprisonment, separation, familial betrayal, the difficulties of escaping a brutal crackdown, and of near-death situations. But an almost unexplainable sense of calm ran through these people as they told their stories. A calm motivated by faith and the belief that God is with the Hizmet, or “service,” Movement and has already manifested His mercy by preserving the movement despite these hardships. These atrocities did not destroy the Movement or break its spirit; they look more united than ever.

The narrative that believers suffer at the hands of unjust oppressors, as many prophets did under the tyranny of various pharaohs, is all too common in the Abrahamic texts. But it is an entirely different experience to physically see and talk with someone who has gone through these kinds of traumatic experiences, who is still in the thick of trying to find a home for themselves and their family, to be able to tell their story while showing the utmost reliance on God’s plan. They were also weary of putting their experiences in the context of other refugees, as they understood that others suffered even more.

I believe that their reliance upon God, and their calm approach to faith in the midst of such turmoil, is real. And the reality is clear for all of us to see and hear. Reading about their stories through an article such as this one, or even hearing them speak on the news, pales in comparison to actually being with them during their greatest hour of need. I feel that my mind is not the same as before. I am not claiming that the refugees, the heroes who were persecuted and driven from their homes for crimes they never committed, are completely okay with their situation. What I am pointing out is that, even in the midst of their losses and suffering, they thank God and are not hopeless.

The hospitality with which they welcome guests is astonishing. Considering the fact that they were refugees, they still took the time to host us and make us feel attended to.

Shaken by trauma, the brothers we spoke to find assurance by making dark jokes about their time in prison, or the difficulties they experienced while crossing over to Greece and other countries. Hours were spent strategizing ways to escape Turkey and flee to other countries or to reunite with family members that had already escaped. Their hopes hinged on the kindness of border police and passport patrol. There was rarely enough time to grieve about a father who might still be suffering in prison, or think about those in prison that were without medical attention, or the difficulty of having to share a single toilet among 50 people at a time. There was rarely enough time to grieve about the discrimination that they endured at the hands of their cruel jailors, who tortured and beat many of them until they went blind. I almost felt ashamed that I did not cry in front of them, however I did not feel that it would be respectful to show my pain in front of them when their suffering had outmatched mine so much more. So I sat there, listening quietly, waiting for their words to unfold into long complicated stories of imprisonment, release, escape, survival (or drowning to death), landing in Greece (or being caught), staying in a refugee camp, and then ending up with fellow refugees from Turkey.

The lessons that this experience taught me are too stark to ignore. It showed me that Hizmet is a movement that brings power into question. Every effort is made to mitigate whatever suffering and loss might come from the jihad of speaking out against injustice. But when it strikes, the experiences of those that are suffering, and have suffered, as a result of doing what is good remind us once again that to be comfortable, and to put all of our eggs in one basket, is not the way to live. We should not just strive to be productive people, and the best citizens we can be, even though this is incredibly important. We should also work within the social sphere to make active change to the way people think, and to the ways in which people oppress themselves and other people. And we must be prepared, as opposed to being scared, for a time in which we might need to make drastic changes to our lives. We might even be forced to do so. To work towards active change does not fit comfortably with people who are happy with oppression. As the common maxim goes, “silence is violence.”

Being as comfortable and privileged as we are in the United Kingdom, we need to remember that, even here, people are suffering. We must stand up for them.

I am still shocked that I had the honor of hearing these most intimate stories. I am also honored that Allah has given me the chance to see what real faith looks like. I say to myself that, if I cry, it should not just be because their suffering is too much to bear (not to say that we should not cry at all about this). But it should be because I have a long way to go to meet their level of faith and commitment to Hizmet and their service to humanity.

This is the Winner essay of our 2010 writing contest conducted in cooperation with Everest Productions. Participants were asked to write down to live out what truly mattered to them most assuming they were told they had only three days left in this life.

Time-our most precious commodity-may seem infinite, but it is also unrecoverable. Once a moment is spent, it is gone forever. This is because we are linear beings. We are born into this world at Point A-our Arrival-and then move forward from there, making some detours along the way. We wander-sometimes aimlessly-to Point B, taking a spouse, perhaps, or throwing ourselves into our careers. Later, we meander to Point C, which is trying to enjoy our lives on the way to old age. But ultimately we all arrive at the same destination, which is Point D-our Death. There are no exceptions to this rule, and it is not an arguable point. We cannot sue God to recoup the losses of our misspent youth, and the universe has one iron-clad policy regarding time: YOU WASTE IT, YOU’VE LOST IT. So, with this information firmly in mind, I ask myself: “What would I do if I had only 72 hours left to live?” It is an interesting question that is difficult to answer because I have spent the majority of my adult life in prison. Which, incidentally, is where I am now.

I am currently serving a 6-year sentence and have no way of knowing if I will ever see the streets again. I am forty-five years old and healthy, but as we all know-tomorrow is promised to no one. So this question of 72 hours intrigues me on several levels, the first of which is: “What would it be like to die alone in prison?” I rarely speak with my family, and while I do have a couple of good friends, they are not here. So here I would die, and alone it would be. The implications of that statement have shaken me in a way that until a few days ago I would have thought impossible. I can barely imagine lying here on my prison bunk, knowing that soon I would close my eyes, never to open them again. I have accomplished nothing of importance in my life, and with 72 hours to live there would be virtually no chance of me doing anything to benefit this world or anyone in it. Sure, I have written five novels, but much like me, they are lying dormant doing nothing to benefit anyone. The thought that they would never be published makes me want to cry. In fact, I can feel that thought wrenching my heart as I write this very sentence. Nevertheless, all of that is a very selfish way of thinking, but it is with that self-centered attitude that I am most comfortable. Due to my addiction and abuse of alcohol, I have led a very selfish life. I rarely gave more than a passing thought to the feelings or well-being of others. Now, however, I will admit this: I feel quite remorseful of the way I have treated others. I am not a heartless person; I just had to close my heart to combat the pain of addiction, and then the emptiness of long-term incarceration. I wasn’t always like that, of course. I was even in love once-a long, long time ago. I remember it like it was yesterday, but that is only because nothing of importance has happened to me since. It’s funny now, more than twenty years later, but I can still remember the way she kissed. I still miss her sometimes. If I had only 72 yours left to live, I would probably think a lot about her. It was the last time that I was truly happy.

But happy memories are self-indulgent, and with my life-clock ticking down, I believe that the time would have finally arrived for me to make peace with myself. I have never forgiven myself for wasting the talents and gifts that God has given me. I am not a stupid man: I know for a fact that I could have helped others. I could have made a difference. I could have shown people how to avoid walking down the same lonely roads that I have traveled. I could have shown them how important it is to be able to smile at yourself in the mirror, and how empowering it is to thank God every day for all that has occurred-good or bad. But I didn’t. Instead, I spent my life at the bottom of a vodka bottle, doing nothing but feeling sorry for myself. What a waste. What a complete and shameful waste.

So here, now, lying on a prison bunk contemplating the prospect of having 72 hours to live, sadly, I suppose, that for me it would all come down to regrets. The biggest of these would be that I never had children. Not because I don’t like them-because I do-but because I grew up without a father, and I could never bring myself to inflict that kind of pain on my own child. And since I was unable to stop drinking, it was a certainty that I would always be in prison. Nevertheless, I have to say that just once in my life it would have been nice to get a big goodnight hug along with an, “I love you, Daddy.”

But in the end I suppose that I would use my last few hours searching for the meaning of life. Not in some universal sense, but in a very personal-and, as usual-selfish way. I would like to say that I would put aside my life-long obsession with gratifying my own immediate desires, but the truth is – I have no idea how to do that. Selfless acts seem a mystery to me, yet I don’t know why. Even in the past when I’ve done the smallest of kindnesses, such as giving spare change to a homeless person, I am sure that somewhere in the back of my mind I was thinking, “Did you see that God? When you get a chance, could you jot that down on my scorecard?”

And-yes-I do believe in God. So in those last few hours I would be constantly calling Him on His cell phone, asking Him to forgive me for my past indiscretions. He would forgive me, being the loving and merciful God that He is, and maybe that is what my entire existence here on earth would boil down to those last few moments in which I realize that I have done nothing to be worthy of God’s mercy and grace, but will receive it anyway.

So again-here, now-lying on this prison bunk, it’s difficult to find any one thing that I could do to make a difference. I am open to any revelations or epiphanies that God might like to place on my heart because after having caused so much pain on my brief journey through this world, I would dearly love to “shuffle off this mortal coil,” believing that I have left this place a little better than how I found it.

It’s a lovely thought.

It is an interesting question.

Which is why I find it so disturbing that in an infinite universe full of limitless possibilities, I am still unable to offer a satisfactory answer.

‘My Lord!’ he said, ‘Do not leave me solitary in this strange place. Comfort my people, and relieve them. Give us perseverance and strong resolve, and preserve our young ones in faith.’

But the scene outside would not imitate his mood. Feather-soft clouds and sunlight dazzled his eyes like gold and silver lace-work, urging him to an altogether different mood, as if to draw him to somewhere full of lively hope. The barred window of his prison allowed him only a narrow prospect. He scanned through the bars, this way and that, all that he could see. Beyond blocks of houses and shops, a school wall cast a broad shadow across the school yard, leaving only a corner in the light. He watched that bright corner and saw the shadows of little children traversing it, in and out of the light, as if they were playing in a ring, skipping and dancing. Yet, however he tried, he could not see the children themselves. He imagined he heard their voices, the sound of their feet. The words of childhood jingles rushed into his head. How many times children played such games as these, how often chanted the same words, over and over! Rehearsing. But for what celebration were these children practising so diligently? What great festival were they preparing?

Again the mood of the prison came over him. His mind’s eye pictured the children he imagined in the yard. And he watched them age before him, as though on a film screen, frame by frame, through adolescence and youth, through maturity and old age. Some disappeared from the frame before they attained old age. But the greater number remained. He scrutinized the wrinkled faces, the darkened eyes, exhausted flesh sagging upon weak bones, bodies buckled and bent. Here were, how many disappointed hopes? And dreams not realized? How few are capable of the trial of their old age! Some were sunk in pitiful nostalgia, some wretched with remorse for what they had done or not done. Some still trying, in vain, not to know the truth about themselves.

Their death brought to life, in the bitter torments of the grave, memories of the sins and errors they might have avoided in their younger days. Their corpses became skeletons, frame by frame, and their skeletons little heaps of grey dust amid which they lay, helpless, desolated, ashamed.

The old man’s heart brimmed over with the sorrow and suffering his mind pictured to him. Tears flowed as if from fountain deep within him, inwards to his heart, and out through his eyes and down his cheeks. He wept for the anguish of his people, for the wretchedness that they had stored up for themselves.

‘We must of necessity become old. Snow will-.fall on drip heads. Wrinkles will be stamped on our faces and dark rings etched under our eyes. This is so, so that we may recognize that we are old. So that we may be impressed, as our bodies are impressed, with the understanding that our time is limited. Our coming to the grave is a certainty.

Again, the old man looked out of his cell window. His thoughts turned again to ‘his homeland far away, to his people and, most tenderly of all, to the young. (‘O Lord, let their belief be preserved!’ Still the spring-green poplar leaves applauded the bright day and the birds sang and rejoiced. The clouds, likewise, moved briskly on with the winds, unresisting, graceful, content. He thought:

‘Man too is a traveller. His journey’s end is not the grave, but through resurrection, an eternal life. How unresistingly, how lightly the clouds travel, how sweetly the leaves and birds move through their allotted days! Man, only man, carries the burden of his freedom and so may be caught en route, unprepared, malcontent, fretful, offering vain excuses for his delays and deviations.’

He looked out to the school yard. He stood on tiptoe, but as before he could not quite catch sight of the children, only of their shadows playing. Still playing. Still preparing for some great celebration ahead. ‘Rehearse well, little ones! May He who created you, keep you upon His path. May you grow to a youth that is cheerful but never undisciplined. May you mature with a taste for virtue and for the service of others. Thereby you will be prepared for standing the journey you can by no means avoid. You will then travel the roads ahead of you – as, in the old days of the silk trade, the caravans used to go, if wisely stocked with goods acceptable at their journey’s end at a graceful pace and in modest hope of profitable trade..

And when he had prayed this prayer, the old man’s heart was lightened, and he could look out at the spring light on the other side of his window, without fear of ambush by homesickness or by a desire to complain of his imprisonment.