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Sh M Nizami Messageboard

Sh M Nizami Messageboard

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The messageboard for the Abrahamic restoration, the covenantal tradition and God’s final Proclamation (al-Qur’ān). Scholarly discussions for intelligent non-specialists.

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8. Al-Shāfi'ī may therefore have shifted the burden of proof too strongly toward universality. I feel that a more historically sensitive model might be report → corpus → context → speech act → Prophetic practice → early reception → linguistic analysis → scope → ruling. Only after doing that should we ask whether the resulting instruction is general, specific, absolute or qualified. To be clear, I'm not saying to abandon the apparent but to relocate it. The apparent meaning can be the default once we have established what kind of utterance we are looking at and reconstructed its relevant communicative world as far as possible. That's very different from saying: “Hello mate. Here's an authentic sentence. It uses an imperative/general noun/negative universal. Therefore it applies universally unless you can produce another hadith explicitly restricting it.” And this has a huge consequence for modern hadith discourse where a lot of what passes today as “following the Sunnah” is actually a radicalised version of the Shāfi'ī presumption stripped of historiographical sophistication. It's actually quite delinquent: Authentic → translate the text → take the apparent meaning → universalise → apply. Al-Shāfi'ī was vastly more sophisticated than that. He explicitly allowed the Sunnah to explain the Sunnah, recognised specification, contextual evidence and scholarly reception, and insisted on reconciling reports wherever possible. So my criticism would be that Al-Shāfi'ī may have been right that interpretation requires a linguistic presumption to prevent arbitrariness, but wrong to presume that the apparent generality of the surviving hadith wording is necessarily the appropriate starting point for reconstructing the scope of the original Prophetic act. And I think that distinction gives you a much stronger theory of fiqh al-ḥadīth whereby authentication tells us that a report deserves serious evidentiary consideration but it doesn't yet tell us what event the report represents, what the speaker was doing through the utterance, or how far its rule extends.

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Those are epistemically different claims. As I remind people, our surviving corpus isn't an exhaustive transcript of everything the Prophet ever said, every circumstance in which he said it, or everything his hearers already understood. So there's a potential argument from silence hidden inside the presumption. 4. Practice can preserve meaning that wording doesn't and this is where Mālik b. Anas's instinct becomes quite significant. If the textual report apparently establishes rule X, yet the inherited practice of the community closest to the Prophetic setting consistently behaves as though the rule were X only under circumstances Y, that practice might preserve precisely the contextual qualification which the report has lost. Hence Mālikī interest in the norms of Madīnah's people wasn't simplistically “practice versus hadith.” It functioned as evidence for how a report was actually understood and operationalised. Mālik's legal theory gave Medinan praxis considerable weight in evaluating solitary reports. This is seriously relevant to fiqh al-ḥadīth. A thousand people repeatedly doing something can logically tell you more about the understood scope of an instruction than one narrator preserving a sentence from the instruction. 5. The Kufan objection from ʿumūm al-balwā exposes the same problem from another angle. The Hanafīs sometimes reasoned that if something was a matter affecting everyone constantly, yet the supposed Prophetic rule concerning it was transmitted only through a very narrow channel, the pattern of transmission itself requires explanation because a genuinely universal, routinely applicable Prophetic rule should ordinarily have generated a wider social footprint. This doesn't prove every solitary report on a common matter false but that social significance is itself evidence. To what is close to my category of practical gharābah, Hanafi legal theorists therefore treated ʿumūm al-balwā as relevant to evaluating solitary reports, although other legal traditions rejected or limited that principle. It's to say that if this really meant what the literalist says it means, why is its alleged universal application itself strangely isolated? It's a legitimate historical question! 6. A command can be authentic without being legislation for everyone. The assumption that once: قال رسول الله is established, the principal question becomes what rule its words generate but the Prophet operated in multiple capacities. He could speak as: • messenger conveying revelation, • judge deciding particular disputes, • political leader, • military commander, • teacher, • counsellor, • neighbour, • person responding to somebody’s particular circumstances. (Later jurists, especially al-Qarāfī, would make the distinction among Prophetic roles much more explicit.) So I'm saying that before asking: “Is this command general or specific?” there's an even earlier question: What kind of speech act was this? If it was an individual judgement or contextual instruction, the whole general/specific question has already been framed incorrectly. 7. The wider Sunnah may qualify a report without providing another sentence saying explicitly “this is an exception" and this is where contemporary hadith literalism goes especially wrong. People imagine qualification like this: Hadith A: “Do X.” Hadith B: “Do X only when Y.” Therefore B qualifies A. Sometimes it works that neatly but mostly it doesn’t lol. The qualification may emerge from the pattern of Prophetic behaviour across twenty reports. For example, if one isolated statement apparently establishes an absolute prohibition, while numerous sound reports show the Prophet permitting the thing under ordinary circumstances, you don't need a sentence saying “My earlier prohibition was restricted.” The Prophetic practice itself establishes that the absolute reading can't be right. That is why I feel Ahmad b. Hanbal's الحديث يفسر بعضه بعضًا is more profound than just gathering alternative wordings. The entire transmitted Prophetic ecology interprets the individual report.
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Now coming back to this point. I think there's a serious argument that al-Shāfi'ī's rule is too text-centred, especially when transferred from direct revelation to solitary hadith reports. His position in Ikhtilāf al-hadīth is essentially: وهكذا السنة… ولكن الحق فيها واحد؛ لأنها على ظاهرها وعمومها إلا بدلالة “The same applies to the Sunnah… the truth concerning it is one, because it is to be taken according to its apparent and general sense unless there is evidence [to the contrary].” I can see why he says this – he's trying to prevent interpretation becoming arbitrary: if every interpreter can move a report away from its apparent meaning simply because another interpretation is linguistically possible, the text ceases to constrain the jurist. The problem is that the alternative to al-Shāfi'ī's rule isn't arbitrary interpretation. And my deeper objection is that he may have placed the presumption at the wrong point in the interpretative process. The crucial distinction is that apparent meaning of the hadith report isn't necessarily the apparent meaning of the Prophet’s original utterance. I feel it's why many people feel hadith are a problematic source of law. What many people don't realise is that a hadith is normally a narrator’s preservation of something that occurred within a much larger communicative situation. Someone asked something. Something had happened. Particular people were present. The Prophet may have been adjudicating a dispute, commanding soldiers, advising an individual, correcting some behaviour, answering an immediate question or laying down a generally applicable norm. The report might preserve only: “Do not do X.” The original event might have been: “You, in this situation, because of Y, should not do X.” When the contextual information disappears but the imperative survives, the transmitted wording can look universal even though the original speech act wasn't. That gives us several reasons to question the Shāfi'ī presumption. 1. A grammatically general statement isn't necessarily a universally intended law. There's a difference between general wording and general intent (umūm al-murād). The wording may possess a general grammatical form while the speaker’s intended domain is restricted by shared context. If I say to my children at dinner, “Nobody leaves until the plates are cleared,” the sentence is linguistically universal. It obviously doesn't legislate that nobody on earth may ever leave anywhere until those particular plates are cleared! So the situation supplies an implicit domain. Hadith transmission can preserve the sentence while losing part of that domain. So treating linguistic generality as presumptive legal universality risks confusing semantics with pragmatics. 2. Hadith is reported speech, not just Prophetic speech sitting transparently before us. I'd argue that this is perhaps the most important objection. The Proclamation presents itself as a coherent text. A hadith presents itself as a report about an event involving speech or action. clearly, those aren't hermeneutically identical objects. If the Proclamation says: “God has permitted trade and forbidden ribā” (2:275), we are dealing directly with the wording of the proclamation. If a transmitter reports that the Prophet said something to someone on a particular occasion, we have a mediated representation of a communicative event. So al-Shāfiʿī’s tendency to extend the same presumption from the Proclamation to a prophetic report confuses an important difference between the two media. 3. Absence of a transmitted qualifier doesn't prove absence of an original qualifier and this directly relates to the earlier idea I alluded to of “gharābah in application.” Suppose only one hadith survives saying: “Whoever does X, do Y to him.” And no surviving report says: “This only applies when Z.” The Shāfi'ī tendency is: No evidence of restriction means retain the generality. Yet historically, another inference is possible: No transmitted restriction means we simply don't know whether the original application was unrestricted.
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As we start our hadith study this September, I thought it'd be fun to share some historiography I wrote for my eldest: The basic principle is that you shouldn't understand a hadith atomistically. A report has to be located within the whole body of material on its subject. Ahmad b. Hanbal is famously reported to have said: الحديث إذا لم تجمع طرقه لم تفهمه، والحديث يفسر بعضه بعضًا “If you do not gather the routes of a hadith, you will not understand it; one hadith explains another.” That statement is particularly interesting because the routes is simultaneously transmission (isnād) criticism and semantic interpretation. One route may be absolute while another restricts it; one may be general while another specifies it; one may omit the circumstance that another supplies. Hence the familiar operations: المطلق والمقيد، العام والخاص، المجمل والمبين، الناسخ والمنسوخ، مختلف الحديث. So imagine a report says: “Do X.” Taken alone, it looks universal and unconditional. Another report might establish: “Do X when Y occurs.” Now the second report has effectively told you how the first is to be operationalised. The first was unqualified, the second may provide the qualification. Or the first was general and the second supplies the specifier. This is why Ibn al-Ṣalāḥ describes mukhtalif al-ḥadīth as an area requiring people who combine the crafts of hadith and law, because apparently competing reports must first be reconciled and interpreted together. Alongside asking: “How isolated is this transmission?” an important question is “How isolated is this meaning, qualification, or legal application within the transmitted corpus?” The second is a genuine critical question, with the technical label tafarrud fī al-maʿnā / tafarrud bi-hādhā al-ḥukm. The two can also interact. If a mediocre narrator is the only person to transmit not merely a wording, but a substantial legal qualification that changes the rule, the critic becomes much more interested in that isolation. Depending upon the circumstances it may become an issue of nakārah, shudhūdh, ziyādat al-thiqah, etc. Mere singularity, however, doesn't automatically invalidate it. There is also a second level that is important: practice ('amal). Al-Tirmidhī repeatedly tells you things such as: والعمل على هذا عند أهل العلم “Practice among the keepers of covenantal knowledge is according to this.” That is not transmission criticism. It is effectively telling you something about the reception and operationalisation of the historical report. Conversely, a formally sound report whose apparent application seems to have generated no corresponding practice among any jurists can raise a separate interpretative question: are we misunderstanding what the report was actually doing? However, there's also something interesting to note: if exhaustive collection reveals no qualifying evidence, the modern default is ordinarily not to suspend the hadith merely because it stands alone. Rather, its apparent meaning remains operative. Yes, Al-Shāfiʿī states this clearly: وهكذا السنة… ولكن الحق فيها واحد؛ لأنها على ظاهرها وعمومها إلا بدلالة عن رسول الله… بأنها على خاص دون عام، وباطن دون ظاهر In substance: the Sunnah remains upon its apparent and general sense unless there is evidence from the Messenger, or recognised scholarly knowledge, showing that it is particular rather than general or intended otherwise than its apparent sense. However, there are several issues here which illustrate comment on later. Now, just as the muhaddith doesn't evaluate a chain properly until he knows its other routes, the faqīh al-ḥadīth doesn't evaluate a report’s semantic range properly until he knows the other reports on the topic. And once all the material has been gathered, semantic singularity itself becomes information. If nothing qualifies it, its apparent scope becomes stronger. If another report qualifies it, its scope contracts. If its supposed application is unique and clashes with a large body of stronger evidence or early practice, that very isolated case becomes something requiring explanation.
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It’s quite interesting how a friend made an observation about my current modus operandi that I’ve not openly articulated but I tend to consciously adopt. I don’t debate Muslims on their opinions or views. I’m quite laissez faire - you do you. For the vast majority of people, “religion” is a mood they live, wistful opinions that justify their culture or choices. And most people it’s based on emotion – I’m not exactly gonna debate emotion with reason, you simply can’t. If they claim something about their Islam, or that (their) “Islam says…” I listen and observe: it’s a cultural learning about how diverse peoples see themselves and human life. It’s fascinating anthropology. Any follow up questions about their beliefs and views aren’t a challenge because there’s nothing to challenge, it’s to learn more about them and quench the anthropological and sociological curiosity I have. “In Islam…” = “In my ethnic culture and experience…” Having spoken to thousands of wonderful people over the decades, the general self-view tends to be that religiosity is a subjective take on being a nice person in a way that’s connected to a subjective theism. I take it for what it is. The only time I’ll contend anything is if revelation comes up. You see, anyone can have modern Islam as a subjective sociological construct. It’s neither mine nor relevant to me. It’s theirs. But revelation is mine and I guard it jealousy. So if someone says “God says…” or they mischaracterise what His noble Prophets had to say, then I’m in the game. Theirs no random views here. Subjective opinion is irrelevant because it doesn’t concern a mood. Understanding revelation is 50% science, and subsequently 50% art. The science part is quite straightforward, but it requires working memory capacity and familiarity with the corpus. The art part is synthesising it all to draw compelling conclusions that cohere with 2000 years of the Abrahamic covenantal writ - from the Torah to the Quran. As such, I neither preach nor advocate modern religion, including modern Islam. That’s neither my job nor is it an existential moral duty. The vocation is this: لتكونوا شهداء على الناس “So you’ll be witnesses testifying (the covenant code) to the people.” So if it’s not the covenant code/decree (al-kitāb) and what’s functionally related to it, you’re entitled to your own observations/opinions about your own culture and I enjoy the cultural learnings!
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The early qāriʾ was a person whose mastery of the Covenantal text made him one of the people from whom the community took its understanding of the covenant code. Its important to remember that they were called qurrāʾ exactly because they were not ummī and were the carriers of the Proclamation. So if we wanted a historically pragmatic definition according to Ibn Khaldūn: The Qurrāʾ were the first generation of learned scriptural authorities: men distinguished by mastery of the Proclamation and its meanings, from whom law and religious understanding were taken. As Islamic scholarship specialised, their function became represented by those subsequently called the fuqahāʾ and ʿulamāʾ. Inevitably, that substantially changes how passages about the Qurrāʾ at Yamāmah, Kūfah and Siffīn should be read. “Seventy Qur’an reciters were killed” evokes something quite different from “seventy of the community’s scripture-learned authorities were killed.” The latter is much closer to what Ibn Khaldūn held that the category meant.
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The Qurrāʾ (القرّاء) in the earliest generations were not anything like what modern Muslim culture imagines as professional Qur’an reciters – it's actually tragic. The word is the plural of qāriʾ (قارئ), literally a “reader/reciter”, but in the first hijrī century it often referred to men whose authority came from their deep familiarity with the Proclamation, its teaching and application. Ibn Khaldūn put it: وكانوا يسمون لذلك القراء، أي الذين يقرأون الكتاب، لأن العرب كانوا أمة أمية، فاختص من كان منهم قارئًا للكتاب بهذا الاسم لغرابته يومئذ. “For that reason they were called the Qurrāʾ, meaning those learned in the covenantal decree. Since the Arabs were largely an unlettered people, someone who could engage with the Decree in this way stood out, and so the designation became attached to them.” A useful approximation would be that they were the early community’s scripture-bearers or scripture specialists. They knew substantial portions of the Proclamation, transmitted and taught it, led or participated heavily in battle, and were often regarded as people capable of understanding what God’s decree required. The famous report concerning Biʾr Maʿūnah says that seventy men from the Anṣār “were called the Qurrāʾ”. Another report describes them as sent out to teach people and help communities establish covenantal law on the ground. The Battle of Yamāmah provides another important clue. According to the report attributed to Zayd b. Thābit, Umar became concerned because large numbers of the qurrāʾ had been killed. He was highly concerned that continued losses among them could endanger the preservation of the Proclamation, and this became the immediate argument for collecting the text. That tells us that the qurrāʾ functioned as living repositories of the proclamation. They were part of the human infrastructure through which it was remembered, taught and transmitted. There is then an important development after the conquests. By the time of Uthmān and the First civil war, particularly in Kūfah, al-qurrāʾ begins appearing almost as the name of a recognisable religio-political constituency. Many were early conqueror-settlers whose social authority rested partly on their early participation in the movement and their claim to covenantal knowledge. A group identified as the Kufan qurrāʾ became prominent opponents of Uthmān’s provincial administration. They seem to have conceived politics through the authority of God's decree. At Siffīn, qurrāʾ formed an important element within Alī’s forces – part of an “old guard” whose concern was that political government should actually apply the God's decrees. The earliest qurrāʾ look much less like a later clerical class and much more like men formed by the proclamation who understood themselves as responsible for knowing, teaching and implementing God’s decree within the community. Their subsequent political importance makes more sense once qirāʾah is understood as more than liturgical recitation. So when Ibn Khaldūn says الذين يقرأون الكتاب, qirāʾah means much more than sounding out or reciting the text. The pragmatic sense is something like: “those conversant with the Scripture” or “the Scripture-learned” or, probably best for explaining their social role, “the scriptural authorities.” The really important part is where Ibn Khaldūn says that this terminology remained during the early period of the tradition (ṣadr al-millah). Then, as the polity expanded, literacy became widespread, methods of legal inference developed, and case law became an established discipline: فبدلوا باسم الفقهاء والعلماء من القراء “The designation Qurrāʾ was then replaced by the terms fuqahāʾ and ʿulamāʾ.” So Ibn Khaldūn’s conceptual genealogy is basically: Qurrāʾ → Fuqahāʾ / ʿUlamāʾ not: Qurrāʾ → professional reciters 😂 In other words, what eventually became differentiated into the jurist, scholar, exegete, traditionist, and separately the specialist Qur’an reciter, hadn't yet crystallised into those later professional disciplines.
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Also, to clarify, "weak" here cannot sensibly mean physically weak, timid, cowardly, or lacking moral backbone. Abū Dharr was quite the opposite. Al-Dhahabī explicitly notices this tension: مع قوة أبي ذر في بدنه وشجاعته “Despite Abū Dharr’s physical strength and courage…” He then explains: فهذا محمول على ضعف الرأي “This is to be understood as weakness of judgement.” And he adds that someone exercising authority needs forbearance and the capacity to manage people tactfully, whereas Abū Dharr had a certain sharpness or severity of temperament. So the Prophet wasn't saying, “Abū Dharr, you are a weak man.” He was effectively saying: you lack the particular kind of strength required for this particular office. Al-Nawawī puts it more functionally: ضعف عن القيام بوظائف تلك الولاية “Weakness in carrying out the functions of that office.” And another classical formulation is: ضعيف عن تحمل العمل “Unable to bear the demands of the work.” So “weakness” is role-relative. A man can be extraordinarily courageous, morally uncompromising, ascetic, truthful and intellectually serious, while nevertheless lacking the mixture of qualities necessary to govern: political judgement, restraint, calibration, administration, coalition management, knowledge of people, strategic compromise, patience with imperfection, and the ability to distinguish between what ought ideally to happen and what can responsibly be achieved under actual conditions (ideal theory vs non-ideal theory). That's where Abū Dharr becomes especially interesting politically. Al-Dhahabī connects his weakness of judgement to his radical attitude towards wealth. His point is essentially that Abū Dharr’s moral generosity was so uncompromising that, were he responsible for an orphan’s wealth, his instinct towards spending might make him unsuitable as its fiduciary guardian. He also remarks on Abū Dharr’s sharpness. In other words, the very trait that can make someone an extraordinary moral witness can make him a poor administrator. Abū Dharr could confront power. He could renounce wealth. He could speak uncomfortable truths. He could live according to principles with extraordinary personal consistency but governing other people requires something else. The moral prophet, activist, preacher, scholar or dissident can afford a degree of absolutism because his principal responsibility is testimony. The governor can't. He inherits competing rights, limited resources, imperfect people, rival interests, unintended consequences and institutional constraints. He must know not simply what is right, but how right is to be realised without producing greater wrong. In Arabic it is commonly referred to as raʾy and tadbīr: judgement and governance.
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Abū Dharr asked the Prophet for political appointment. I use “political” loosely here, because the term doesn’t fully capture the nature of authority in that Madīnan context. The Prophet replied: يَا أَبَا ذَرٍّ إِنَّكَ ضَعِيفٌ، وَإِنَّهَا أَمَانَةٌ، وَإِنَّهَا يَوْمَ الْقِيَامَةِ خِزْيٌ وَنَدَامَةٌ، إِلَّا مَنْ أَخَذَهَا بِحَقِّهَا وَأَدَّى الَّذِي عَلَيْهِ فِيهَا “Abū Dharr, you are weak, and authority is a trust. On the Day of Standing it will be disgrace and regret, except for the one who assumes it rightfully and fulfils what it requires.” (Muslim) Now notice what does not qualify Abū Dharr for office: He is sincere. He is faithful. He is close to the Prophet. He is morally serious and personally ascetic. None of that is enough. The problem isn't his character – it's his capacity. The Prophet distinguishes between personal virtue and competence for office. Abū Dharr may be an excellent man and still very unsuitable for leadership. Authority requires judgement, administrative capacity, political intelligence, resilience, the ability to manage competing interests, and the competence to discharge a public trust. From over two decades of observation, I can confidently put it that this distinction seems almost entirely lost in much of contemporary Muslim political culture. I repeatedly hear excuses for poor leadership: he means well, he is sincere, he has sacrificed a lot, he is religious, he's been around for years, people respect him, his intentions are good, he is loyal, he has “served the community”. But none of these things establishes competence. In fact, judging by many of the standards I hear today, Abū Dharr would be an ideal candidate for leadership – except the Prophet explicitly said he wasn't. That ought to be devastating to the political assumptions many communities operate with. The lesson is that character alone doesn't produce competence. Performative piety cannot substitute for judgement. Assuming sincerity cannot substitute for strategy. Cultural asceticism cannot substitute for administrative ability. Good intentions cannot substitute for the capacity to lead. Once any community loses this distinction, bad leadership stops being an unfortunate accident and instead structurally inevitable. A regressive political culture consistently promotes people because they are familiar, devout, loyal, charismatic, elderly, well-connected or rhetorically impressive, while treating actual competence as secondary or even suspicious. It then expresses surprise when institutions stagnate, factions multiply, resources are wasted and intelligent people disengage. It's not just a leadership problem. It's a cultural problem. Communities usually get the leadership their political culture is capable of recognising. If their conception of leadership is intellectually impoverished, their leaders will be too.
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I was thinking about leadership the other day, and how most content strategy seems to react to whatever is dominating the morning feed. It occurred to me that if you aren't leading an audience, you’re being led by it. When you only talk about what everyone else is talking about, you surrender the agenda. The conversational frame has already been built by someone else and you’re just renting space inside it. The cost is that strategically vital issues get crowded out by whatever happens to be loud! Viral videos prioritise the moment over impact and rewards hot takes on momentary controversies while the quiet, structural shifts go completely unnoticed. Real leadership isn't about feeding the algorithm's daily craving. It requires three fundamental shifts: 1. Direct attention, don’t just capture it. Anyone can comment on the fire but the more valuable skill is pointing out the dry tinder 3 miles away before it sparks. 2. Stop answering every question you're asked. The audience asks about what is currently visible but the job is to show them what is currently invisible but about to matter intensely. 3. The loudest development in an industry is rarely the most transformative one. Help the audience ignore the daily churn so they have the bandwidth to build for the long term. True influence doesn’t come from echoing the room - then you're being influenced. It comes from changing the subject to what actually matters. Rather than reporting on the noise it's about teaching people where to look.
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https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2026/8/27/sunken-ship-sparks-fight-on-israels-right-over-militias-violent-legacy Even before the establishment of the state of Israel, the Irgun had waged an insurgency against British forces stationed in the territory under a League of Nations mandate, hanging captured soldiers and, in 1946, killing more than 90 people in its bombing of the King David Hotel in Jerusalem. “The Irgun was a fascist, anti-Arab organisation that also used violence against the British Empire, causing the deaths of many Arabs and Britons,” Israeli sociologist Yehouda Shenhav-Shahrabani told Al Jazeera, referencing the 1948 massacre at Deir Yassin. However, he maintained, placing all responsibility for the worst of the Nakba on the Irgun misses the point. “The forces principally responsible for carrying out the Nakba were the Zionist paramilitary organisations associated with the Labour movement,” he said. “This is why I have always argued that there is no real left within Zionism. What is called the Zionist ‘left’ has repeatedly functioned as a fig leaf for a settler-colonial movement organized around Jewish supremacy.”
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Two decades ago, when young men were being pulled towards jihadi narratives, I would tell them something they rarely wanted to hear: you are being played. Most were not monsters and they're painted as, but confused, hyper-sympathetic, politically unsophisticated people whose compassion had been captured by an extraordinarily simplistic story: our people are being slaughtered, nobody will defend them, therefore you must do something. After the invasion of Iraq, they could sit in London, Birmingham or Bradford and watch footage of dead civilians, mutilated bodies, Abu Ghraib, Fallujah and American military violence circulating across websites such as LiveLeak, Ogrish, forums and early social media. The emotional mechanism wasn't so different from what happens today when we watch, almost in real time, civilians and children being killed in Gaza. Horror produces anger, anger produces a desire to act, and then somebody arrives with an ideology explaining who “our people” are, who the enemy is, and what you supposedly have to do about it. The problem was that the Middle East was never the morality play these movements presented. It was a quagmire of states, intelligence agencies, militias, sectarian interests, proxy wars, temporary alliances and geopolitical calculations in which yesterday's "terrorist" could become tomorrow's useful asset. Many groups were created by the West and Israel, and some groups claiming to fight Western or Israeli power could simultaneously be manipulated, tolerated or exploited by the very powers they imagined themselves opposing. The person watching from thousands of miles away usually knew none of this. That was why the jihadi worldview was so problematic – it transformed sympathy into certainty. It convinced people with almost no understanding of the political terrain that they had acquired a moral obligation to insert themselves into it. Twenty years later, I think the principle is even clearer: we have no business allowing distant conflicts to turn us into instruments of somebody else's geopolitical game. We will seldom understand all the actors, incentives and hidden relationships involved, and the person most convinced that everything is obvious is often the person who understands the least. Our covenantal responsibility is much less glamorous and much more demanding. It begins where God has actually placed us: advocating, organising and contributing to God's order in our own societies. For those who don't feel like the place they live in, born in, or emigrated to is their society, they ought to return or move to one that they feel is. Compassion and sympathy should enlarge our humanity and refine our sense of responsibility to God, not surrender our judgement. The answer to being manipulated by nefarious elites and states isn't to become manipulated by another set of simpletons claiming to fight them.
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"To add insult to injury, Israel and its Neo-conservative allies have often collaborated with Al Qaeda and ISIS against national resistance groups fighting Israeli occupation like Hamas and Hezbollah. In Syria, Israel collaborated with ISIS, seeing it as a tool to be used against Hezbollah. Max Blumenthal documented in his book “The Management of Savagery” on the fraudulent U.S./Israeli “war on terror”: At the Likud Party-linked Begin-Sadat Center for Strategic Studies, its director, Efraim Inbar, promoted the Islamic State in Syria as a boon to Israel’s strategic deterrence. In an op-ed entitled ‘The Destruction of Islamic State Is a Strategic Mistake,’ Inbar argued, ‘The West should seek the further weakening of Islamic State, but not its destruction.’ Instead, he insisted, it should exploit ISIS as a ‘useful tool’ in the fight against Israel’s true enemy, Iran and its proxy, Hezbollah, which operates on Israeli frontiers from southern Lebanon. ‘A weak IS is, counterintuitively, preferable to a destroyed IS,’ Inbar concluded. Inbar went on to argue for prolonging the conflict in Syria for as long as possible on the grounds that extended sectarian bloodshed would produce ‘positive change.’ While Israeli military honchos took satisfaction from the bloodshed of Syria’s civil war, ISIS commanders tiptoed around the Israeli military. During a public forum in Israel, the ever-candid former minister of defense, Ya’alon, revealed that an ISIS cell operating alongside the rebels in southern Syria had accidentally launched a mortar into Israeli-controlled territory. ‘On most occasions, firing comes from regions under the control of the regime,’ Ya’alon commented. ‘But once the firing came from ISIS positions—and it immediately apologized.’ Pushed by Israeli media to clarify his statement about ISIS formally apologizing to Israel—an open admission of an Israeli backchannel to the jihadists—Ya’alon refused further comment.
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https://www.middleeasteye.net/news/saudi-arabia-deletes-muslims-will-never-give-up-jerusalem-its-textbooks What a load of hogwash.
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https://www.instagram.com/reel/DcIZCd1RRan/ So according to this reel, “Muslim” is a sociological identity (someone who belongs to the ethnic, cultural or religious Islamicate) while “faithful” describes an actual covenantal condition before God. The logic goes: Muslim → faithful This exposes the irony. When “Muslim” is inserted into the equation as the starting point before becoming faithful, it effectively occupies the same side of the divide as unfaithful → faithful with “Muslim” just describing one possible cultural location from which that transition might occur. That is why treating Muslim as a religious identity can cloud the Proclamation’s categories: a person can be thoroughly “Muslim” and still require the very transition into faithfulness that the word is popularly assumed to already signify.
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The tradition is not  about being rewarded for how much sound you can reproduce and the assertion evades coherent logic. It’s about how much transformative knowledge of the Proclamation you managed to acquire, and “acquire” here means far more than memorisation. Put together, the reports say: You retained its teachings, wrestled with its demands, allowed it to restrain you, returned to it repeatedly thought through the world with it and acted according to it. The more completely the decree entered the person, the more completely the person was formed by the decree. The irony is that the very reports now used to sustain mystical passivity contain the antidote to it! Now if something so fundamental and basic needs addressing, imagine everything else built on it.
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Transcending mystical thinking: One of things I realised over a decade ago, was that the popular Muslim rule book needed to be rewritten. What that means is that we have to renew how the Quran is approached, how God's covenantal law is approached, what our moral philosophy is, the language we employ, and what God actually wants us to focus on. The last point is very important as God explicitly tells us that the wrong focus is what led the Israelites/Jews astray. The had the covenantal decree, but they used it in a way to weaken the program and mission and it is clearly identifiable how today's rabbinical Muslim leaders (the cognate farīq minhum) do much the same (I intend to write an article to explain the mechanics). Circling back, one key aspect of the current popular Muslim rule book is mystical thinking that has been adopted from folk religion. It is the foundation of everything in popular religion. When something doesn't make sense or preachers can't explain it rationally, they often fall back on mysticism instead of admitting, "I don't know," or fixing the flaw in their logic.There are SO many examples that like I said, to address it would simply mean starting over. Let alone the Quran itself, even things about engaging the Quran end up in irrational mysticism. Here’s one example of the trillion: If you practice the Quranic phonemes, on the Day of Judgement you’ll be told to rehearse them and ascend the levels of paradise according to how much you’ll be able to recite. If you ask how making sounds with your mouth could possibly matter to God more than doing good, being kind, helping others, and living with integrity, you will never get a sensible answer. Why? Because there isn’t one – it doesn’t make sense. It’s reward for performative irrationality that has no logic to it. What is defended as “sacred tradition” is little more than the gamification of piety – a comfort with performative ritual shielded from rational scrutiny.  For all the talk about the “early predecessors”, it seems few preachers have been willing to sit down and actually go through their reports. The rational discourse isn’t that Arabic phonemes have some independent metaphysical currency so that every correctly produced sound becomes another storey in Paradise. Read together, reports of early generations is saying something far more coherent: the degree to which the Proclamation is taken into a person becomes the measure of what that person has become. The reports themselves make this quite difficult to miss – and you don’t need an A Level to see it, GCSE is more than sufficient. أخْرَجَ ابْنُ أبِي شَيْبَةَ، وابْنُ الضُّرَيْسِ عَنْ أبِي هُرَيْرَةَ أوْ أبِي سَعِيدٍ قالَ: يُقالُ لِصاحِبِ القُرْآنِ يَوْمَ القِيامَةِ اقْرَأْ وارْقَهْ فَإنَّ مَنزِلَتَكَ عِنْدَ آخِرِ آيَةٍ تَقْرَؤُها The Abū Hurayrah/Abū Sa’īd report (compiled by Ibn Abī Shaybah) says: “It will be said to the companion of the Qur’an: Read and ascend, for your station is at the last utterance you read.” (The same basic tradition is also transmitted from Abd Allāh b. Amr and appears as a prophetic report in Abū Dāwūd, al-Tirmidhī and elsewhere.) The critical expression is “the companion of the Qur’an”. It doesn’t naturally mean “someone capable of reproducing its phonemes”. Suhbah is sustained companionship and the next reports actually tell us what that companionship consists of. خْرَجَ ابْنُ أبِي شَيْبَةَ، وابْنُ الضُّرَيْسِ عَنْ مُجاهِدٍ قالَ: القُرْآنُ يَشْفَعُ لِصاحِبِهِ يَوْمَ القِيامَةِ يَقُولُ: يا رَبِّ جَعَلْتَنِي في جَوْفِهِ فَأسْهَرْتُ لَيْلَهُ ومَنَعْتَهُ مِن كَثِيرٍ مِن شَهَواتِهِ ولِكُلِّ عامِلٍ مِن عَمَلِهِ عُمالَةٌ فَيُقالُ لَهُ: ابْسُطْ يَدَكَ فَيَمْلَأُ مِن رِضْوانِ اللهِ فَلا يَسْخَطُ عَلَيْهِ بَعْدَهُ ثُمَّ يُقالُ لَهُ: اقْرَأْ وارْقَهْ فَيُرْفَعُ بِكُلِّ آيَةٍ دَرَجَةً ويُزادُ بِكُلِّ آيَةٍ حَسَنَةً. Mujāhid says the Qur’an pleads: “My Lord, You placed me within him, so I kept him awake at night and prevented him from many of his desires…” Then comes “read and ascend”. So what earns the reward in Mujāhid's description is explicitly an altered human being. The Proclamation’s message restrained his appetites and reorganised his time. It made demands upon him. Mujāhid even describes the recompense in the language of labour: “every worker has wages for his work.” This is a work-and-recompense image, not a magical-sound image. Then Al-Dahhāk's version becomes even more interesting. He tells people to teach their children and households the Proclamation, and says the person will ascend: حَتّى يَنْزِلا بِهِ حَيْثُ انْتَهى عِلْمُهُ مِنَ القُرْآنِ “until they (two angels) bring him to where his knowledge of the Proclamation reaches.” Not ḥifẓuhu, “his memorisation” and not the number of syllables whose pronunciation he mastered but what he knows of God’s decree. The Buraydah report in Ibn Abī Shaybah supplies the fullest picture. The Proclamation meets its companion and says: أنا صاحبك القرآن الذي أظمأتك في الهواجر وأسْهرت ليلك “I am your companion, the Proclamation, which made you thirsty during the heat of the day and kept you awake at night.” Only after this description of a life disciplined by the Qur’an does the person hear: اقرأ واصعد في درج الجنة وغرفها “Read and ascend through the levels and chambers of Paradise.” There is an even more explicit version of the Buraydah tradition preserved by al-Hākim: مَنْ قرأ القرآن وتعلّمه وعمل به “Whoever reads the Proclamation, learns it and acts according to it…” Then the parental reward follows – those parents who intended that generations would come holding onto the Abrahamic legacy and upholding God’s code. Whatever one makes of that particular chain of narration, this formulation demonstrates how early transmitters themselves understood “taking the Qur’an” to mean reading, learning and acting which they didnt conceptually separate. So the rational framework is quite elegant: Reading it out produces retention. Retention permits sustained reflection. Reflection reshapes perception. Reshaped perception governs conduct. Conduct forms character. Character determines what one ultimately becomes. In an overwhelmingly oral culture, repeatedly sounding revelation was how you carried the decree around with you. There were no searchable Qur’an apps, printed copies or personal libraries. To have God’s words available for thought at dawn, in trade, during conflict, while travelling, when judging, when angry, when tempted, and while standing at night, you had to internalise them. The words were the delivery mechanism, not the telos. (Phonemes are neither - they deliver nothing nor provide the telos) This also explains the symbolism of “read and ascend.” The scene reverses the process of earthly formation. In this life, utterance by utterance, the person took the revelation into himself. In the eschatological image, utterance by utterance, what he acquired is unfolded again as ascent. The outward recitation represents the inward possession – and all of this is perfectly intelligible. What is not intelligible is the later abstraction: sounds -> supernatural points -> levels of Paradise – with understanding, deliberation, obedience and moral transformation treated as bonus points – the gamification is quite adolescent. Such abstraction actually conflicts with the internal logic of the reports and also sits awkwardly with the Proclamation itself. Even for those who actually understand what they’re reading, God rebukes people who read out the Scripture while failing to reason about what they are doing: “Do you command people with virtue and forget yourselves, even though you recite the Scripture? Have you no sense?” (2:44). The revealed Decree is sent down so that people may reflect upon its directives (38:29), and God asks whether they will deeply consider the Proclamation (47:24). Even where reading out is praised, it appears within an integrated life: those who recite God's Decree also establish devotion and spend from what God has provided them (35:29).
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📢 Our email address for the New School has changed Please note that our new contact email is: contact@abrahamicrestoration.school Feel free to reach out for enquiries and updates. (We have lots planned that we’ll be starting September, so watch this space!)
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https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2026/8/24/us-removes-syria-from-state-sponsor-of-terrorism-list So on 24th August, Washington removed Syria from the State Sponsors of Terrorism list and also rescinded the designation of al-Nusrah Front, the organisation formerly led by Syria’s current president Ahmed al-Sharaa. The US now speaks of Syria moving from “isolation to partnership”, while framing the change around counterterrorism cooperation and political stability. The moral of the story Western governments and media repeatedly teach us: You can be a “terrorist” on Monday and a respectable statesman on Tuesday, provided that by Tuesday you have become useful against a bigger enemy (here, Iran). Nothing about the past has changed. What’s changed is the political calculation. This is why we should be extremely cautious about allowing governments to supply our moral vocabulary. “Terrorist”, “moderate”, “extremist”, “ally” and “enemy” are presented to the public as objective moral categories but in reality they’re highly flexible descriptions of geopolitical convenience. Yesterday’s terrorist is today’s partner. Today’s partner can become tomorrow’s terrorist. The lesson is that those who hold power reserve for themselves the right to decide whose violence receives that name.
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I want to say our "beliefs" matter here enormously, but that would be inaccurate. What I mean is imān, and specifically ones acknowledgement of reality. Someone who believes that something terrible happened to them and therefore something fundamental has been taken from them lives in a completely different psychological universe from someone who says: "these situations are demanding but I endured it, it doesn't define me, and I remain responsible for what I become.” Revelation provides us with an extraordinarily powerful meaning-making framework through which adversity is absorbed. The modern problem is a therapeutic culture combined with a vulnerability-centred anthropology. Social media, psychological vocabulary, institutional safeguarding culture, mental-health campaigns, individualism and certain progressive ideas about harm have all contributed to it. Some of those developments have done good but many others unintentionally teach people to monitor themselves for injury and interpret ordinary suffering pathologically. Society teaches people how to interpret suffering. If a culture constantly frames hardship as trauma, vulnerability and lasting injury, people can begin to understand themselves through damage. If it glorifies hardness, it can suppress genuine suffering. That's why God’s balance is key. A just order should teach both truths at once: suffering is real, but it doesn't have to define you; people deserve protection, but they also retain agency and responsibility; compassion matters, but so do resilience, duty and courage. The Proclamation connects revelation with this task: God establishes the balance and commands people not to violate it (55:7–9), and sends “the Decree and the balance” so that people may uphold justice (57:25). So establishing God’s order is not just about laws. The social order forms the human being. A balanced order produces people who can recognise genuine harm without constructing their identity around it, endure hardship without becoming callous, and exercise strength without becoming oppressive. If culture shapes how we experience reality, then getting the culture right becomes a covenantal duty.
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