The truth shall never be established in this world!

 The truth shall never be established in this world!

There’s no use in speaking up, no use in writing—shouting it a hundred times won’t make any difference! People will not accept the truth, will not understand it, will not embrace it. As disheartening as it may sound, this is the eternal truth: the truth shall never be established in this world. For thousands of years, countless truth-seekers have struggled to establish it, yet none have succeeded. No effort in this regard has borne fruit, and none ever will. This too is a hidden secret of the world’s grand mystery.

There is no value for truth in this world! The world doesn’t want the truth! In essence, the truth holds no worth in the eyes of this world. That’s why truth has never been able to stand tall—it never has, and never will. Truth is forever humiliated, trampled, neglected—this has been proven again and again, countless times, throughout human history. Generations have passed hoping to see the victory of truth—but that victory never came, and it never will.

“The heart says it won’t come,
The eyes say—any moment now!
Waiting beside the road,
Still not home, yet the eyes won’t look away!”

Has the massacre of Karbala ever been brought to justice? Has anyone been able to deliver it? Almost fifteen hundred years have passed, but no vengeance has been exacted. That lost power never returned—nor will it ever.

Back then, many might have thought—soon justice will be served, the truth will roar once more and rise up in the world. Perhaps in the next generation. But generations came and went—truth never arrived. One generation after another held on to that same hope—that perhaps now, truth will triumph and fill the world with beauty.

But? Here we are again, standing in this generation, thinking maybe within the next 50 or 100 years, the world will embrace truth and light. Just as someone a hundred years ago thought. Just as someone five hundred, a thousand, or fifteen hundred years ago imagined.

And yet, here we are, quite clearly seeing the reality—and tracing time’s pattern is not hard anymore. Perhaps not everyone will understand my words. Every year during Muharram, one particular essay by Kazi Nazrul Islam always echoes in my mind. In my view, no one has written more powerfully about Muharram than he.

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"Muharram"

By Sufi poet Kazi Nazrul Islam

Muharram has returned once again—this day of collective mourning for all Muslims. But who truly cries today, tell me, O Muslim? There are no tears in your eyes today. The memory of mourning has turned into celebration! Your tears are now hypocrisy, your cries—fake, shrill screams.
Shut up, you cowards! Don’t scream "Alas Hasan! Alas Husayn!" in grotesque voices and torment the soul of mourning mother Fatima. Don’t blacken the face of Allah with your theatrics of grief. That hideous chest-beating frenzy of yours—it has not failed, O fearful mob! That blow echoes in the heart of Allah’s beloved, Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him).
Those who sacrificed their lives for religion, for truth—don’t insult their souls by performing this cruel play of mourning. You have no religion, no identity; you hold no sword, your heads are bare, your Qur’an is trampled under others’ feet, and the neck that bows before nothing but Allah’s Throne—today is forced to bow before tyrants.
And you? You’re acting out ‘Matam’ (mourning rituals) for those martyrs—those heroes who died for religion and freedom. Shame, shame—O Muslims! Shame!

Do you even know what real mourning for Karbala looks like, blind ones? Open your eyes—see where that midday lamentation of Karbala still echoes. Today, Karbala is not just in the desert of Arabia, not just on the banks of the Euphrates—
Today Karbala resounds in the hearts of every oppressed Muslim, on the banks of your rivers of humiliation and tears!

Mother Fatima weeps, clinging to the Throne of Allah. On her shoulders—the poison-stained robe of Hasan and the blood-soaked scarf of Husayn.
Her heart-wrenching cries for her lost sons shake the very Throne of God.

O you generations of mourning actors! Stop—stop Mother Fatima’s weeping. Still the trembling of Allah’s Throne.
Let your heads rise high against the tyrants who humiliate your freedom, your truth, your religion. Let Islam stand proud, whole and dignified.
Protect your freedom, protect your truth—then you’ll see, the weeping of Mother Fatima has stopped, the shaking of the Throne has ceased.

Listen! The thirsty soul of Qasim cries out—"Water! Water!"
Who will quench this thirst of the martyr youth? This thirst cannot be quenched with the water of Zamzam or Kawthar.

This battlefield of Karbala now thirsts for the blood of every Muslim youth—for sacrifice, for religion, for freedom.
Who among you will rise—blood-red, youthful martyrs of Islam—to quench Qasim’s thirst?

Do you hear the heart-piercing cry of the newly widowed girl, Sukayna?
She does not seek her husband Qasim’s life, she wants his spirit of sacrifice—
She wants freedom for Islam.

O Muslims! Your battlefield of Karbala is here and now!
In its midst echoes the ceaseless sobbing—"Water! Water!"
Look to Allah, look to the Prophet, hear the mourning of Mother Fatima and Hazrat Ali—
Remember the bleeding heart of baby Asghar pierced by an arrow,
And determine your duty, O Muslim!

Let the bloodshed of Muharram guide you to your purpose.
Amin!