A Divine Cry for a Dying Humanity
By: Dr Aftab jan
“Wal-Asr – By Time.” These aren’t just words. This is a divine oath from the Creator of the heavens and the earth—Allah Himself swearing by the most powerful, the most perishable, and the most wasted thing in our lives: time. He doesn’t swear by gold, power, or empires—He swears by time because our time is our life, and our life is silently melting away like ice, moment by moment, second by second, with no pause, no rewind, and no refund.
And yet, the saddest part is this: we are too blind, too distracted, too busy to realize we’re losing the only thing that can never return. Every breath, every tick of the clock, every sunrise and every sunset is part of our journey to the grave. But we live as if we are never going to die.
We act like we have been created for entertainment, for laughter, for scrolling and success—not for worship, not for truth, not for Allah. And this heedlessness is exactly what Surah Al-Asr exposes. It tears off the mask and shows us what we really are: a nation living in loss—massive, eternal loss—unless we return.
The Qur’an is not a book of stories—it is a mirror, and Surah Al-Asr is that piercing mirror. “Indeed, mankind is in loss,” says Allah, without exception, without sugar-coating. And this loss isn’t only financial or physical—it is spiritual, eternal, irreversible.
Look at us today: how are we living? We have turned our life into a race—after likes, views, status, reels, recognition, attention. We don’t even know who we are anymore. We wake up to notifications, not Fajr. We sleep late binge-watching others, not reflecting on our own day.
Our phones are our Qur’ans. Our influencers are our role models. Our rooms are filled with noise, but our hearts are hollow. We don’t sit with the Qur’an, we don’t feel the pain of our sins, we don’t cry in sujood, we don’t even think about death—unless it’s trending. This isn’t living. This is dying while looking alive. Our hearts are covered in darkness, and the scariest part is—we’ve gotten used to it.
Allah gave us one purpose: “I did not create jinn and mankind except to worship Me.” (51:56). But what did we do? We made our own purpose—fame, filters, showing off, chasing material goals, and trying to impress a world that will never care when we’re buried. We replaced the worship of the Eternal with the worship of the temporary. We have reduced our worth to how we look, what we wear, how many followers we have, and how well we perform in front of a camera.
Meanwhile, our soul is crying. Our fitrah—the natural purity Allah created us with—is suffocating under layers of sin, distraction, and digital poison. The Qur’an says: “Know that the life of this world is but play and amusement, adornment, boasting among yourselves, and competition in wealth and children.” (57:20). And still, we run after these things as if we’ll live forever. We have turned away from the very One who gave us time, health, youth, and life. And unless we wake up soon, we may never wake up at all.
Surah Al-Asr doesn’t just warn us—it shows us the only way out. Allah says the exception to this massive loss belongs to those who believe, do righteous deeds, speak the truth, and remain patient. This is the divine formula for salvation. But how many of us live it? We say we believe, but our belief is paper-thin.
Our hearts are full of doubt, our tongues are full of lies, and our lifestyles are built on disobedience. We say we love Allah, but we abandon His Book. We say we follow the Prophet ﷺ, but we ignore his Sunnah. Real belief is not a label—it is lived through every action, every decision, every intention. And where are our righteous deeds?
We’ve replaced good deeds with good content. We seek applause from people, not acceptance from Allah. We waste our energy on selfies but feel lazy in sujood. We donate only when it’s public. We help only when it’s convenient. But righteous deeds are hidden treasures—they are sincerity in the dark, honesty when no one is watching, compassion when no one will thank you.
And speaking the truth—how rare it has become! Today, silence is safer than sincerity. We watch falsehood rise and we scroll past. We see injustice, lies, and corruption in our homes, our society, our media—but we don’t speak, because we fear rejection.
But Allah says: “And do not conceal the truth while you know it.” (2:42). Truth is not always popular—but it is always powerful. And as for patience, it is the final pillar holding everything together. We have lost this virtue in an age of speed. We get angry fast, we give up fast, we expect rewards fast—even from Allah. But the journey to Jannah requires patience—with pain, with delay, with people, with qadr. Allah says: “Indeed, the patient will be given their reward without measure.” (39:10). Sabr is the sign of the true believer. It is not weakness—it is divine strength.
Yet, the deepest tragedy is this: we know all this. We’ve heard it. We feel it. We sense that something is wrong. We feel the emptiness. We know we are far from Allah. We know that chasing reels, trends, and temporary pleasure is not giving us peace. But still—we don’t stop. We don’t return. We cry when a show ends but don’t cry when we miss Salah. We post “Alhamdulillah” but don’t live it.
We say “InshaAllah” but don’t mean it. We say “Imaan” but don’t protect it. And the Qur’an asks us clearly: “Did you think We created you in play, and that you would not be returned to Us?” (23:115). That return is real. That Day is coming. When the angels will wrap us in a white shroud, and we will be lowered into a silent grave, and everything we chased will stay behind. No followers. No filters. No reels. Just you, your deeds, your Book, and your time. And on that day, Surah Al-Asr will not be just a surah—it will be a verdict.
But even in this storm of darkness and loss, there is still hope—immense, beautiful, divine hope. Allah’s mercy is wider than all the oceans, deeper than all our regrets, and more constant than our own heartbeat. No matter how far you have strayed, how filthy your sins, how wasted your life has been—He still waits for you with love. He still calls you by name.
His doors are not closed for the broken, for the stained, for the sinner—for it is for you that He opened the gates of repentance in the first place. The Qur’an says, “Do not despair of the mercy of Allah. Indeed, Allah forgives all sins.” (39:53). If you are breathing, there is still a chance. If your eyes are reading this, then your ice hasn’t fully melted yet. Your time is still in your hand. Your pen is still writing your story. You are not too far gone. You are not unworthy. You are not unloved.
You can return—even now. Right now. You can put the phone down. You can lift your eyes to the sky and whisper “Ya Allah, I’m lost—bring me back.” You can still change your ending. You can still let go of the sins that have shackled your soul. You can still run—run to His Book, run to sujood, run to His Mercy before your soul is run out of your body. Let your eyes weep. Let your heart tremble. Let your knees fall to the ground not out of weakness—but out of yearning, out of repentance, out of finally realizing that the love of Allah is the only real love that was ever worth chasing. You don’t need to be perfect—you only need to be sincere. You don’t need a flawless face for the world—you need a broken heart before your Lord. You don’t need more followers on your page—you need to be followed by the angels of mercy, recording your return. You don’t need fame in this world—you need forgiveness in the next.
This life isn’t over yet—but you don’t know how long you have left. Maybe just days. Maybe just hours. Or maybe… just a heartbeat. Don’t wait for tomorrow, because tomorrow is not promised. Don’t wait to change after Hajj, or after marriage, or after “things settle”—because the grave doesn’t wait. You are not safe yet. Your ending is not written yet. Your scroll is not closed yet. But one day soon—it will be. One day the melting will stop. The breath will end. The soul will rise. And your time—your precious, irreplaceable time—will be gone. On that day, you won’t wish for more reels, more parties, more laughter—you’ll scream for one more sajdah, one more verse, one more chance to say “Astaghfirullah” with sincerity. But there will be no more chances.
So return. Return before your name is spoken in past tense. Return before your bed becomes a grave. Return before your voice is silenced forever. The world may not notice your repentance. But the heavens will shake in joy. The angels will write every tear. And your Lord—your Loving, Forgiving, Patient Lord—will accept you, embrace you, forgive you, and love you more than you ever loved yourself. This is not the end. But it could be your new beginning—a life of light, of purpose, of peace, of closeness to the One who never gave up on you, even when you gave up on yourself. But you must choose now. Before your soul is taken. Before your scroll is closed. Before your clock stops. Because when that final second falls… the only thing left… will be your Surah Al-Asr.
