If the cause is born of Heaven, no honour counts as loss.

Whether Polycarp of Smyrna, John’s disciple to the end,

Guarding still the Master’s message, faithful witness and friend.

Or Perpetua of Carthage, noble daughter standing tall,

“I am Christian,” she declared, though death itself would call.

Then Justin the Martyr, steadfast, reasoned, unafraid,

“I will not leave the truth for error,” boldly he conveyed.

Witness or martyr, both endure,

Holding fast when trials obscure.

Sabr beneath affliction’s flame,

Different tongues, yet much the same.

The chain of witness binds mankind,

Souls of courage intertwined.

To honour those who came before

Does not diminish us the more.

They lit the candles of their age,

A light preserved on history’s page.

Yet among the noble souls who shined,

One stands foremost in my mind:

Hussein the Martyr, Karbala’s sun,

Whose witness crowns what others begun.

His blood became a living creed,

The highest form of faith in deed.

“Say: Do you worship, beside God, what has no power to harm you or to benefit you? And God is the All-Hearing, the All-Knowing.”

“Say: O People of the Book, do not exceed the bounds in your religion, beyond the truth, and do not follow the desires of a people who went astray before, and led many astray, and themselves strayed from the even path.”

— Qur’an, Surah al-Ma’idah (the Chapter of the Table Spread) #5, Verses 75 to 77

“And those who believed in God and His Messengers — they are the truthful and the witnesses in the sight of their Lord. They shall have their reward and their light.”

— Qur’an, Surah al-Hadid (the Chapter of Iron) #57, Verse 19

From the pulpit to the eulogies, choking with emotions dramatically.

Yet, what does the phrase really mean?

How do we truly live Ashura everyday, can we come clean?

The echo is for the mankind whole,

But the emphasis is for scholars more.

For they can’t claim they don’t know,

Issue is, as Shariati says, what will they do, now that they know?

Will they fulfil their vow for the covenant they made?

Or are they still waiting, until one day they fade?

Fear, love of comfort and narrowed moral vision,

Have let down scores in every season.

The Ummah rose with the revolution of the Holy Prophet,

Yet Ali, Hassan, Hussein, alone were left, as elites filled their pockets.

Scholars went silent when the treaty was broken,

Jihad became a tool for imperial expansion and governance of justice was forgotten.

Imam we mourn stood at Mina and wept for us,

And we weep, per tradition, as we continue to await and fuss.

Isn’t the covenant calling upon us today?

In a world full of injustice as we merely cry away.

— Qur’an, Surah al-Tawbah (the Chapter of Repentance) #9, Verse #71

“Say: Shall We inform you of the greatest losers in respect of their deeds? Those whose efforts have been wasted in this life, while they thought that they were acquiring good by their works. They are those who have denied the signs of their Lord and the meeting with Him, so their deeds have come to nothing — and on the Day of Resurrection We shall assign no weight to them.”

— Qur’an, Surah al-Kahf (the Chapter of the Cave) #18, Verses 103–105

To be slain such, that even upon death, we remain alive.

Provided by the Lord, in the company of giants,

Giants who gave their all to fulfil their covenant with their Master.

For death came upon them, not as victims of unfair crime,

But they walked towards it with knowledge, awake and conscious.

Lives offered for a sacred cause.

Deaths that silenced oppression of the time.

Deep is the longing to partake in the company of Khamenei, Nasrallah and Hajj Qaseem,

But deeper is the yearning to sit in the vicinity of the Master of Martyrs.

Oh Hussein, you were slained in a manner so painful to bear,

But your legacy is the archetype you’ve left till end of time.

Any soul that aims to walk on your path,

Must know, must understand, why?

Are they awake, following not a crowd, a propaganda?

Have they reflected, weighted and chosen?

— Qur’an, Surah al-Ahzab (the Chapter of the Confederates) #33, Verse #23

“Do not think of those slain in the way of God as dead; rather, they are alive with their Lord, being provided for.”

— Qur’an, Surah Aal Imran (the Chapter of the Family of Imran) #3, Verse 169

Every year, as the crescent moon of Muharram rises over the horizon, something ancient stirs inside the conscience of millions. Mosques fill before dawn. Streets ring with lamentation. Eyes that rarely weep are suddenly wet. And beneath all of it — beneath the black garments and the beating chests — pulses a question that no era has ever rendered obsolete:

What does a human being truly live for?

In a world addicted to distraction, this question feels almost unbearable. We pursue comfort, curate our image, accumulate and consume — and still find ourselves hollow at the core. Ashura cuts through this modern noise like a blade. It is not merely a season of mourning for the Ahl al-Bayt; it is a mirror held to the soul, asking us what we value enough to protect, to fight for, to bleed for.

The well-known maxim says it plainly: ”Islam is Muhammadan in its origin, and Husayni in its survival.” But to truly feel the weight of those words — to understand how Imam Husayn (peace be upon him) became the guardian of faith itself — we must first stand on the precipice over which Islam was about to fall.

The Beautiful Mask of a Hollow Religion

The danger confronting the Muslim world in 61 AH was not a frontal assault on the faith. It was something far more treacherous: the slow, surgical hollowing out of Islam’s soul while its outward shell remained polished and intact.

The Umayyad dynasty had transformed the sacred trust of the caliphate into a corrupt hereditary monarchy. But their most lethal project was theological. They bent the language of religion to legitimise their crimes. Oppression was rebranded as the maintenance of order. Silence before tyranny was praised as wisdom. Flattery of corrupt rulers became the highest mark of piety. And in perhaps their most devastating manipulation, the Umayyads weaponised the concept of divine decree — *qadar* — convincing the impoverished masses that their suffering was simply God’s unquestionable will, and therefore not to be resisted.

Imam Husayn saw this with devastating clarity. Had he pledged allegiance to Yazid — even in private, even under duress — that silence would have carried the weight of religious endorsement. The distortion would have calcified. The lie would have become holy tradition.

He said it himself, with the precision of a surgeon and the grief of a grandson:

”One may bid farewell to Islam when the Ummah becomes afflicted with a ruler like Yazid.”

This was not political grievance. It was a diagnosis. And Karbala was the only prescription left.

The Three Types of Human Beings

Across the sweep of history, human lives tend to orbit one of three centres. There are those who live for pleasure — spending the brief capital of their days in the pursuit of sensation and comfort. There are those who live for worldly success — measuring a life by its wealth, its status, its applause. And then there are those lit from within by something greater than themselves: a mission, a principle, a truth worth dying for.

Imam Husayn stands as the most breathtaking manifestation of that third kind of human being.

On the road to Karbala, with a small band of companions and a horizon full of enemy soldiers, he declared his purpose with a serenity that should shake us to our foundations:

”I have not risen out of vanity, arrogance, corruption, or oppression; rather, I have risen to seek reform in the community of my grandfather.”

Notice what is absent from that statement. No self-pity. No desperate bid for survival. Only a soul in perfect alignment with its purpose.

For the mission-driven human being, the value of life is never measured by its length. It is measured by its fidelity to truth. This is why Imam Husayn did not experience his impending martyrdom as defeat. In one of the most staggering declarations in the history of human conscience, he said:

”I see death as nothing but felicity, and life with oppressors as nothing but weariness and misery.”

A man who could speak those words was already free. Karbala could not defeat him, because he had already chosen his battlefield — and it was the battlefield of the soul.

The Plains That Shook the World

From every military calculation, Karbala was a disaster. Seventy-two souls against thousands. No reinforcements. No water — the Umayyad army had sealed the riverbank three days before battle, denying even the children of the Prophet’s household a single drop to drink. This was not merely war; it was the deliberate weaponisation of thirst against innocents.

Yet in choosing to fight rather than submit, Imam Husayn delivered a spiritual earthquake to a society paralysed by fear. The shedding of the Prophet’s grandson’s blood tore the mask from the Umayyad regime and shattered the suffocating culture of compliance that had gripped the Muslim world. He proved, in the most costly way imaginable, that truth is never determined by a headcount, and righteousness does not require a majority.

He had told them as much before the battle began:

”Someone like me cannot give allegiance to someone like Yazid.”

Study those words carefully. He did not say “I” and “Yazid.” He said *someone like me* and *someone like Yazid.* He was not making a personal statement. He was laying down a universal law for every generation that would come after — a timeless standard by which every collision between truth and power would be judged. Whenever conscience confronts corruption, that sentence echoes across the centuries.

The Voice That Carried Karbala to the World

The bodies of the martyrs had barely grown cold when the Umayyad army began its second campaign: the erasure of Karbala from history. They took the survivors — women, children, the sick — as prisoners and paraded them through cities as trophies.

They had not reckoned with Lady Zaynab (peace be upon her).

Dragged before the court of Yazid in Damascus, stripped of her freedom, surrounded by the men who had slaughtered her brother, her sons, her nephews — she stood and spoke. Not in grief. In fury. In a voice so precise and so devastating that Yazid’s propaganda crumbled before it. She named him for what he was. She refused every frame he tried to place around the massacre. She transformed prisoners into witnesses, and a courtroom into a tribunal.

Karbala might have been buried in desert sand, lost to centuries of silence, if not for that woman. Every tear shed in Muharram, every majlis attended, every Ashura observed — it was her voice that made it possible.

A community that silences its women has forgotten Lady Zaynab.

The Blood That Never Dries: Our Responsibility Today

”Every day is Ashura, and every land is Karbala.”

This is not poetry. It is a map.

The struggle Imam Husayn entered on the tenth of Muharram did not end when the last arrow fell. It is the same struggle that confronts anyone who has ever watched the weak crushed by the powerful and been asked, quietly, which side they stand on.

Mourning without transformation is not devotion — it is theatre. To claim love for Husayn while remaining indifferent to the poverty outside our mosques, the injustices in our cities, the corruption in our institutions, is to have understood nothing of Karbala.

The weaponisation of water at the banks of the Euphrates has a thousand modern faces: communities denied clean drinking water, families priced out of the basic necessities of life, the poor punished by the very systems designed to protect them. The followers of Husayn who fund clean water wells, support food banks, and campaign for housing rights are not simply doing charity — they are practising theology.

The Islamic principle of *Amr bil Ma’ruf wa Nahi ‘anil Munkar* — enjoining good and forbidding evil — was not a platitude to Imam Husayn. It was the reason he rose. In the workplace, in the courtroom, in the public square, this principle demands that we speak when it is uncomfortable, stand when it is costly, and name injustice even when the powerful have given it a respectable name.

The Prophet (peace be upon him and his family) said:

”The most excellent jihad is the speaking of a word of truth in the face of a tyrant.”

Imam Husayn lived that hadith on the plains of Karbala. Lady Zaynab carried it forward in the courts of Damascus. And now the word passes to us — in our schools, our community halls, our parliaments, our social media feeds, and every quiet space where we must choose between comfortable silence and costly truth.

We are not called merely to weep. We are called to act. To be Husayni is not simply to shed tears; it is to embody the fierce moral courage those tears represent.

The Question Ashura Will Not Let Us Answer Cheaply

As the drums fall quiet and the lamps of Muharram burn low, Ashura leaves us with one question it refuses to let us answer cheaply:

Imam Husayn answered that question on the tenth of Muharram, 61 AH, in the dust of a desert plain, with his final breath.

He did not die so we could have ten days of beautiful grief and then return unchanged to our lives. He died so that we would know — in our bones, in our blood — that a human being fully alive to their purpose is worth more than a thousand souls sleepwalking through comfort.

Let your heart break for Karbala. Then let those broken pieces become the architecture of something just, something honest, something worthy of the name he gave us.

Its offer of wealth and power in exchange for suppressing my voice against injustice.

How do I explain that the pull isn’t cultural, nor only the faith based upbringing.

That the natural devotion is steeped back in time way before the soul had a body.

That when the Lord asked, ‘Am I not your Lord?’

Yes indeed, I bear witness, the humble soul responded.

The witness is the struggle, a struggle for justice. Justice for all, come what may.

For how can the voice be silenced that promised its Lord even before it was forged.

— Qur’an, Surah al-A’raf (the Chapter of the Heights) #7, Verse 172

“And Noah called to his son, who was standing apart: ‘O my son! Board with us, and do not be with the disbelievers.’ He said: ‘I will take refuge on a mountain; it will protect me from the water.’ Noah said: ‘There is no protector today from the decree of God, except for those on whom He has mercy.’ And the waves came between them, and he was among those who drowned.”

— Qur’an, Surah Hud (the Chapter of Hud) #11, Verses 42 to 43

But who and what shall we cry upon?

Will we lament the Master of Success because he was a victim?

Or shall we grieve our own lack of truthfulness and witness?

For God challenges us in Al-Hadid, that if we want a real reward and light,

As believers in Him and His Messengers,

Witnesses we shall be, whether in death or in life.

— Qur’an, Surah al-Hadid (the Chapter of Iron) #57, Verse #19

“Recite to them the story of the two sons of Adam, in truth. When each of them offered a sacrifice, it was accepted from one of them and was not accepted from the other. He said: ‘I will surely kill you.’ He said: ‘God accepts only from the God-fearing.’”

“If you stretch out your hand to kill me, I will not stretch out my hand to kill you. I fear God, the Lord of all creation.”

— Qur’an, Surah al-Ma’idah (the Chapter of the Table Spread) #5, Verses 27 to 28

Gazza’s tears are frequently remembered as one of the most poignant and historic moments in English football history. They are often credited with humanising footballers by revealing their raw passion and heartbreak, while transforming Paul Gascoigne into a cult hero in the UK.

Part of what made the moment so memorable was that it challenged prevailing social expectations about masculinity. Millions witnessed a grown man openly expressing grief on one of the world’s biggest sporting stages, at a time when such displays of emotion were often discouraged.

For many cultural reasons in the West, the sight of a man shedding tears was often considered a sign of weakness or a lack of masculinity. You may have heard the expression “keeping a stiff upper lip.” It was regarded as gentlemanly to maintain one’s composure and conceal outward displays of emotion.

However, when we reflect on the nature of tears and why they are shed, we can recognise the great benefits that come from weeping.

In Islam, mourning is understood as a holistic emotional and spiritual response. The hadith permit weeping and natural grief, provided that it remains within the bounds of faith, avoids excessive wailing, and does not question Allah’s decree. Tafsir al-Mizan emphasises that grief is an intrinsic part of human compassion, even for the prophets.

It is narrated that when the Prophet’s son took his last breath, the Prophet held him while tears flowed from his eyes. One of his companions expressed surprise, having understood that the Prophet had discouraged excessive displays of grief. The Prophet affirmed that his tears were “signs of tenderness and mercy” and then uttered what became a foundational ethical and spiritual teaching in the Islamic tradition: “He who is not merciful will not be shown mercy.”

The expression of grief, as a testament to one’s love and an abiding awareness of the finitude of human life, can bring a person closer to the Mercy (rahma) of God.

Some of the benefits of mourning and weeping include:

Spiritual cleansing

Imam Ali taught that weeping out of fear of Allah and love for His righteous guides prevents the heart from becoming hardened. It brings noor (divine light) to the soul and acts as both a psychological and spiritual cleanser, helping to protect a person from repeating past sins.

Emotional healing and softening of the heart

Mourning allows a person to acknowledge loss rather than suppress it. Grief that is expressed in a healthy way can help prevent emotional numbness and cultivate greater compassion for the suffering of others. In Islamic teachings, a soft heart is a sign of spiritual health. Tears remind us of our dependence upon Allah, our shared human vulnerability, and the transient nature of this world. Through mourning, a believer can emerge with greater empathy, humility, and appreciation for the blessings that remain.

For Shia Muslims, weeping for the Prophet’s family (Ahlul Bayt) is considered a profound act of worship, spiritual purification, and solidarity with those who stood against oppression.

So, the next time you shed a tear for God, thank Him for that precious gift: the ability to cry, and for the acceptance and encouragement of weeping within your faith. We live in a time when few people shed tears for others. Many men still feel embarrassed to cry in front of those around them. Let us not become uncomfortable with something that has been recommended for the benefit of our souls and exemplified by the best of God’s creation.

“It is He who made the sun a shining light and the moon a derived light, and determined for it phases, that you may know the number of years and the reckoning of time.”
— Quran, Surah Yunus (Jonah), Chapter 10, Verse 5

As organised religion has declined in influence across much of the Western world, many people have begun searching for alternative sources of meaning, identity and spiritual fulfilment. The reasons for religion’s diminished appeal are varied and complex, ranging from secularisation and scientific advancement to scandals within religious institutions and changing social values. Whatever the causes, the result has been a growing spiritual vacuum for some individuals who continue to seek a sense of connection to something larger than themselves.

One response has been a renewed interest in nature-based spirituality and practices often associated with pagan traditions. Rather than looking to established religious hierarchies or sacred texts, many people have turned towards the natural world as a source of wonder, wisdom and transcendence. Seasonal festivals, solstice celebrations, animistic beliefs and modern pagan movements have all gained visibility in recent decades. Even among those who would not identify as religious, ideas about reconnecting with nature, living in harmony with the environment, and finding spiritual meaning in landscapes and natural cycles have become increasingly popular.

This phenomenon is not entirely new. Similar impulses emerged during the Industrial Revolution, when rapid urbanisation and technological change transformed society. As people moved away from rural communities and traditional ways of life, many writers, artists and thinkers reacted by romanticising the countryside and the perceived simplicity of the pre-industrial past. The Romantic movement celebrated nature not merely as scenery but as a source of moral and spiritual renewal. Folklore, ancient customs and local traditions were collected and revived, while interest grew in Britain’s pre-Christian heritage, medieval culture and folk beliefs.

In both the nineteenth century and today, the attraction of nature-based spirituality can be understood partly as a response to periods of profound social change. When established institutions appear less convincing and modern life feels increasingly disconnected from the natural world, people often seek alternative forms of belonging and meaning. The revival of pagan practices and the reverence of nature therefore reflect not simply a rejection of organised religion, but a continuing human desire for spiritual connection—one that adapts to the concerns and circumstances of each age.

What is often overlooked, however, is that Islam itself contains a profound connection to the natural world. In the West, perceptions of Islam are frequently shaped by political events, cultural misunderstandings and media portrayals, leaving many unaware of the faith’s deep appreciation for nature and its place within creation.

Islam teaches that God has sent guidance to humanity throughout history and across the world. The Quran states:

From an Islamic perspective, the message revealed to previous prophets was originally one of submission to God, although many traditions became altered or obscured over time through human intervention.

One beautiful example of Islam’s connection to nature is its use of the lunar calendar. The Islamic months are determined by the sighting of the moon, and throughout the year believers are encouraged to observe the heavens. The beginning of Ramadan, for example, is marked by the appearance of the new crescent moon. Such practices cultivate attentiveness to the rhythms of the natural world and inspire awe at the celestial signs created by God.

Similarly, the daily prayers are linked to the observable movements of the sun throughout the day. The Quran instructs:

These verses demonstrate that the Quran uses observable natural phenomena—particularly the movement of the sun and the transition between day and night—as indicators for the times of worship. Rather than separating the believer from nature, Islamic practice encourages an awareness of it throughout each day.

Furthermore, authentic traditions of the Prophet Muhammad emphasise that worship is not confined to designated religious buildings. One of the most famous sayings of the Prophet states:

“The whole earth has been made a place of prayer for me, and a means of purification. Therefore, wherever a person of my community is when the time for prayer comes, let him pray.”

This teaching sanctifies the natural world as a place in which human beings can worship and draw closer to God.

The Quran also reinforces the importance of respecting creation. One verse which highlights the sacredness and interconnectedness of the natural world states:

This remarkable verse portrays the whole natural world—animals, plants, mountains, rivers and all living things—as participating in the worship of God. Nature is presented not merely as a resource for human use, but as a community of beings with spiritual significance in their own right.

Here we find an interesting contrast with pagan traditions. Islam teaches a deep reverence for nature, yet nature itself is not considered divine. Rather, it is understood as a sign of the Divine—a manifestation of God’s wisdom, creativity and power. The natural world is therefore to be respected, contemplated and protected, not worshipped.

Perhaps if more people searching for spiritual meaning were exposed to this dimension of Islam, they would discover that the harmony with nature they seek is not absent from the Abrahamic traditions. Rather, it has been present within Islam all along, woven into its calendar, its rituals, its scripture and its understanding of humanity’s place within creation.

The Most Socially Acceptable Sin on This Entire List

Here is something worth pausing on before we begin.

Of all the greater sins we have covered so far — Shirk, murder, sodomy, false accusation, usurping orphans’ property — drinking alcohol is probably the one that would raise the fewest eyebrows at a dinner party in modern Britain. You can walk into any supermarket and buy it. It is advertised on billboards, celebrated at weddings, offered at business lunches, and woven so deeply into the fabric of British social life that declining it often requires an explanation.

And yet Islam — with complete consistency across the Quran, the Prophet (S), and every single one of the Ahlul Bayt (AS) — placed the drinking of alcohol among the gravest sins a human being can commit.

Not as a cultural preference. Not as an optional guideline. As a clear, firm, non-negotiable prohibition with consequences described in language that should make every Muslim sit up and pay attention.

The thirteenth among the greater sins is drinking liquor. Its seriousness is confirmed in the traditions of Imam Musa al-Kadhim (AS), Imam Ali al-Ridha (AS), and Imam Muhammad al-Taqi (AS).

The Quran’s Gradual But Absolute Prohibition

One of the most instructive aspects of Islam’s treatment of alcohol is how the prohibition arrived. It didn’t come all at once. It came in stages — and understanding those stages reveals the extraordinary wisdom of Allah in dealing with human beings.

First came a verse acknowledging that wine has both benefit and harm — but that the harm outweighs the benefit (Surah al-Baqarah, Chapter 2, The Cow, Verse 219). Then came a prohibition on praying while intoxicated (Surah an-Nisa, Chapter 4, The Women, Verse 43). And finally — the complete, absolute, unambiguous prohibition in Surah al-Ma’ida, Chapter 5, The Table Spread, Verse 90-91):

Notice what Allah names as Shaytan’s two goals with alcohol — animosity and hatred between people, and aversion from the remembrance of Allah and from prayer. Not simply personal harm. Social destruction and spiritual disconnection. These are the twin engines of alcohol’s damage, and they are as observable today as they were in seventh century Arabia.

The scholars note that the word used at the end — “So will you not desist?” — is remarkably gentle for a prohibition of this gravity. Allah is not commanding with a harsh ultimatum. He is almost appealing — surely now you understand? Surely you will stop? It is the tone of a merciful Creator who has just explained clearly why something is harmful and is now trusting His creation to make the right choice.

The Root of All Evils

Ayatollah Dastaghaib Shirazi includes one of the most striking descriptions of alcohol in all of Islamic literature — a narration that gives this sin its full context.

The Imam (AS) said: “Disobedience to the order of Allah is mostly due to alcoholism. The alcoholic abandons Salat. He even commits incest under the influence of alcohol. He loses his senses.”

Mostly due to alcoholism. This is not a casual observation. This is a statement about causation — about the relationship between alcohol and every other sin on this list. When the intellect is removed — when the barrier between impulse and action is dissolved by intoxication — every other prohibition becomes vulnerable.

The person who would never commit Zina while sober — might, while drunk. The person who would never say something unforgivable to their parents — might, while drunk. The person who would never gamble — might, while drunk. The person who would never make a financial decision that destroys their family — might, while drunk.

This is why the Ahlul Bayt called alcohol umm al-khabaith — the mother of all evils. Not because it is the worst sin in isolation, but because it gives birth to every other sin. It is the master key that unlocks doors that every other part of a person’s conscience and faith had kept firmly shut.

What the Ahlul Bayt (AS) Taught — And the Imagery Is Vivid

The traditions of the Ahlul Bayt on this subject are among the most viscerally powerful in all of Shia literature. They didn’t speak about alcohol abstractly. They painted pictures.

Imam Muhammad al-Baqir (AS) said: “On the Day of Qiyamat, the drunkard will come with a black face, a protruding tongue, and saliva dripping upon his chest.” And he will scream: “Thirst! Thirst!” And Allah will have the right to make him drink from the well that contains the pollutants of the adulterers.

The image is deliberately uncomfortable. The person who spent their life seeking pleasure in the glass arrives at the Day of Judgement bearing the visible marks of that choice — thirsty, undignified, their condition announcing to all what they chose in this world.

Another narration states: “Certainly, even if a person swallows only a mouthful of wine — at that very moment, the angels, the Prophets, and the righteous believers send their curses upon him. And when he drinks enough to become intoxicated, the spirit of belief leaves his body and is replaced by a dirty, accursed, devilish spirit.”

That last image — the spirit of belief departing and a devilish spirit taking its place — explains so much about what we observe in people under the influence of alcohol. The personality shifts. The inhibitions dissolve. The person becomes capable of things their sober self would be horrified by. Islam is saying: that is not simply a chemical process. Something spiritual is happening. The light of iman is temporarily extinguished and something darker fills the space.

And then this — perhaps the most sobering statement of all — the Holy Prophet (S) said:

“One who is careless of salat will be deprived of my intercession and will not be able to reach me at the pool of Kawthar. And by Allah — my intercession will also not reach the one who consumes intoxicants, and he will not be able to reach me at the pool of Kawthar.”

The pool of Kawthar — the river of abundance that the Prophet (S) will offer to his believers on the Day of Judgement. The Prophet is saying: I will be there. I will be waiting. But the one who consumed intoxicants will not be able to reach me. That is not a punishment imposed from outside. It is the natural consequence of the distance they created in this life.

The Ten People the Prophet Cursed

One of the most distinctive aspects of the Islamic prohibition on alcohol is how far it extends. It is not only the drinker who is implicated. The Prophet (S) specifically cursed ten categories of people in connection with wine — and the list is remarkable in its scope.

The one who plants the vine intending to produce wine. The one who presses the grapes. The one who drinks it. The one who carries it. The one it is carried to. The one who sells it. The one who buys it. The one who serves it. The one who serves it to others. And the one who consumes the money earned from it.

Ten people. The entire chain from grape to glass — every person who touches that chain with intention and knowledge is implicated. This is Islam’s way of saying: you cannot participate in the ecosystem of harm and claim innocence because you personally didn’t take the final step.

In a modern context — this principle deserves honest reflection. Working for a company whose primary product is alcohol. Managing a pub. Driving alcohol deliveries. Investing in alcohol stocks. Each of these sits somewhere on the chain the Prophet described.

The Intellect — The Most Sacred Gift

To truly understand why Islam treats alcohol with such seriousness, we need to understand how Islam views the human intellect — the ‘aql.

In Shia theology, the intellect is one of the most precious gifts Allah gave to humanity. It is the faculty that distinguishes us from animals. It is the instrument through which we recognise Allah, understand His commands, weigh our choices, and navigate our responsibilities. The Imams (AS) spoke about the ‘aql with extraordinary reverence — Imam Ali (AS) described it as “the foundation of the human being.”

Alcohol’s primary function is to impair the ‘aql. To fog it. To slow it. To gradually switch it off. And in doing so, it attacks the very thing that makes a human being a moral agent — capable of worship, capable of responsibility, capable of being held accountable before Allah.

This is why the Quran lists intoxicants alongside gambling, stone altars, and divining arrows — all things that, in their different ways, remove human agency and rational choice. They are all tools of Shaytan for precisely the same reason — they disable the faculty through which a person can choose Allah over their desires.

The Prophet (S) said: “Allah did not send any Prophet except that He took a covenant from them — that they would not drink intoxicants.” Not a single Prophet in all of human history. All of them — from Adam to Muhammad (S) — bound by this same covenant. This universal prohibition, cutting across every era and every nation, tells us that the harm of alcohol is not cultural or contextual. It is fundamental to what it means to be a human being in relationship with Allah.

What About Small Amounts? What About “Just One Drink”?

This is the question almost every Muslim living in the West encounters — whether from their own temptation or from the social pressure of non-Muslim colleagues, friends, and family.

The Islamic position, stated clearly and without ambiguity by the Ahlul Bayt, is that the prohibition is on the substance — not only on the amount that causes intoxication.

Imam Ja’far as-Sadiq (AS) was asked: “If a small amount does not intoxicate — is it permissible?” He replied: “No. The large amount that intoxicates — its small amount is also haram.”

The logic is simple and profound. The river and the puddle are both water. The ocean and the glass are both ocean. If the substance itself is prohibited — it is prohibited in every quantity. There is no Islamic concept of a safe amount of alcohol, a social amount, a one glass at dinner amount. The line is at the substance itself — not at the point of visible intoxication.

According to the traditions of the Ahlul Bayt, taking wine as medicine is also haram. The Ahlul Bayt have prohibited the consumption of any intoxicant as medicine. Allah has not placed any curative effect in any intoxicant.

This teaching addresses a common modern justification — that small amounts of wine are good for heart health, or that alcohol-based medications are necessary. The scholars offer important nuance: there are narrow exceptions in genuine medical emergency where no alternative exists — but these are genuine emergencies, not convenient justifications. And the general principle remains: the cure will not be found in what Allah has prohibited.

Living as a Non-Drinker in Britain

Let’s be practical for a moment — because for Muslims in Rochdale, Manchester, Birmingham, London, or anywhere else in Britain, this sin is not a theoretical concern. It is a daily social reality.

The office Christmas party. The colleague’s birthday. The work lunch where wine is poured automatically. The wedding of a non-Muslim friend. The family gathering where others drink freely. Navigating all of this with dignity, without judgment of others, without making every social occasion about your own religion, while firmly and quietly maintaining your own boundary — this requires real skill and real confidence.

A few principles from the Ahlul Bayt’s teaching that help:

You don’t need to explain yourself extensively.
“I don’t drink, thank you” is a complete sentence. You don’t owe anyone a theological lecture. Quiet confidence is more dignified — and more effective — than defensive explanation.

Don’t judge those who drink around you.
Islam did not make you the guardian of other people’s choices. Your job is to protect your own choices — not to make others feel guilty about theirs.

Be the person who makes sobriety look attractive.
The best da’wah is the person who is clearly happy, engaged, and at ease without a drink in their hand. People notice. More than you think.

Know your limits in social situations.
There is wisdom in avoiding environments where the pressure to drink is overwhelming, where your faith is being mocked, or where maintaining your boundary costs you so much social capital that it begins to damage other important relationships. Wisdom and firmness are not opposites.

Tawbah — For Those Who Have Struggled or Are Struggling

This article would be incomplete without addressing directly those who are struggling with alcohol — whether occasionally, habitually, or in the grip of genuine addiction.

Islam has always been clear that addiction does not strip a person of their humanity or their relationship with Allah. The person who struggles with alcohol is not a lesser Muslim. They are a Muslim carrying a heavy test — one that has physiological, psychological, and social dimensions that cannot be simply wished away with willpower.

The path of tawbah begins with honesty. Acknowledging the struggle to Allah — not performing piety, not pretending the problem doesn’t exist, but genuinely, vulnerably turning to Him with it. The duas of Imam Zain al-Abidin (AS) in Sahifa Sajjadiyya were written for exactly this kind of raw, honest turning toward Allah.

Seeking practical help — whether through community support, professional counselling, or trusted family members — is not weakness. It is the intelligent use of the means Allah has placed in the world.

And every single day that a person in recovery chooses not to drink — that choice, made for the sake of Allah, carries a weight of worship that a person who has never struggled cannot fully appreciate.

A Closing Thought

Alcohol sits thirteenth on this list — and its placement immediately after the sins of sexual immorality is not accidental. They share a common thread: they all involve the overriding of the divine gift of ‘aql — reason, consciousness, and moral agency — in favour of immediate physical pleasure.

The Quran calls it rijs — filth, defilement. Not just haram. Filth. The strongest term of repulsion the Arabic language offers. And then it calls it min ‘amal ash-Shaytan — from the work of Shaytan. Not a neutral substance that happens to have negative side effects. An active tool of the one who has made it his life’s mission to lead humanity away from Allah.

In a world that has made alcohol almost synonymous with celebration, relaxation, and social belonging — choosing to abstain is quietly countercultural. It is an act of trust in Allah’s wisdom over the world’s convention. It is a declaration that your clarity of mind, your relationship with your salat, and your proximity to the Prophet (S) at the pool of Kawthar — are worth more than any glass.

May Allah make us among those who guard the gift of ‘aql He placed within us, protect us from every substance that dims the light of iman in our hearts, and give us the strength and grace to navigate a world full of it with dignity and peace. Ameen.

— Nineteen Eighty-Four, George Orwell

There is a new global famine and disease spreading across the modern world, particularly within wealthier societies. Yet this is no ordinary famine. It is a deadly one — subtle, invisible, and capable of destroying entire civilisations from within.

Why have we heard so little about it?

Because it is hidden beneath the surface of our daily lives, concealed by systems that shape, organise, and condition society. It is not discussed in headlines or measured in statistics, yet its effects are everywhere.

It is the absence of love.

Love has, in many ways, become an uncomfortable and almost embarrassing concept in our sterile, hyper-programmed society. Its decline is reminiscent of the dystopian world depicted in Nineteen Eighty-Four, where love itself becomes a rebellious act against a system demanding total emotional loyalty to the state. We comfort ourselves by believing such worlds are fictional, yet every social reality first existed as an idea in the mind of someone before it was implemented and normalised.

Through subtle forms of social engineering and psychological conditioning, men and women are increasingly persuaded that their work, productivity, and economic output matter more than their spouses, children, parents, or communities. A woman facing an unplanned pregnancy may feel pressured to terminate it because it is considered “inconvenient” or “financially unviable.” Couples delay marriage indefinitely due to financial insecurity. Elderly parents require care and companionship, yet their children often feel unable to support them because work commitments dominate their lives.

If we paused for a moment to reflect honestly on our condition, we might realise that much of this is not inevitable. It is learned behaviour — a way of living we have gradually been conditioned to accept.

In an Islamic worldview, however, the hierarchy of devotion is profoundly different. Our ultimate loyalty belongs first to God, then to our families, communities, and moral responsibilities. Work and material pursuits occupy a lower place. This understanding emerges from the principle of Tawhid — the affirmation of God’s absolute unity, sovereignty, and uniqueness.

The ideology through which we interpret life shapes our responses to others. If society is built upon materialism and individualism, relationships become transactional and fragile. But if it is rooted in divine consciousness, then mercy, sacrifice, and love naturally flourish.

So what, then, is love?

The Ancient Greeks identified several forms of love, recognising its complexity and depth. There is eros, romantic love grounded in attraction and intimacy; philia, the love of deep friendship and companionship; and agape, the highest form of love — unconditional, selfless, and merciful love. It is this agape that most closely resembles the love God extends toward His creation.

Today, however, society places overwhelming emphasis on self-love and self-preservation, while genuine sacrificial love steadily diminishes.

The Quran reminds us:

And again:

It is said that the word “love” appears in the Qur’an dozens of times. The foundation of all love begins with God’s love for His creation. From this divine source flows the believer’s love for God, and from that love emerges compassion toward family, neighbours, and humanity itself.

This love must also extend beyond one’s own community. A sincere Muslim believer is commanded to uphold justice, compassion, and dignity toward the People of the Book — Jews and Christians — who likewise worship the One God. The Quran repeatedly calls humanity toward mutual understanding rather than hatred, teaching believers to engage others with wisdom, mercy, and beautiful conduct.

This spirit is beautifully captured in the words of Imam Ali ibn Abi Talib, who said:

“People are of two kinds: either your brothers in faith or your equals in humanity.”

In a world increasingly divided by tribalism, politics, and suspicion, these words remain profoundly relevant. Love rooted in God should soften the heart rather than harden it. A believer who truly knows God cannot become consumed by arrogance, cruelty, or hatred toward others.

However, love in the Islamic sense is not passive weakness, blind tolerance, or silent acceptance of oppression. To love humanity does not mean turning away from injustice or allowing cruelty to flourish unchecked. There can be nothing loving about permitting tyranny, exploitation, or suffering to spread through society while remaining indifferent in the name of “peace.”

True compassion requires moral courage. A believer is called not only to mercy but also to justice. The Quran repeatedly commands believers to stand firmly for what is right, even when it is difficult or personally costly. To defend the oppressed, protect the vulnerable, and resist corruption are themselves acts of love — because they seek to preserve human dignity and prevent unnecessary suffering.

A society that normalises injustice in the name of tolerance eventually becomes spiritually diseased. Love divorced from justice becomes sentimentality, while justice without love becomes cold and oppressive. Islam calls toward a balance between the two: mercy guided by truth, and strength tempered by compassion.

Even the prophets, saints, and righteous figures throughout history did not remain silent in the face of oppression. Their love for humanity compelled them to confront injustice rather than accommodate it. Genuine love seeks the flourishing of the human soul and the protection of human dignity, and sometimes this requires resisting systems, ideologies, or powers that degrade and dehumanise people.

To stand against oppression is therefore not a contradiction of love, but one of its highest expressions.

A godless society ultimately becomes a loveless one.

When I speak of a God-centred society, I mean one grounded in Tawhid: a society that recognises, affirms, and praises the One God — acknowledging His unity, majesty, mercy, and sovereignty. The truest response to such a God is not merely fear, ritual, or transaction, but a relationship built upon love, reverence, awe, and gratitude.

For the mystic and the sincere believer alike, love is the highest form of worship. It is the purest spiritual state: to love God so deeply that compassion overflows naturally into every human relationship. Without this sacred love, societies become cold, fragmented, and spiritually barren. Laws alone cannot sustain civilisation. Economies alone cannot heal the human soul.

Human beings thrive only when love exists between parent and child, husband and wife, neighbour and stranger — and this love can only endure when rooted in something greater than the self.

True love originates from the grace of God. Remove that divine source, and society slowly withers. Preserve it, and humanity flourishes.

Oh God, help us through your grace to live in this love - in the words and prayer of Imam Zayn al-Abidin, a member of the Ahl ul bait:

“O Allah, how sweet is the taste of Your love, and how delightful is the drink of Your nearness.”

We often find it easy to befriend a kind and friendly person, but what about the person who is difficult, unpleasant, or harsh? Our faith calls us to die to ourselves. This means becoming less selfish and placing the needs of others before our own. It is the path we are called to take, though it is far from easy. It requires prayer, learning about our faith, patience, and perseverance.

One quote that captures this challenge comes from the famous Greek philosopher Socrates, who stated:

“Those who are hardest to love need it the most.”

Socrates’ short but striking observation is both a moral challenge and a practical guide for relationships. The people who push us away, act out, or seem impossible to understand are often those whose inner wounds cry out most deeply for connection. This paradox — that resistance can signal need rather than rejection — lies at the heart of compassionate relationships, whether romantic, familial, or platonic.

We are reminded of this in the Quran. In Surah al-Furqan, Chapter 25, The Criterion, Verse 63, Allah says:

Another verse, from Surah Fussilat, Chapter 41, Explained in Detail, Verse 34, teaches us:

In a time where people can simply “switch someone off” with a click of a button — liking or disliking, following or unfollowing — this mindset has become increasingly rare. Yet true care cannot exist only in life’s easy and lovable moments. It must be an intentional stance toward people, even when they are difficult.

It is often easier to avoid these situations altogether. Some of us shy away from conflict or confrontation because we fear discomfort or rejection. Yet this, too, is part of our struggle. We are called to be brave, patient, and steadfast in the face of such trials. We must also develop a thicker skin so that we can support those who may themselves be struggling, even if they disguise that struggle through hostility, defensiveness, or antagonistic behaviour.

When we begin to see difficult behaviour as a signal rather than a final judgment on a person’s character, we move from irritation toward understanding.

People who are “hard to love” wear many masks: the chronically distant partner, the friend who lashes out under stress, the family member who constantly criticises, or the colleague who undermines others. Their actions can feel deeply personal, and sometimes they are. Yet often these behaviours reflect old fears, insecurity, scarcity mindsets, or learned survival strategies. Some people believe that their best form of defence is attack.

One helpful approach is to look beyond the behaviour itself. Instead of asking, “What is wrong with this person?” we can ask, “What is this person trying to protect?” Defensive behaviour often conceals vulnerability. Seeing interactions through this lens allows us to respond with curiosity rather than counterattack.

It is also important to respond rather than react. When someone behaves harshly, our instinctive reactions often escalate the situation. Taking a moment to pause, recognise our emotions internally, and choose a measured response can help de-escalate tension. In doing so, we model safety and calm, which may gradually reduce the other person’s need for emotional armour.

At the same time, loving difficult people does not mean tolerating abuse. There is an important distinction between empathy and enabling. Healthy compassion means listening, showing understanding, and offering support where possible. Harmful enabling means excusing repeated mistreatment or abandoning necessary boundaries.

In long-term relationships, for example, a partner who withdraws after conflict may actually be expressing a fear of abandonment. Rather than forcing engagement through argument, offering reassurance and maintaining gentle, consistent communication may help them feel safe enough to reconnect. Similarly, friends who are highly critical may be reflecting the harshness with which they view themselves. A calm response such as, “You sound frustrated — would you like to talk about it?” can sometimes soften the dynamic. Within families, where old wounds and patterns often run deep, patient curiosity combined with clear boundaries usually achieves more than constant confrontation.

Socrates’ wisdom invites us to widen our empathy without losing ourselves in the process. It calls us to compassionate engagement guided by wisdom: to recognise the pain beneath the hostility, to offer presence where we can, and to protect our own emotional and spiritual wellbeing when necessary. Sometimes the greatest form of love is quiet — a steady refusal to give up on someone while still speaking truth with honesty and grace.

If you find yourself frustrated by someone you care about, try applying the teachings from the Quran and the Prophet Muhammad (S) alongside Socratic insight and translate their most difficult behaviour into a need that may be hidden beneath it. This shift — from blaming to understanding, from reacting to responding — does not guarantee transformation, but it does create a human space where change becomes possible.

In the end, patience, gentleness, and tolerance are not signs of weakness, but of spiritual strength. The Prophet Muhammad (S) taught:

“No sooner is leniency added to something than it adorns it, and no sooner is it removed from something than it spoils it.”

In a world increasingly shaped by impatience and division, perhaps the greatest act of faith is to respond to hardness with mercy, wisdom, and dignity.

The Weapon Everyone Has Access To

Most of us will never commit murder. Most of us will never steal from an orphan. Most of us will never deliberately deal in Riba or destroy an entire family through financial exploitation.

But every single one of us carries a weapon we use every single day. Sometimes carelessly. Sometimes deliberately. Sometimes, without even realising the damage it is doing.

That weapon is our tongue. And the twelfth greater sin is one of the most devastating things that tongue can do — falsely accusing an innocent person of sexual immorality.

Qadhf (قذف) — the word literally means to hurl or to throw. And that image is perfect. Because when you accuse an innocent person of Zina, you are hurling something at them — something that sticks, that spreads, that follows them, that can destroy their reputation, their marriage, their family, their entire life — in a single moment, with a single sentence.

And Allah takes it very, very seriously.

What Exactly Is Qadhf?

The twelfth greater sin is Qadhf — wrongfully accusing a chaste Muslim man or woman of adultery or homosexuality. This is confirmed by the Holy Prophet (S), Imam Ja’far as-Sadiq (AS), Imam Musa al-Kadhim (AS), and other Imams of the Ahlul Bayt (AS).

Linguistically, Qadhf means to throw, and in Islamic law, it signifies the act of throwing slander at a person to destroy their honour. According to the consensus of Islamic scholarship, it is a grave sin and specific legal crime of falsely accuse a chaste Muslim of unlawful sexual intercourse without the backing of four qualified eyewitnesses.

Notice the precision in that definition. It is not just any false accusation. It is specifically the accusation of Zina — sexual immorality — directed at a chaste person. Why is this sin singled out so specifically? Because of all the accusations that can be made against a human being, the accusation of sexual immorality is uniquely destructive to their dignity, their relationships, and their standing in the community. It strikes at the most intimate, personal, and vulnerable aspects of a person’s life.

And Islam — a faith that guards human dignity as one of its foundational principles — responds to this attack with one of its most severe prohibitions.

The Verse That Changed History

The revelation of the Quranic verses on Qadhf did not come in abstract. It came in response to a real event — one of the most painful episodes in the life of the Prophet’s household (S) — an event that tore through the early Muslim community and left wounds that took time to heal.

In Surah an-Nur, Chapter 24, The Light, Verse 4, Allah declares:

Three separate consequences are packed into one verse. Eighty lashes. Permanent rejection of testimony. The designation of fasiq — transgressor. This stringent law serves primarily to protect individual honour and safeguard the fabric of society from suspicion and discord.

And then in Surah an-Nur, Chapter 24, The Light, Verse 23, Allah goes further:

Cursed. In this world AND the next. Not just punished — cursed. The Arabic word lu’ina carries the meaning of being removed from Allah’s mercy. It is one of the most serious descriptions in the Quran of a person’s spiritual state.

Committing Qadhf without repentance incurs a curse from Allah in this life and the hereafter, highlighting its profound gravity as a sin against both the individual and the community.

What the Ahlul Bayt (AS) Taught

The Imams (AS) spoke about this sin with particular gravity — because they understood, intimately, what it means to have one’s honour attacked unjustly. The Ahlul Bayt themselves were not immune to the tongues of their enemies. They knew the pain of false accusation from lived experience.

The Holy Prophet (S) listed Qadhf among the seven most destructive sins — the mubiqa’t — the sins that bring absolute ruin. He said:

“Avoid the seven destructive sins — Shirk, magic, murder, devouring Riba, consuming the orphan’s property, fleeing from battle, and accusing chaste believing women of immorality.”

Seven. And Qadhf sits in that list alongside Shirk and murder. That alone tells us everything we need to know about how seriously the Prophet regarded a person’s honour.

Imam Ja’far as-Sadiq (AS) said:

“Whoever accuses a believer of something in order to disgrace them and damage their reputation — Allah will resurrect that person on the Day of Judgement on the Bridge of Hell until they have come out of what they said.”

Not a symbolic punishment. A literal, prolonged reckoning — suspended over Hell until the account is settled.

And Imam Ali (AS) in Nahj al-Balagha taught a principle that goes to the very heart of this sin:

“The tongue of the believer is behind their heart. When they want to speak, they think first. But the tongue of the hypocrite is in front of their heart — they speak before they think.”

A believer considers before they speak. A believer asks: Is this true? Do I know this for certain? What will these words do to this person? And if the answers are uncertain, they stay silent.

This Is the Age of Qadhf

If there is a single sin in this series that feels most urgently relevant to the world we are living in right now, it is this one.

We live in the age of social media, where an accusation can reach ten thousand people before the accused has even woken up in the morning. Where screenshots are shared without context. Where rumours dressed as concern spread through WhatsApp groups at the speed of light. Where a person’s reputation — built over a lifetime — can be dismantled in an afternoon by someone with a phone and a grievance.

The Quran required four witnesses for a Qadhf accusation to be legally valid. Four. Eyewitnesses. People of unimpeachable character. All four in agreement. This is not a bureaucratic hurdle — it is a profound statement about how seriously Islam regards the presumption of innocence and the protection of honour.

We live in a time where a single anonymous account, a single forwarded message, a single rumour whispered into the right ears, is treated as sufficient evidence to destroy someone. And the Muslim community is not immune to this. Our group chats, our community forums, our majlis conversations — all of them can become vehicles for Qadhf if we are not deeply, carefully conscious of what we are saying and what we are spreading.

The Prophet (S) said:

“It is enough of a lie for a person to narrate everything they hear.”

Everything they hear. Without verification. Without consideration. Just passing on what arrived — because it arrived.

That, in the age of instant messaging, is a warning that could not be more timely.

The Unique Destruction of Sexual Slander

Ayatollah Dastaghaib Shirazi explains why Qadhf — specifically the accusation of Zina — is treated with such severity above other forms of slander.

When you falsely accuse someone of theft, you damage their trustworthiness. When you falsely accuse someone of cowardice, you damage their courage. These are serious. But when you falsely accuse someone of sexual immorality, you attack something far deeper and far more irreparable.

You potentially destroy their marriage. You plant doubt in their spouse’s heart that may never fully leave. You damage their relationship with their children, their parents, and their community. You strip away the most intimate aspects of their dignity and expose them — falsely — to public shame. You take something that exists only in your imagination and weaponise it against a real human life.

And the particularly cruel irony is that once such an accusation is made, the accused is placed in the impossible position of having to prove a negative. How do you prove that you did not do something? The burden shifts. The reputation is already stained. And even if they are fully cleared, some people will always remember the accusation more clearly than the exoneration.

This is why Allah did not simply prohibit Qadhf. He cursed it.

What About True Accusations?

The natural question arises — what if the accusation is true? What if someone genuinely witnessed something or has genuine evidence?

Islam’s answer is precise and demanding. If you have witnessed something unlawful, the correct Islamic response is not to spread it in the community, not to share it on group chats, not to whisper it to mutual friends. The correct response is to bring it through the proper legal and judicial channels — with the full weight of evidence required — and let the appropriate authorities handle it.

The Quran in Surah an-Nur, Chapter 24, The Light, Verse 5 provides an exception for those who repent and reform, allowing for the restoration of their moral status — but this exception applies to the accuser, not to a licence for casual accusation.

What Islam absolutely does not permit is using a person’s real sin — even a genuine one — as gossip. As community entertainment. As a reason to publicly destroy their reputation in the absence of a proper process. The sin of the accused does not give the community permission to run with it.

And if you are wrong — if your accusation turns out to be false, or your evidence insufficient — you become the one carrying the sin of Qadhf, with all its weight and all its curse.

The Connection to the Previous Sins

Notice something beautiful and sobering about the ordering of these greater sins. We moved from Zina in Sin 10 — the actual act — to Qadhf in Sin 12 — the false accusation of that act. Islam is telling us something profound here.

Committing Zina is a greater sin. But so is falsely accusing someone of it. The honour of the innocent person and the honour of the guilty person occupy the same space in Islamic law when it comes to how accusations are handled. The law does not say: if they are guilty, you can say whatever you like. It says: without four witnesses, you do not speak. Full stop.

This is a remarkable civilisational principle. In a world that runs on accusation — where being accused is often treated as equivalent to being convicted — Islam places an enormous, protective wall around the presumption of innocence. And it places an equally enormous warning on the lips of anyone thinking of tearing that wall down with an unfounded word.

How Do We Guard Against This Sin?

Verify before you share. In the Quran, Surah al-Hujurat, Chapter 49, The Private Chambers, Verse 6 commands:

This verse was revealed fourteen centuries ago. It reads like it was written for WhatsApp.

Ask yourself three questions before speaking about another person. Is it true? Is it necessary? Is it kind? If it fails any one of these — stop.

Remember the weight of honour in Islam:

The Prophet (S) said in his final sermon — one of the most sacred moments in Islamic history —

“Your blood, your wealth, and your honour are sacred to one another, as sacred as this day, this month, and this city.”

Honour is placed beside blood and wealth. It is not a small thing. It is a protected right.

Be especially careful in community settings:

The majlis, the community centre, the sisters’ halaqah, the brothers’ group chat — these spaces can become breeding grounds for Qadhf if consciousness is low. You are not obligated to share everything you have heard about everyone you know. In fact, you are often obligated to stay silent.

Make dua for the protection of your tongue:

Imam Ali al-Sajjad (AS) in Sahifa Sajjadiyya has a beautiful dua specifically asking Allah to protect him from the sins of the tongue — to guard it from speaking what should not be spoken, and to bless it only with what is true and what is good. It is a dua worth memorising and repeating daily.

A Closing Thought

In the last three articles, we have talked about Zina, sodomy, and now Qadhf — three sins that all revolve around the same theme: the sacredness of human intimacy, human dignity, and human honour. Islam protects these things from two directions. It prohibits the actual violations — the acts themselves. And it prohibits the reputational violations — the false accusations, the spreading of slander, the weaponising of sexual shame against innocent people.

The believer who takes this seriously is not just avoiding a legal penalty. They are embodying something profound — a deep respect for the sanctity of every human being they share this world with. A recognition that behind every name being discussed in a group chat, behind every rumour being passed along, behind every accusation thrown carelessly, there is a real person. A soul created and loved by Allah. A person whose honour Allah declared as sacred as their life.

Guard your tongue. Not because words are small. But because they are not.

May Allah protect our tongues from slander, our ears from welcoming it, and our hearts from finding any satisfaction in the destruction of another person’s reputation. And may He make us people in whose presence others feel safe — knowing that what they share with us will go no further than our own hearts. Ameen.

A Difficult Conversation — But a Necessary One

Let’s be honest from the very beginning. This is one of the most challenging articles in this entire series to write — not because the Islamic position is unclear, but because we live in a cultural moment where stating that position at all invites criticism, misunderstanding, and sometimes hostility.

But this series is based on Gunah-e-Kabira — a book of Islamic scholarship — and we committed from the start to presenting what Ayatollah Dastaghaib Shirazi actually wrote, faithfully and honestly. So that is what we will do.

The eleventh greater sin is sodomy. And we will discuss it the way the Ahlul Bayt discussed everything — with honesty, with clarity, and without losing sight of the mercy of Allah that runs through even the most serious of warnings.

This article is not about hatred toward any person. Islam does not permit cruelty, mockery, or contempt toward any human being, regardless of their sins. Every soul is precious. Every person struggling with anything — including this — deserves to be treated with the dignity that belongs to every child of Adam (AS). But love for people does not mean silence about what Allah has prohibited. And on that, Islam has always been clear.

The Quran does not address this sin abstractly. It addresses it through one of the most detailed and sobering stories in the entire Book — the story of Prophet Lut (AS) and the people of Sodom.

The eleventh sin classified as a greater sin is sodomy. This is confirmed in the sayings of Imam Ja’far as-Sadiq (AS) and Imam Ali al-Ridha (AS). In fact, the Ahlul Bayt described it as a sin even greater than fornication, with more severe retribution and punishment.

Prophet Lut (AS) was sent to a people who had introduced a sexual practice that had never before existed among humanity — men seeking sexual gratification from other men. He warned them repeatedly. He pleaded with them. He offered them alternatives. They rejected him with arrogance and mockery.

In Surah al-A’raf, Chapter 7, The Elevated Places, Verses: 80-81, Allah records his words to them:

And in Surah Hud, Chapter 11, Verses: 82-83, when the angels of punishment arrived:

The entire civilisation — destroyed. Turned upside down. Buried under stones. The Quran returns to this story repeatedly — in Surah al-A’raf, Hud, al-Hijr, ash-Shu’ara, an-Naml, al-Ankabut, as-Saffat, al-Qamar — more times than almost any other historical account. The repetition is deliberate. This is a warning Allah wanted firmly embedded in the memory of every generation.

And then the final words of that last verse: “And it is not far from the wrongdoers.” Scholars across centuries have understood this as a timeless statement — the fate of those people is not simply ancient history. It is a standing warning for every era.

What the Ahlul Bayt (AS) Taught

Imam Ja’far as-Sadiq (AS) said:

“Certainly Allah destroyed a complete Ummah — the people of Lut (AS) — because they indulged in sodomy. Allah did not destroy even one man specifically for adultery.”

The comparison to Zina — which we covered in the previous article — is significant. Zina is a greater sin with severe consequences. But the Imam is pointing out that the collective, civilisational punishment of divine destruction was specifically associated with sodomy among the people of Lut, not with adultery. This speaks to the unique gravity with which the Ahlul Bayt regarded this act.

The Prophet (S) said: “The thing I fear most for my Ummah is the act of the people of Lut.”

He did not say he feared murder most, or Shirk most, or even Riba — for this specific concern about his community, he named the sin of Lut’s people. Because he saw, even in his own time, early signs of its spread. And history has proven his fear well-founded.

Imam Ali al-Ridha (AS) listed it among the greater sins and explained the wisdom behind its prohibition: it violates the natural order that Allah embedded in creation, destroys the structure of the family, extinguishes the continuation of human lineage, and represents a fundamental rejection of the fitra — the innate nature Allah placed in every human soul.

The Concept of Fitra — The Natural Order

One of the most important concepts in understanding this sin from an Islamic perspective is Fitra — the original, innate nature that Allah created within every human being. It is the spiritual and psychological blueprint of the human soul as Allah intended it.

The Ahlul Bayt taught that the attraction between male and female — and the family structure that flows from it — is part of the Fitra. It is not a cultural convention or a historical accident. It is a divine design. Marriage between a man and a woman, the birth of children, the raising of a family — these are not arbitrary social arrangements. They are embedded in the very structure of creation by the Creator Himself.

When a person acts against the Fitra — and the Imams were clear that this applies to sodomy — they are not simply breaking a rule. They are acting against the design of their own soul. And the consequences of that, the Ahlul Bayt taught, are felt at every level — spiritual, psychological, physical, and social.

This is not a claim that everyone who experiences same-sex attraction is choosing to fight against their nature. The Ahlul Bayt were careful to distinguish between inclination and action. A person may experience desires they did not choose. What they are accountable for is what they do with those desires. And on that — on the act itself — Islamic law is unambiguous.

Sodomy as Kufr — What Does That Mean?

Ayatollah Dastaghaib Shirazi includes a serious discussion in this chapter on a narration that describes this sin as Kufr — disbelief. This requires careful explanation, because it is a strong word and can be misunderstood.

What the scholars explain is that calling this sin Kufr does not automatically mean the person who commits it has left Islam entirely. Rather, it means that this act represents such a profound violation of the divine order — such a fundamental rejection of Allah’s design for creation — that it carries within it the quality of disbelief. It is an act that stands in direct opposition to the testimony that Allah is the Creator whose design for humanity deserves to be honoured.

It is the same way that the Quran calls certain injustices dhulm — oppression in a divine sense. It is a statement about the gravity and the nature of the act, not necessarily a verdict on the person’s eternal status, which remains with Allah alone.

What About Those Who Struggle With Same-Sex Attraction?

This is the question that matters most for the human beings reading this — and it deserves a compassionate, honest answer rooted in the actual teachings of Islam rather than in either cultural capitulation or heartless rigidity.

Islam distinguishes — always — between inclination and action. A person who experiences same-sex attraction did not necessarily choose that attraction. The Ahlul Bayt do not punish people for their feelings. They do not punish people for internal struggle. In fact, the person who feels a forbidden desire, recognises it as such, and chooses not to act on it — that person is engaged in one of the highest forms of jihad an-nafs — the struggle against the lower self. And that struggle is honoured by Allah.

What Islam prohibits — clearly, firmly, without ambiguity — is the act itself. And what it asks of the person who struggles with this attraction is the same thing it asks of every believer who faces difficult desires: to bring that struggle to Allah. To seek His help. To use the tools He provided — prayer, fasting, good company, dua, proximity to the Ahlul Bayt — to navigate a difficult path with dignity and faith.

It is not an easy path. Islam does not pretend it is. But Islam also teaches that no test is given to a soul beyond what that soul can bear. And that every act of patient, sincere struggle against a forbidden desire — when done for Allah — carries a reward proportional to its difficulty.

The Imams (AS) themselves modelled a profound tenderness toward those who struggled and stumbled. They never turned anyone away. They never responded to confession with contempt. They responded with guidance, with a reminder, with the mercy of Allah made practical and human.

The Gateway Sins — What the Ahlul Bayt Warned About

One of the most practically useful parts of Ayatollah Dastaghaib Shirazi’s discussion of this sin is his treatment of what he calls the pathways that lead toward it — the smaller acts that, if not guarded against, can open doors to greater violations.

Imam Ali al-Ridha (AS) specifically warned about lustful gazes directed at young men or boys. This is addressed in the chapter not as a lesser version of the sin but as a gateway — a step on a path that leads somewhere serious. The same principle we discussed in the chapter on Zina applies here — the sin begins long before the act. It begins with what the eyes are permitted to linger on. It begins with what the imagination is fed. It begins with what conversations and relationships are allowed to develop in certain directions.

The Prophet (S) said: “Do not let a man be alone with another man in an isolated place.”

This ruling — known as khalwa — reflects the same practical wisdom as the prohibition on khalwa between unmarried men and women. The Sharia builds fences around the forbidden, not just at the boundary itself but well before it.

The Path of Tawbah

As with every sin in this series — no matter how serious — the door of tawbah remains open while the breath remains in the body.

The specific tawbah from this sin, according to the scholars, requires the same elements as tawbah from Zina — genuine remorse, a firm resolution not to return, repairing what can be repaired, and throwing oneself on the mercy of Allah with complete sincerity.

And Allah — Al-Ghaffar, Al-Tawwab, Al-Wadud — receives every sincere return. The people of Lut who were destroyed were destroyed because they collectively, defiantly, and permanently rejected the message of their Prophet. They were not destroyed for struggling. They were not destroyed for one moment of weakness. They were destroyed for the deliberate, communal, arrogant rejection of Allah’s guidance.

The individual believer who struggles, who falls, who returns — that is a completely different story. And Allah’s response to that story is always mercy.

A Closing Thought

This article was never going to be an easy one. And the world we live in makes honest engagement with this topic even harder — there is pressure from one direction to stay silent out of politeness, and pressure from the other direction to respond with cruelty.

Islam charts a different course. It says this act is prohibited — clearly, firmly, based on the Quran, the Sunnah, and the consistent teaching of the Ahlul Bayt across generations. And it says that every human being who struggles with any sin, including this one, deserves to be seen as a soul — valuable, complex, capable of growth, and never beyond the reach of Allah’s mercy.

The story of Lut’s people is in the Quran as a warning, not just about one specific act, but about what happens to any society that collectively abandons the guidance of Allah and replaces it with the demands of desire. That warning is as relevant today as it was the day it was first revealed.

May Allah protect our children and us from every path that leads away from Him. May He grant us the strength to hold to His guidance even when the world makes that guidance unpopular. And may He show every struggling soul — whatever their struggle — the path back to Him. Ameen.

The pilgrim’s cry echoes through the barren valley: “Labbayka Allahumma labbayk”—“Here I am, O God, here I am.” This is far more than an expression of devotion. It is a profound declaration of allegiance. It is a proclamation that no empire, ruler, race, ideology, tribe, class, or worldly system possesses ultimate sovereignty over human life.

The Quran says of Prophet Ibrahim:

In this sense, the Ibrahimi movement never truly ended. It is a continuous thread woven throughout history. Prophet Musa confronting Pharaoh, Prophet Isa challenging corruption and oppressive orders, and Prophet Muhammad confronting the entrenched structures of Jahiliyyah (Ignorance) are all part of the exact same struggle. It is the eternal struggle to free human beings from servitude to created powers and return them to the worship of the Creator alone.

The Vision of a Tawhidi Civilisation

That movement is still vibrantly alive today. Millions continue answering Prophet Ibrahim’s call from every corner of the earth. What began with a prophet standing almost entirely alone against the religious and imperial orders of his age has blossomed into one of the largest continuing movements in human history.

Yet, the goal of this movement is not domination for its own sake, nor is it the mere replacement of one earthly empire with another. The Ibrahimi project seeks a Tawhidi civilisation: a civilisation deeply rooted in justice, mercy, truth, dignity, wisdom, and the absolute sovereignty of God above all worldly powers.

It invites humanity to the best of both worlds. This invitation is not reserved for one race, one tribe, one class, or one privileged people—it is open to all who sincerely seek truth, justice, dignity, and nearness to the Divine.

The Quranic vision does not reject civilisation itself. Rather, it seeks its highest form: a society where knowledge is joined with wisdom, power is restrained by justice, prosperity is purified by compassion, and human beings are liberated from servitude to false gods and false hierarchies. Its horizon extends far beyond this world, looking toward a beautiful life in nearness to God and, ultimately, paradise.

A Different Kind of Memory

Empires attempt to preserve themselves through grand monuments, vast armies, opulent palaces, and carefully crafted myths of worldly supremacy.
Hajj, however, preserves a completely different kind of memory:

• A prophet who fundamentally rejected false sovereignty.

• A faithful woman striving in unwavering trust and profound sacrifice.

• A son raised specifically for a divine covenant.

• A sanctuary built intentionally far from the gleaming centres of worldly glory.

Yet, from that barren valley emerged a movement that still successfully gathers humanity around a single, unifying declaration: that ultimate loyalty belongs neither to Pharaohs, Caesars, nations, races, nor empires—but strictly to the God of Ibrahim, Ismail, Ishaq, Musa, Isa, Yahya, and Muhammad, peace be upon them all.

Reference: Shaykh Ali Reza Panahian

After migrating from Mesopotamia, Prophet Ibrahim’s family spread across the ancient Near East. While Prophet Ishaq remained connected to the Levant, Prophet Ismail and his mother, Hajar, were settled in the barren valley that would eventually become Mecca.

From the perspective of the ancient world, Mecca seemed entirely insignificant compared to the glittering capitals of Babylon, Egypt, Rome, or Persia. But that was precisely the point. Prophet Ibrahim was not building an empire, nor was he founding a royal dynasty. He was establishing a sanctuary centred entirely on God. The Ka‘bah was raised not as a throne of worldly power, but as a house devoted solely to the Creator.

Hajar: Co-Builder of the Ibrahimi Movement

At the centre of that sacred mission stood Hajar. She was not a passive figure in this historical narrative; she was a steadfast believer, a participant, and a vital co-builder in the Ibrahimi movement.

When she asked Ibrahim whether their settlement in the harsh desert had been commanded by God, and he answered yes, her response was not one of despair, but of profound conviction:

“Then He will not forsake us.”

Her desperate striving between the hills of Safa and Marwa became immortalised within the Hajj itself. Every year, millions of pilgrims reenact her movement. A faithful woman’s sacrifice, trust, and striving became one of the permanent rites of one of the world’s greatest religious gatherings.

The Living Memory of the Rites

Every major rite of Hajj carries this deeply rooted Ibrahimi memory:

• Sa‘y recalls Hajar’s striving and perseverance.

• Zamzam recalls divine provision in the most barren of circumstances.

• The Sacrifice recalls Ibrahim and Ismail’s ultimate submission to God.

• The Stoning Rites symbolise the active rejection of temptation and false obedience.

• Standing at Arafat strips humanity of all worldly illusion before God.

Orbiting the Covenant

Even the outward form of Hajj carries profound revolutionary meaning. Pilgrims meticulously remove all earthly distinctions of wealth, race, class, nationality, and rank. Kings and labourers stand shoulder to shoulder, dressed in simple garments that resemble burial shrouds.

There are no thrones at the centre of Hajj. There are no royal bloodlines and no imperial banners. At the centre stands the Ka‘bah: empty of kings, empty of idols, and centred only on God.

Ultimately, Hajj reverses the normal logic of human history. It is a profound demonstration of not humanity orbiting an empire, but humanity orbiting a divine covenant.

Reference: Shaykh Ali Reza Panahian