Alas, this is an age of noise and people try to communicate with the language of this age. Yes, today the world all over is groaning with the worst of sounds. Buses, trains, bulldozers, milling machines, boats, airplanes, radio and TV sets … all of these wonders of our civilization are not only harming our atmosphere but also our peace and calm. Not only that, but these devices have also made us act like them, too. Many of us speak without feeling, and our voices are as loud as these machines. People are shouting at each other as if everyone has gone deaf. We seem to be trying to suppress others with our voices. There is no respect to what others think or feel. Those who play with words to be louder are considered successful and rewarded. Whether what they say is of any use or not does not matter; it is fine as long as they make some noise and move the masses.  

Once upon a time, silence and calm were once our natural state of being, the usual climate. Many were not aware of that peace, that music of silence, just as now they cannot perceive the high-pitched clamor all around. Back then in that quiet climate, only the most natural of voices were heard and people would lend an ear as if they were listening to a poem or a song. This state had permeated the souls of people, who bathed in those natural sounds several times each day, to such an extent that there would never be noise pollution in their climate, and no one ever took kindly to screaming and shouting. Everywhere would be full to the brim with peace, and everyone would breathe quietude. Such a reverential and genteel serenity prevailed in their atmosphere that those stopping by and sipping one or two drops of silence never again thought of leaving.

The people back then were not yet acquainted with these wonders of civilization; they didn’t know anything at all about the unique features of these garrulous things. It was all quiet, and people were in perfect alignment with it. Everywhere they went, they sipped a silence as white as milk and received signs of quiet from everyone they called upon. The fortunate ones of that age who pursued a heavenly life free from all sorts of impropriety displayed such an articulate state of silence that the harmony of this quiet poem could on no account be ruined by any external noise that might occur in their surroundings, even if rarely.

These people spoke, too, only when they had to use words and statements to unpack the meanings seeping from their spiritual states, to explain obscure feelings, and to clarify truths hidden to those without eyes. They would not open their mouths often; when they did, they would lay out and present the lace they wove during their states of silence and offer jewels of wisdom from the crystals of silence to those listening to them.

In this pristine atmosphere, there was neither an evil spark piercing that refulgent air, nor a rusty sound or an unseemly noise that could be heard. Even if occasionally a voice or sound completely foreign to that climate ruptured this air, those people and their enchanting atmosphere would immediately change, as though being magically renewed, returning to its previous form and continuing to emanate anew. With the silent speeches they expressed with the language of their hearts, they enraptured all the spirits they were able to reach like the angelic inspirations pouring forth from the firmaments. Those who had the honor of acquaintance with them would not say, “I have heard, listened, read, learned, and believed.” Instead, they would say, “I have seen, felt, been mesmerized, and I have become.” It was by virtue of this superiority, which was contingent upon their state and profundity of heart, that everyone easily understood what they meant, whether their language was known or not, and became entranced along with them. They were already closely connected with the community; but even when they are secluded in a corner for introspection, they still continue to pour embers into people’s hearts to enlighten them, and their voice is heard in their soul as resounding as the sur, the Trumpet of Resurrection. The silence of these purest of people in constant connection with God was like a command, as it were, for the motivation of people experiencing reticence of the heart and spirit. When they poured forth the hidden treasures in their hearts by means of their manner and conduct, in exchange for the quietening of a single tongue, many tongues would become untangled at that moment, hearts unprejudiced and receptive would harken and a stupendous rapture would begin to effervesce in every direction. Their silence was such a profound music enthusing spirits that it swept everyone tasting that atmosphere before it, led them in whatever direction it wanted, allowed them to hear melodies that could not be heard from anyone else, and enabled them to experience surprises yet unnamed. Those around them would take away a great many things from their silent address, journey through the boundless horizons of different meanings, concepts and implications not constrained by verbal expressions, and would feel a depth in proportion to their hearts.

Among those silent ones were individuals whose gaze radiated light, whose faces carried flowing meanings, and whose manner held an enchanted depth—such that anyone who perceived these would be immediately captivated and would never wish to leave them. Those nourished by this silent poetry perceived everything differently, through the lens of faithful thought and a believer’s reasoning, and reached a deeper joy in contemplation.

Personally, there have been some of those great silent ones who left a mark on my life, but it is difficult for me to claim that I have truly come to really “know” them, thus I could not duly benefit from them. I must confess, nonetheless, that despite all my incapacity as a receiver, whilst in their atmosphere I witnessed and felt such mysterious things, n a manner sometimes hazy, sometimes indistinct, but always enchanting, and pouring into my spirit like drops of dew, that I still shudder at each recollection of them even after all the years that have passed. They spoke but without letters or words, without sound or speech, and I was so enraptured that as I remember those radiant faces even today, my eyes well with tears, and melodies from those silent ones begin to resound in my spirit. And I start pushing the boundaries of my natural capacity to go beyond what I am and delve into the dreams of what I can be.

Many appear to have found God, but many live far from Him. His name rests on the tongues, but hearts often remain largely blind. What is read and learned does not evolve into deep spiritual understanding. Understanding is not crowned with love, nor does it rise to the horizon of longing and passion. Despite bold claims made in the name of religion and belief, only tentative, crawling steps are taken on His path. Not for everyone, perhaps, but when one looks at the overall picture, it is hard to claim that nights are revitalized with depth and sincerity. The heart is silent, and the spiritual core that should illuminate it has grown faint. Against this backdrop, it would be accurate to say that in the name of piety, many lead a stumbling, faltering life that struggles to move towards its true goal.

This is precisely because the spiritual core has fallen quiet, the heart has fallen mute, consciousness and sensitivity have become paralyzed, and the flame of love and fervor has been extinguished. As a result, the stage is left to the tongue and the lips, which fill this void by rambling endlessly and making noise about every subject. The tongue, now in command, starts telling lies, spreading slander, making baseless accusations, and indulging in meaningless or frivolous talk. It becomes engaged in distortion, false narratives, and worthless chatter that benefits no one. Minds that have severed their link with the heart become polluted, and naturally, the words and writings arising from such minds spread corruption throughout society. If you doubt this, just glance at the media of our times—listen to the news, read the articles—and you will understand precisely what I mean.

Make no mistake: I am not referring to people with no connection to religion or faith. I am talking about those who call themselves believers, who pray five times a day, stand humbly before God, bow, and place their foreheads upon the ground. Yet, unfortunately, many have become people with deadened consciences, hardened hearts, and dried-up spirits. As a result, countless individuals openly indulge in idle chatter, employing every potential of the tongue for negativity. Such people have very little to offer the world—and very little to present in the name of religion.

We have always believed that dedicated hearts would revive religious sentiment and understanding, and make it an active force in daily life. We have hoped for an exemplary community which would arise with its own character, and that its resonance would draw others to it. We pray that God will not disappoint us in this hope or cause our trust to be misplaced.

All thanks be to God, despite the tireless efforts of oppressors to utilize every force at their disposal for ruin, God did not allow their vile ambitions to prevail. We pray that, as in the past, He will also frustrate the schemes of today’s oppressors, leaving their aspirations unfulfilled. So it shall be, for no one can extinguish the flame that God Himself has ignited.

From our own perspective, we consider these trials and injustices as a form of “gentle slap” — a warning from God, prompting us to reflect upon how well we have fulfilled the trust granted to us. We recognize that despite the showers of mercy and favor poured upon us, we have fallen short of responding with genuine gratitude, remembrance, and reverence. We have neglected to acknowledge Him as the sole source of every beauty and blessing. We have succumbed to complacency, drifted into forgetfulness, and distracted ourselves with worldly concerns. We have weakened ourselves with fatigue from the long journey, dulled ourselves with the intoxication of apparent success, or fallen prey to the poison of ego and vanity. As a result, when trials and hardships befall us, we try to draw ourselves into account. We regard these moments as warnings, accept that God is refining and teaching us through them, and seek to draw lessons and wisdom from every challenge. We accept every difficulty and disaster as a form of merciful discipline and adopt an attitude shaped by this understanding.

Every event rests in God’s hands. If it is He who delivers the slap, tugs the ear, and gives the warning, then it must be because He intends to guide us towards something beautiful and worthwhile. Everything has its appointed time, its fixed term. When that time arrives, God bestows such blessings upon you and fills your heart with such serenity that you say to yourself, “So this was why I suffered! All those hardships came only so I could one day smile. To be granted such grace was worth every pain I endured.”

We must never forget that we were created for another realm. According to the deeds we carry out and the trials we experience here, we will assume a form and state in the life to come. What we become in the Hereafter will be shaped by the picture we paint for ourselves in this world. Everything we do here will be reflected there, determining the nature of our existence in that realm. In fact, how we respond to trials and calamities—how we pray, fast, and worship—is, in a sense, a decision about the life we will lead in the Hereafter. In this way, every deed performed in this world can be seen as a preparation for the world to come. According to this measure, some will rise to Paradise, some will remain suspended between realms, and others will tumble into Hell.

A believer must live with an eternal perspective, rising above the trials and hardships of this transient world. They must work ceaselessly and faithfully, striving with every breath to be a person of the Hereafter. In an era when one injustice gives rise to another, when countless people suffer cruelty, when honor and dignity are violated, and countless brothers and sisters are wronged, our hearts must quiver for them. We must bow down, press our foreheads to the ground, and pour forth tears like a river, calling upon God with sincerity.

If we approach Him with a single teardrop, He will respond with oceans. Even if our deeds weigh no more than a grain of dust, He will repay them with the brilliance of the sun. The deeds we offer to God, however small and insignificant, will be met with returns as magnificent and boundless as His glory and majesty.

Literally meaning avoiding speech and keeping silent, samt is used by the Sufis to describe keeping silent or preferring silence in self-possession to avoid the useless or harmful utterances that one can make while speaking. Aware of the Divine warning, Not a word does he utter but there is a watcher by him, ever-present (50:18), one should speak when necessary and only for the good pleasure of God, uttering words that are pleasing to God.

The saying of the glorious nightingale of creation, Prophet Muhammad, upon him be peace and blessings, “Either speak of good or keep silent,” [1] is a most concise, decisive definition of samt, and provides the frame of reference that one should remain within when speaking and keeping silent. We should also remind ourselves of another saying attributed to him: “Let your speech be wisdom, and your silence reflection” [2].

Speaking too much, in particular speaking empty words, is something that has always been condemned and regarded as one of the sinful acts which lead people to perdition. Those who have been initiated into spiritual journeying to God Almighty have continuously been warned against speaking too much and against useless words as this is a sinful act of the tongue. It has been emphasized that eating too much, sleeping too much, and speaking too much are each a collar around the necks of the travelers to God Almighty, chains on their feet, and handcuffs around their wrists—for they lead one to make frequent mistakes and commit frequent sins. The saying attributed to Caliph ‘Umar, may God be pleased with him, “Whoever speaks much errs much,” [3] corroborates this point.

Both the books of good morals and the epistles of Sufism have studied and explained the idea of keeping silent, each from their own perspective, attaching great importance to this virtue by regarding it as important wealth for an initiate, a secret treasure for those who have reached the final point of journeying, and a sign of good manners for every believer.

This does not mean that a believer should keep silent in every case. A believer should speak to advise and promote good and prevent evil, to teach and guide, to remove what is harmful, and to encourage and introduce what is useful. Our religion orders us to utter what should be said to support and establish truth and justice so that everyone can receive their rightful due, and forbids us from keeping silent in such cases. It can be said that however harmful and condemnable it is for one to speak without seeking God’s approval or good pleasure and thereby pursuing a lawful purpose, it is equally harmful and condemnable for one to keep silent when and where one should speak. For this reason, although keeping silent is generally approved and advisable, speaking is sometimes more approved than silence. Silence, in other words, while it is not always golden, is sometimes silver. It is of great importance to know where and when one should keep silent, and where and when one should speak. In a Prophetic Tradition, the person who keeps silent where right and justice are violated and truth is desecrated is regarded as a “mute devil”; those who speak false and useless words are considered to be the friends and translators of Satan.

It is both an ethical behavior and indicative of their knowing their place in the “market of thought and speech” that those who should speak are given the opportunity to speak, while others whose speech is not useful should remain silent. In this respect, it has been said:

If your merchandise is copper, O brother,
do not offer it for sale in the market.
Leave the market to those who sell jewelry.

Keeping silent in the presence of people with profound spiritual states and wisdom shows that one has good manners and that one respects such profound spiritual states and wisdom. Concerning this, the Shaykhu’l-Islam Yahya Efendi [4] says:

Give ear to the speech of the people of profound spiritual states.
Do not compare their speech to other speeches.
You know, O preacher, that every speech is different from others.

Silence accompanied by self-supervision in the presence of those who have reached the final point of journeying and who have been favored with God’s company is also emphasized. This silence of the people of heart, who can recognize people of true merit and worth, means respect for both the hearts into which Divine inspirations descend and for the One Who has favored these hearts with satisfaction. They remain silent where they should and prepare the ground for the breezes of inspirations to blow, setting their tables not for the worldly bounties, but for the ever-fresh fruits of Paradise.

It sometimes occurs that the matter to be discussed is so profound that it transcends our horizon of perception to the extent that we should keep silent and invite others around us to silence. Sayings such as, “No need to present our need, for the state we are in is expressive of everything,” and the silent prayer, “Consider what a wretched state we are in, and do not leave us alone!” are the voices of such silence. Jalalu’d-Din Rumi makes the following invitation to it:

Look at my pale face, but do not say anything to me!
See my countless pains, but for God’s love,
do not say anything to me!

Look at my heart in profuse blood,
and my tears flowing like a stream!
But ignore whatever you see,
and do not ask how and why!

Common people hold their tongues and only keep silent physically, while those who have certain knowledge of God keep control of both their tongue and heart, and so experience self-supervision in silence. As for the lovers of God, they keep their love and yearning within themselves and so represent the silence of faithfulness. The first of these three groups are saved from blunders of speech and protect themselves from censure and reproach. Those of the second group receive, in addition to what silence itself may bring, the spiritual gifts which come through reflection and self-supervision. As for those of the third group, it is stated in the following couplet:

You say that you are a lover, then do not sigh with the ordeal of love!
Do not make others aware of your ordeal by sighing!

Thus, they are able to keep their secrets in silence and display an example of deep faithfulness.

O God, include us among Your servants, sincere (in faith and
practicing the Religion), and endowed with sincerity; and bestow
blessings and peace on our master Muhammad, the leader of
those endowed with sincerity, and on his Family and Companions,
who both love You and are loved by You.

Notes

1. al-Bukhari, “Adab” 31; Muslim, “Iman” 74.
2. al-Ghazzali, Ihya’ ‘Ulum ad-Din, 1:3; 2:228.
3. at-Tabarani, al-Mu‘jamu’l-Awsat, 2:370; al-Bayhaqi, Shu‘abu’l-Iman, 4:257.
4. Shaykhu’l-Islam Yahya Efendi (1553–1644) was one of the most famous Shaykhu’l-Islams of the Ottoman State. The office of Shaykhu’l-Islam was the highest office of religious affairs. Yahya Efendi was also a well-known poet. (Tr.)

As I wheeled Chris off the elevator, he was quieter than the day before, definitely not in the mood for pranks. He didn’t complain—my husband never complained—yet he clearly wasn’t feeling as well.

Two steps forward, one step back: that still qualified as progress.

Rolling through the hospital hallways, following signs for Radiology, we passed several women wearing nasal cannulas and pulling oxygen-cylinder carts. The sight wasn’t remarkable in that the National Institutes of Health runs clinical trials on virtually every ailment—from the common to the rare, the treatable to the terminal. What was surprising was seeing a cohort of patients similarly afflicted, all female and relatively young.

At least they were ambulatory. When Chris’s doctor ordered a scan this morning, his nurse ordered a wheelchair.

During his first few days after readmission, Chris’s condition fell somewhere between depleted and God-awful depending on the degree of his sawtoothing fever. As his treatments—withdrawal of anti-rejection meds included—began to take effect, however, I’d sometimes arrive to find him sitting up in bed, looking comfortable and alert, like a patient soon to be released.

Towards the end of the week, his humor kicked in. After opening a colleague’s get-well card to find a droll reference to their firm’s new management—a buyout of the Rouse Company was but two weeks away—Chris reached for the bedside phone. When a recording advised him to leave a message, he deepened his voice and pretended to be the CEO. “This is John B—,” he said gruffly. “It’s come to my attention that you have a poor attitude about the merger.”

To me, the spoof was proof of recovery. To his friend, who didn’t recognize Chris in disguise, it was cause to call the head of security: Someone was impersonating the chief executive.

Come Friday, Chris remained frail despite signs of improvement. His nurse took me up on my offer to drive him to his appointment.

In the Radiology waiting room, we found two more women on oxygen therapy. After positioning Chris at the end of a row of seats, I took the one beside him. If silence had been a preference en route, now it was a prescription. No one spoke or made eye contact. No one leafed through magazines, for there were none. No one asked the time or glanced at their watch. It was as if chronic illness had instilled a monkish composure. Or torpor.

I was the only non-patient in the room, the Lucky One. As the others sat alone with their thoughts, I wondered what those might be. That three back-to-back tests followed? That with sick leave exhausted, the boss had to be told? That scrambled eggs might stay down? That last time the shadow had shrunk, so this time, well, don’t get too hopeful?

Or were they trying to avoid thinking, instead imagining doing something—anything—more agreeable? Strolling through the hill town of Assisi. Watching a Coen brothers film. Defending an IRS audit.

One of the women on oxygen finally had enough. Silence wasn’t a chance to grab a shot of mindfulness; silence was a looming endgame. By talking, she could ward off quietus. But she needed a partner.

“What brings you here?” she asked me, in a tone so warm and genuine that she might have been a greeter in a small-town visitors bureau.

She looked about forty, or a little older, but it was hard to tell; illness can age a person faster than a Broadway makeup artist. Although her appearance was middling in every respect—from her height and build to her facial features and shade of brown hair—her spirit was striking. Whether the vivacity was innate or cultivated for survival, she offered me what she desperately needed: a deep breath of fresh air.

“My husband needs an X-ray.” I glanced at Chris. He showed no sign of wanting to engage. Under the circumstances, it felt unfriendly, even hurtful, to not offer more. “He had a kidney transplant a few months ago,” I added. “Now he has mono.”

Immediately, another patient stood and left. Perhaps she went to the restroom, or realized she’d left her purse in the car. More likely, mononucleosis spooked her—even though it’s not an airborne infection.

I paused, realizing that my interlocutor might want to leave, too. She didn’t budge. “How about you?” I asked. In deference to patient privacy, I avoided the politeness of trading names.

“I need a double-lung transplant. There’s a group of us here who have the same disease. We get together every year.” She chuckled. “It’s like a reunion!”

Lymphangioleiomyomatosis, or LAM, is a rare condition that primarily affects women ages twenty to forty. Abnormal cells invade the lungs, as well as lymph nodes and kidneys, leading to reduced pulmonary function and respiratory failure. Treatments, including transplantation, can enhance the quality and duration of life but the disease is incurable. After diagnosis, life expectancy is usually ten to twenty years.[1]

Her disclosure was stunning. Not long ago, I wouldn’t have grasped the challenges she faced, merely to delay the inevitable. No longer.

One day she would lie in an OR, as we recently had. But unlike Chris, whose kidneys were allowed to fail in place, with one of mine nested beneath them, she would have both lungs removed to accommodate her grafts. No matter how damaged and inadequate, those lungs were infusing her blood with oxygen, ridding it of carbon dioxide, maintaining life. Temporarily, she might require a heart-lung machine and a ventilator; ultimately, she’d either breathe though the new air sacs or wouldn’t . . . breathe. If her grafts failed, there was no recourse like dialysis to sustain her.

In short, she would perform a death-defying, net-free launch from a trapeze with no turning back once she let go of the fly bar. Her odds of surviving even five years after transplantation were not much better than one in two.[2]

And that was if she got lucky. With the chronic shortage of deceased-donor organs, lungs might not become available in time. Although living donation was possible, she’d need two Good Samaritans, each providing the lower lobe of a lung.^⁠ They’d face a riskier surgery and longer recovery than kidney donors, which meant friends and relatives were less likely to volunteer.

A radiology assistant called Chris’s name. Together, they disappeared through a door leading to the imaging machines. Moments later, the woman was called, as well.

She’d shared no details about her personal life. She’d only spoken of her illness, which, understandably, had come to define her—from what lung-healthy products she could buy to how she should dress, walk, or perform daily chores, such as unpacking groceries, to minimize exertion. If she seemed compelled to tell me she had LAM, it was not because she sought sympathy; she struck me as someone devoid of self-pity. What she wanted was to be heard. To be heard is to be remembered.

In no time, Chris was back and we were retracing our route through the cold fluorescence of the corridors. As we entered an empty elevator, he said, “You shouldn’t have mentioned I have mono.”

“Why?”

“You saw the woman leave.”

“But she had a right to know. I’d want to know.”

I hadn’t meant to embarrass him. For that I was sorry. But I was as disappointed in him as he was in me. Chris was still “chesting” his health cards, as if this were a hand of bridge, with nothing but his pride at stake.

No doubt a gender difference was at work, a primal XY-chromosome trait, which he’d exhibited many times before: Never show weakness lest a contender seize the advantage—be that your mate, your kill, or your year-end bonus. According to such logic, illness fell between failing and fatal flaw.

A strategy suitable for the savanna or a boardroom, however, is counterproductive in a medical setting where any debility you don’t reveal is one that isn’t treated. The woman I’d just met understood the importance of communication, on every front, regarding her health. I was sorry that my husband didn’t.

And hadn’t.

At the same time, I was grateful. As we made our way back to his room, my mind unspooled a skein of “at leasts.” At least he isn’t suffocating to death. At least he can fall back on dialysis. At least he isn’t alone while undergoing treatment. At least his graft shows no sign of rejection. At least I haven’t had to kiss him goodbye outside an OR and wonder if he would return. At least both of us were able to presume we would return.

Counting blessings was my luxury, not Chris’s. Sick as hell, he was entitled to feel however he felt, unthankful included, with no obligation to parse his advantages relative to others.

Later that night, Chris’s doctor called me at home. He’d had Chris moved to intensive care. He spoke so calmly and matter-of-factly that I didn’t panic. In fact, the thought never occurred to me that every “at least” would soon count for nothing.

[1] National Heart, Lung, and Blood Institute, “Health Topics: LAM,” http://www.nhlbi.nih.gov/health/health-topics/topics/lam (accessed February 1, 2019).

[2] Organ Procurement and Transplantation Network, “National Data: Lung Kaplan-Meier Patient Survival Rates For Transplants Performed, 2008 – 2015; Survival by Single vs. Double Lung (Lung Only),” https://optn.transplant.hrsa.gov/data/view-data-reports/national-data/# (accessed February 2, 2019).

Funny though, sometimes while walking in the enchantment of the awakening nature around me, I run into a tree, and I hug it as if I met a friend. You can imagine how entertaining I am to the passers-by.

It was one of those days when I felt the presence of a second person near me. Strange enough, though, he wasn’t laughing at my hugging the tree.

“Hi fellow, what is wrong with you? Why aren’t you laughing at this lunatic who is in love with trees instead of people?” I asked.

I was shocked upon hearing his answer:

“The sight of people is of no value to me because I cannot see the light coming from them. But you are certainly shining through your voice.
“For me, people shine through their presence; they change my heart beat.”

I exhaled the air that was hiding in my lungs with anxiety, and teased: “So, I should be careful when I am talking to you since I cannot hide my true feelings from you!”

“You bet. But don’t worry; your voice is giving me positive signals.”

Then, I quickly returned: “I am happy to hear that. So, shall we play a game together?”

“Like what?”

“Alright. Only by listening, we are going to try to predict the coming of the next person.”

“I’ll take your challenge,” he said.

And, we kept silent in order not to miss the clues of an approaching person. Believe it or not, we waited for minutes and not a single person passed by. We could hear voices of kids running in the distance, wind rubbing the leaves, trunks of the trees squeaking as they swing, flies, birds flying or landing, etc., but not a single person passing by. Suddenly he said:

“Maybe we should play something else.”

“You know what? You are the ever first person with whom I can play the game of solitude. We are together but not like cans on a shelf. We are together like two flowers smiling at each other although we cannot see or hear one another. Outsiders may think we are lonely. But in essence, we are hand in hand in the depths of our hearts.”

“It is strange that you say this. Why should you enjoy solitude?” he asked.

I did not answer that question. Actually my silence was the answer; and I think, or hope, he got my answer. I didn’t want my discovery of a solitude-mate to disappear so abrupt.

“Here comes one!” he exclaimed. I could feel his joy of catching the first person. I smiled; and he felt it because I give out a warm and vibrating breath when I smile.

“It is so alive,” he said.

“What? The person?” I was startled. Why was he using “it” for a person?

“No, your smile. I don’t feel many smiles like yours. I usually hear frozen laughs and smiles of mass-production, which carry no sincerity.”

I was embarrassed by his compliment. Again I kept silent, but my face was burning up, and he felt that as well.

“Now you are as flushed as I was when we started talking.”

“Yeah, what had happened to you? Why were you so flushed earlier?” I inquired.

“I climb this tree often. I actually do this whenever there is nice weather. Sometimes, I feel the footsteps of someone, whom I want to catch. I rush down to the ground hoping not to miss the encounter. But always, I miss the person. Now, that spirit is standing before me.”

Once more, I was embarrassed. I didn’t know what to say. We both kept silent for a while. Then, I heard my daughter calling: “Dad, it’s time.”

She was the one predicted by my solitude-mate.

“Forgive me for disturbing your conversation,” she added.

“A conversation by presence cannot be disturbed by words,” replied my friend. We all chuckled.

I felt my daughter pulling my arm – an authoritative sign meaning “let’s go.” I grasped her hand firmly, turned back to my solitude-mate, and gave a goodbye silence, and he did the same to me. Then I gave him that lively smile, and he went through that shower of heat. I picked up my cane and started knocking on his ears again as I returned home with my daughter as my guide.

This attitude usually adds to the tyrant’s courage, makes the slanderer even more impudent and the assailant more outrageous. Still, I say to myself, “They are human too, and one day they will realize it and they will give up such impertinence.” This is perhaps wishful thinking or a misapprehension, but I prefer waiting for a blissful hour when everyone will come to reason and mercy. Filled with some bizarre supernatural expectations, I endeavor to soothe my exasperation and stand firm against the storms that challenge my lenience. I sometimes dive into a deep, silent introspection to escape my own realm of feelings. There are times when I feel sorry for myself in the face of some agonizing events, and I am troubled with a passing sensation that I am perhaps disrespecting myself while trying to be respectful to everyone else. But still, in spite of so many lies, fabrications, and devilish schemes, I turn to myself and say, “You have assumed trouble as your healing from the beginning; then what is this protest for? The one with teeth will certainly bite, and the one with claws will rip through; no one can change this as long as those who consider the truth to be with the powerful continue to exist. Be tolerant to everyone.” I bury my cries inside and pronounce my feelings with silent woes.

Indeed, it is impossible for people in my circumstances who share this way of thinking with me to act otherwise. First of all, we do not submit to the wicked ones, but “to the decree of fate we wholeheartedly submit our souls” (Bâkî). Secondly, we live in a time in which people in great numbers are locked onto hostility; today’s revenge-thirsty figures overshadow in ruthlessness the abominable tyrants of the past-so, tempering the atrocities in my heart does not change the reality. Many billow with the rage of pharaohs when they speak; their hatred and violence never abate and their hunger for blaze, destruction, slaughter, and extrajudicial execution is never satisfied. They raise their swords to the heavens like He-Man and scream, “I have the power!” The world all over echoes with the chorus of “Justice, freedom, democracy, civil rights,” but justice is desperate in the hands of crude power, freedom is leashed with the straps of slavery one over another, democracy is a freak in the hands of enforcers who interpret it capriciously. There is no one left who does not understand this, but those who have conducted decades-long abuses continue singing the same tune, as if they are unaware, with no sense of self-respect, and debasing their own social status. With no other occupation, sitting in sloth, they speak on behalf of rights, freedom, and democracy, while others who violate these values in broad day light utter the same words. These are words of magic invoked to earn status and esteem, and then circumvented to legitimize corruption and fraud. Oppressors rely on them when they oppress some people while favoring whoever they favor. These are the words offered as legitimate governments around the world are interfered with and countries are invaded. “Bringing prosperity” is a pretext for shedding blood and dishonoring others. With the same excuse, murders are committed, killings are left unsolved, people are tyrannized, free speech is censored, privacy is violated, religious persuasions are harassed, unthinkable profanity and what is forbidden are replete and promoted; civil rights and justice are frequently pointed to, but are trodden down at the same time.

Nowadays, I am observing all these horrors and calamities through my narrow vision, and I mumble, “O Lord, how forbearing you are! You continue to grant respite to the perpetrators who are responsible for all this violence, oppression, and degradation of rights, freedom, and democracy. Absolute might and power belong to God.” And then I bury myself in a silence of astonishment and amazement (dahsha and hayra) , which I feel has become part of my nature. Absolute silence in the face of injustice, tyranny, and violation of rights is no different than glorifying Satan and is condemned in a Prophetic tradition. Indeed, believers never remain in absolute silence; if their hands are tied, they speak out; if they are gagged, they reveal their fervor with overflowing gestures; if they are ostracized completely from society, they expand with palpitations as if they had a volcano heaving inside. If their internal explosions could be unveiled, we would witness bolts of lightning issuing from their hearts and chill from their claps of thunder.

Their quiet stance arises from their subtle refinement and vast compassion which would not disdain even an ant, from their philosophy of security and trust, respect for human values, mercy toward everyone, and from relying on God in all matters. First and foremost, they are people of fine balance. Even when the most horrific waves of unrest beat the shores of their hearts, they behave with the utmost moderation and prudence. They never act unwisely like a child whose imagination outweighs his reason and comprehension, who blabs everything that crosses his mind without a moment’s thought, who is concerned with accountability only after destroying everything with his words and actions and seeks excuses for the destruction he has caused. They are always aware of their position, of what they do and say, and act with discretion in the balance between their hearts and minds. When they are granted the opportunity, they pronounce universal human values; when they have to remain silent, they act out these values with fervor, keep up their prayers and invocations, observe with compassion, and smile on everyone. They are never upset by their fate, nor do they complain to others as if dissatisfied with God Almighty. On the contrary, they question their own selves and seek their own faults. They bury their sorrows in their chests and do not mention them to those who are unable to comprehend; not a word of discomfort can be released from their mouths even though they may burn like an oven on the inside. They die and come back to life, but never do they disclose this to anyone.

No one can know completely what a burning mass of white-hot embers they actually are; others consider these special people no different than themselves. Yet, if their belief, demeanor, and selfless spirits that are devoted to making others live were to allow them to roar out their internal fervor, all the crows would immediately hush and look for a hidden corner to take refuge in, while all the bats would retreat back into their dark caves and descend into silent introspection. True believers are men and women of trust and security who show the utmost care in performing what their true character necessitates. They never hurt others, even though they may be hurt; nor do they cause pain, even if they are tortured.

In fact, their spiritual realm is replete with portraits of sorrow, each more horrifying than the last, that exist side by side with their feverish passion to relieve society of its ailments. Their palpitations and pains last forever with constant brainstorming and attempts at revival. The eternal verses of their hearts or, more truly, their silent cries, are a call to the light with a commitment to illumination as opposed to darkness. One line of the poem drops from their lips in grief, while the next inspires revivification. Their indignation and enthusiasm reveal signs of all this incessant internal turmoil.

Indeed, this has been the kind of life we have always sought, or perhaps we have been forced to live in this way. Fervor and sorrow have been our fate and in fact what we have also demanded. We have considered living for our own sake as selfishness, an attitude we have always abhorred. The motto “So others may live” and wishing eternal happiness for all have been our passion. This passion is so intense that if it were at all possible to come back to this life after death and we were given the right to choose, we would still prefer others’ lives to our own. The true horizons of humanity we would fix our direction towards; thoughts of revival we would breathe with; degradations we would close our eyes to; fuss about fundamentalism we would not be deceived by; those who come forward with slanders, calumnies, and accusations we would not be upset by or despair at; unrelenting violations and attacks of the severest kind we would bury in our chests; when it hurts inside, we would still manage to smile; when the magma inside erupts, we would suppress our exasperation so that no one is hurt or disturbed; and we would always display the privilege of being human.

I feel that those who think we remain in total passive silence and those who think we are involved in some kind of “activism” are all wrong. We are never absolutely still-anguish and hope, enduring everything, and striving for survival, all coexist in the depths of our souls. We may sometimes lose spirit, but never to a level of termination for good. Even if only with half of a voice or a breath, a quarter of a pain or palpitation, our hearts are like a brazier with embers always burning inside. Our faith constantly whispers new sentiments to us, and our conscience plays tunes of all kinds. Nevertheless, those who are of not the same persuasion or ideals as us cannot hear any of these melodies nor can they comprehend any of these sentiments.

Personally, every time I think of this agitation and fervor, I tremble as I visualize innocent people who have been victims of deadly imprisonment, maddening persecution, and merciless hounding, and whose words were stuck in their throats, words they wanted to utter but could not, so they were choked almost to the point of death. Who knows what beautiful things they would have said. The ignorant who did not know, even worse, those who did not know that they did not know, and the worst of all, who thought they knew even though they did not, used all available means to prevent those innocent people from expressing themselves; they would never allow them to do so, for if they did, people would understand how bereft of ideas and knowledge are those persecutors. In the words of Akif, the miserable oppressors “do not look to the East, nor are aware of the West, nor have any share of good conduct / All they have as capital is a face that cannot blush and eyes that cannot water!” If they did allow the innocent to speak up, those who can reason would comprehend all these matters and discover the true identities of some of these ignorant ones who tie justice to power and resort to despotism, whose assets are no more than yelling, and who try to catch fish in muddy water. Then, all the wretched souls who fight against common sense with dialectic and demagogy would topple one by one, their false candles would blow out, and those who have been deceived would not be tricked any more. All this would end in the collapse of those who want to rule the world with crude power, and I do not think they would ever acquiesce to that. In any case, we end up with the fact that today some people are gagged, while many others remain indifferent.

Those who cannot express themselves today in one way or another, will certainly voice their internal vibrations and pain, be it merely in their comportment; in return for their gulping down their words with palpitations today, they will recite the best poems of silence when the day comes. Who knows, perhaps then many rude and cruel characters who have forgotten true humane values like compassion, mercy, and justice for several centuries now, will unexpectedly melt down and turn into whatever being truly human demands.

So, let tyranny enjoy itself for a bit longer; let civil rights and justice be trodden on; let the innocent moan with pain; let the wronged strive to voice their grievance; and let hearts breathe with grief and fervor, hoping for a blissful hour in which the All-Powerful will speak. For us, if it is a matter of time serving our time of trial and lamentation, then, as in the words of Faik Ali, “There are songs yet unfinished / Anticipation moans in their silence,” there is still need for more quiet lament, after which perhaps the spring will rise.