Beyond the Minarets: The Silent Cries of the Needy
By: Farhan Yousuf
In cities and towns, a remarkable metamorphosis is evident. Towering mosques with radiant domes and slender minarets are ascending swiftly, testaments to architectural ingenuity and profound faith.
These structures, often funded by generous donations, stand as statements of identity and belief. They inspire awe, showcasing the community’s dedication to its spiritual heritage. And yet, in the midst of this grandeur, a quiet question echoes in the hearts of the mindful: Are we honoring the true spirit of our faith, or merely adorning its image?
The soul of any place of worship lies not in its outward magnificence, but in the integrity of the actions it inspires. A mosque gains sanctity through the humility of its worshippers, the sincerity of their supplications, and the warmth of their hearts — not through marble floors, gilded domes, or lofty towers. A prayer offered with genuine intent in a modest setting carries more weight than a thousand recitations within golden halls void of compassion.
What becomes deeply troubling is when, while these lavish mosques are built, the cries of the hungry go unheard just beyond their walls. Imagine a struggling mother — impoverished, unseen — resorting to desperate means to provide a simple meal for her children, while funds are poured into ornamental calligraphy and imported chandeliers. Have we then understood what it truly means to serve God?
This is not a critique of mosque-building itself. Establishing places of prayer is, undeniably, a meritorious act. But the religion that commands us to pray also commands us to care, to feed, to shelter, to uplift.
Faith is not confined within walls; it breathes in the daily acts of kindness we extend to others. It thrives when a hungry soul is fed, when a burdened heart is comforted, when the dignity of a fellow human being is preserved.
We must ask ourselves: What value does a minaret hold if it casts its shadow over a home with no food? What purpose does a grand dome serve if the people around it sleep in despair? Before we spend fortunes beautifying the structure of our mosques, let us ensure that no one in our community is denied the basic necessities of life.
Our faith is a living entity — it is not a relic to be displayed, but a light to be shared. It teaches us that the greatest form of worship is to ease the suffering of another. Feeding the hungry, clothing the poor, educating the orphan, supporting the widow — these are acts that build a different kind of mosque, one constructed in the hearts of people.
Let us strive to build such sanctuaries — invisible to the eye but deeply felt by those whose lives we touch. Let the real beauty of our religion shine through our actions, not just our architecture.
A mosque should be more than a prayer hall; it should be a shelter, a sanctuary, a center of compassion. It should serve not just the spiritually rich, but the economically poor.
Let its doors open wide not only to the pious but also to the broken, the lost, the neglected. In doing so, we fulfil the deeper mission of our faith — to bring light where there is darkness, hope where there is despair, and love where there is none.
Only then can we claim to have truly built something sacred — not just with stones and cement, but with humanity and grace.
(The author hails from Tral in South Kashmir)
