People are dying in other lands, and here in the United Kingdom people are quietly leaving the religion—yet we still rush to protect our reputations. We gather around our idols: our platforms, our institutions, our names. We defend a clip, a logo, a seat at a table, but we hesitate to defend a believer’s life, dignity, or iman. If that is our reflex, then our compass is broken.
This is not abstract. In one corner of the ummah, blood is real and grief is daily. In our own streets, confusion grows, hearts tire, and faith thins into slogans. The tragedy abroad is visible; the tragedy at home is silent. Both demand service. But we prefer comfort and commentary to costly action; we prefer polishing our image to shepherding people. We say we’re “guarding the dawah,” but often we’re guarding our own reflections.
It’s easy to comment from the sidelines, comfortably and confidently, like a colonial critic of someone else’s struggle—while ignoring that al-Shām has buried more than a million shuhadā’. Entire towns have been emptied, villages erased, and lives uprooted. The cost there is real. The price has already been paid in blood.
Another contradiction sits closer to home. Politics are live in al-Shām; the cost is real and the consequences heavy. Yet from our comfort we outsource courage to others and expect them to carry what we refuse to shoulder here: mentoring one difficult teenager, advocating for one vulnerable family, taking one principled stance that might cost us invitations or followers. Responsibility begins where our feet are. It isn’t romantic; it’s repetitive and often unseen. Communities change through consistent, local duty—not distant commentary performed brilliantly.
When Mufti Taqi Sahib visited recently, his presence cut through our noise. He made us step out of our internal bickering and serve Islam—reminding us that real work doesn’t wait for perfect conditions or unanimous applause. Yet as soon as the moment passes, we drift back to fighting our factional battles, pulling old disputes off the shelf like cherished heirlooms. We elevate our preferences to principles and our personalities to priorities, and then we wonder why our work feels heavy and our impact light.
My father, Shaykh Mohammed Hanif, often warns us: either our bodies will be lying lifeless, or our iman will be found drowned in heaps of waste. That is the danger we do not worry about—the slow suffocation of faith under piles of distractions, grudges, and self-importance. We behave as if iman is self-cleaning, as if hearts can survive on event flyers and clever posts. They cannot. Hearts live on truth taught clearly, friendship given consistently, counsel offered quietly, and service done faithfully.
We love the idea of responsibility when it’s grand and far away. But responsibility begins where our feet are. It looks like mentoring one struggling teenager. It looks like sitting with a family that’s breaking and staying until something mends. It looks like a shūrā that can tell its most famous member “no.” It looks like redirecting budget from optics to substance—scholar stipends, pastoral care, counselling, and the slow, unglamorous formation that keeps people standing when the stage lights dim.
If we are serious about turning events into change, then every public effort must be tied to formation. A talk should lead to a study circle; a circle should lead to mentorship; mentorship should mature into service and leadership. Each step needs a teacher, a text, a timeline, and real accountability. This is how people are built. This is how work outlasts personalities. This is how we guard iman rather than images.
Accountability is part of that mercy. When harm happens—whether from a thoughtless interview or a careless decision—the faithful response is not to spin, but to repair: acknowledge plainly, assess independently, amend concretely, and adjust roles for as long as needed. Not cancellation, not cover-up—care. Care for the harmed, for the truth, and even for the one who stumbled, so they can return with humility when trust has been rebuilt.
The world will keep feeding us reasons to look away: distant wars that feel too big, local problems that feel too small, and our own idols that whisper, “Protect me first.” But we were not sent to polish idols. We were sent to carry an amānah. If people are dying abroad and drifting from faith at home, the only faithful answer is service that costs us: our comfort, our vanity, and sometimes our pride.
Let’s worry about what truly withers: the iman that can be smothered under the rubble of our egos. Let’s measure our work not by how loudly we defend ourselves, but by how quietly we defend a Muslim’s heart. Let’s honour what Mufti Taqi Sahib reminded us of—leave the petty fights, return to service—and let’s heed the warning of Shaykh Mohammed Hanif: a day is coming when either the body is carried to the grave, or the iman has already been buried under our waste.
Choose now. Guard people over profiles. Build formation over fanfare. Do the next right thing, here and now, with humility and endurance. That is the reality of responsibility.
