When Modesty Dies, the Ummah Bleeds
By: Dr. Aftab Jan
Allah ﷻ gave us the most precious gift: life. He crafted us from a clot of blood, shaped our limbs, caused our hearts to beat, and gave us a body that functions in ways science still struggles to fully explain. He blessed us with youth, energy, time, intellect, and the power to choose between right and wrong.
This body we carry is not ours. It is His amanah — a trust placed upon our shoulders for a short number of years. We are here not to wander lost, but to live for a purpose, to worship, to serve, to build goodness, and to prepare for the eternal home of the Akhirah.
Yet look at us today — look deeply — and you will see that we have become the greatest traitors to the trust that Allah has placed in us. We are wasting our youth, our health, our minds, and our hearts on the lowest desires of dunya. The days that were meant for sajdah, for seeking knowledge, for building families and communities upon taqwa, have been traded away for the fleeting thrill of screens, the poison of haram glances, and the addiction to being seen, praised, and followed.
We have become so busy showing ourselves to strangers that we have forgotten to show our hearts to Allah. We are drowning in a world of reels, likes, shares, and vulgarity so deep that sometimes it seems impossible to escape.
We live in a world today where vulgarity is not just common—it has become the new standard of “expression,” the new definition of “confidence,” and the new idol of modern identity. People dance half-naked for strangers on screens, expose their bodies without shame, and then call it “art,” “freedom,” or “self-love.”
Modesty, once the crown of dignity and the light of the heart, is now ridiculed as backward, oppressive, or “too Islamic.” The Prophet ﷺ said, “Every religion has a characteristic, and the characteristic of Islam is modesty (haya).” But today, that haya has been buried beneath filters, fame, and followers. What used to be hidden with shame is now flaunted with pride, and the Ummah of Muhammad ﷺ claps along—liking, sharing, and spreading this poison as if it carries no consequence.
Look at our cars, our homes, our weddings, our parties—vulgar songs blast shamelessly from our speakers, filling the air with lyrics so obscene that even Shaytan might blush. And yet, we play them with ease. In front of our elders. In front of our children. In front of the very angels who record every sound. Our headphones echo with beats that glorify zina, drugs, arrogance, rebellion—and our tongues hum along as if our hearts no longer remember Allah. We invite Shaytan into our homes through sound, sight, and screen, and still raise our hands and ask, “Why don’t I feel peace?”
Shamelessness has become the badge of modern strength. Women are told, “Be bold, wear what you want, show what you want—this is your power.” Men are told, “Be wild, be lustful, dominate—this is masculinity.” And those who choose modesty? They’re mocked as “old-fashioned.” Those who lower their gaze? “Too strict.” Those who cover for the sake of Allah? “Oppressed.” And the worst? We, the believers, are silent. We fear being called extreme more than we fear Allah. We fear being excluded more than we fear the Hellfire. We fear being unfollowed more than we fear the angels who never stop writing.
But what we forget—what this world desperately wants us to forget—is that these very limbs we use for sin will not remain silent on the Day of Judgment. The eyes that watched those reels, the ears that soaked in filth, the fingers that scrolled through nakedness, the tongues that flirted and cursed, the feet that walked to gatherings of sin—they will all testify against us. Allah ﷻ does not need a video recording. Our own bodies will speak. The Qur’an tells us with terrifying clarity:
“On that Day, their tongues, their hands, and their feet will testify against them for what they used to do.” (Surah An-Nur 24:24)
Can you imagine the horror? Your own tongue, which helped you argue your way through life, now turning against you? Your own hands, once used to post, swipe, and type sin, now saying, “Yes, I did it.” Your own feet, which walked you to haram places, now crying out before the Lord of the Worlds: “Yes, I carried her there.” On that Day, you will wish your limbs could be torn apart, that they would stay silent. But they will speak, and their testimony will be louder than any lawyer, clearer than any excuse.
And yet—do we tremble at this? We read the verse, we know the hadith, we’ve heard the lectures—but our hearts remain dry, untouched. We are addicted to the thrill of sin. It excites us. We laugh while watching vulgar clips, share them with friends, and claim “it’s just for fun.” We waste hours—not minutes, hours—each day on social media, filling our hearts with darkness, our minds with filth, and our time with absolute meaninglessness. Every minute we could have used for dhikr, for Qur’an, for calling our parents, for sincere tawbah, gets buried under scrolling.
And we console ourselves with a lie: “I’ll repent later.” “I’ll change someday.” “I’m still young.” But we forget the most brutal reality of this life—death does not wait. The Angel of Death does not check if you’ve finished your degree. He does not pause your Netflix. He does not wait for your viral reel to finish uploading. When your time is written, you will go—no matter what you were doing. Whether you were in sajdah or in sin, in remembrance or in rebellion, your soul will be snatched. And all that will remain is what you sent ahead. No likes. No followers. No fame. No fashion. Just deeds—either heavy with regret or glowing with sincerity.
Look at our children, the innocent ones born upon fitrah—pure, clean, hearts untouched by sin. Today they are prisoners to glowing screens, trapped in a digital world of vulgar jokes, dances, music, and endless reels that numb their souls. They scroll for hours, their tiny fingers swiping through filth as if it’s normal. Their minds fill with images of indecency, rebellion, and disrespect, and slowly, their hearts harden. Once, children dreamed of being scholars, heroes, leaders, servants of Allah. Now, they dream of being influencers, models, and viral sensations. They measure their worth in followers, likes, and comments, never realizing that all of it means nothing before Allah. And whose fault is it?
O parents—look in the mirror. It is ours. We handed them the devices. We left them alone with Shaytan online. We were too tired, too busy, too focused on our own dunya to teach them who Allah is, who Rasulullah ﷺ is, what Jannah and Jahannam mean. We worried about their grades but not their hearts. We bought them expensive gadgets but never taught them the sweetness of salah. We wanted them to be doctors and engineers, but we forgot to raise them as good human beings. And now we cry when they lock us in old-age homes, chasing their own lives, while we sit abandoned and broken. But the seeds of that abandonment were planted by us, watered by our negligence, and now we are harvesting the bitter fruits.
Even the places meant to save our children—the schools—have become business hubs. Education is no longer sacred. It’s commerce. Fees matter more than faith. Uniforms matter more than understanding. Teachers are overworked, undervalued, and burned out. Students are treated like products, measured by ranks and marks, not by character or taqwa. And amid all this, where is Islam? Where is the Qur’an in their daily life? Where are the lessons of akhlaq, of compassion, of humility? Nowhere. Because our society has decided that success means money, power, and fame—not righteousness, humility, or the pleasure of Allah. So we produce doctors who save lives but forget to pray. Engineers who build skyscrapers but crumble under sin. Professionals who drive luxury cars but abandon their parents and families. And then we wonder: Why is depression rising? Why are youth rebellious? Why do marriages fail? Why does no one feel the sweetness of iman? The answer is clear: We have forgotten Allah.
Islam has never been silent on this issue. Allah ﷻ has warned us again and again, with words that shake the heavens and should shake our hearts: “O you who have believed, protect yourselves and your families from a Fire whose fuel is people and stones.” (Surah At-Tahrim 66:6) This is not poetry, nor empty speech—it is a divine warning about a blazing fire so fierce that its fuel will be human bodies and stones, flames towering like mountains, roaring with anger for those who disobeyed the Lord of all worlds.
Yet look at us—we, the so-called believers, we who claim to love Allah and His Messenger ﷺ. We, the shepherds, have fallen asleep. The very people Allah entrusted to our care—our children, our spouses, our students, our communities—are being devoured by wolves of vulgarity, shamelessness, and the poisonous dunya. The screens that glow in our children’s faces are not just gadgets—they are gateways to darkness, pouring filth into eyes once innocent. The jokes they laugh at are dipped in indecency. The songs they memorize are sermons from Shaytan himself. And while this destruction unfolds, we, the shepherds, snore in heedlessness, busy in our own world, chasing our own careers, our own pleasures, leaving our flock unguarded.
The Prophet ﷺ, who loved us more than we love ourselves, wept tears that fell upon his blessed beard as he begged Allah for our forgiveness. He bled in Ta’if for us, prayed in the depths of the night for us, and on his deathbed, his trembling lips whispered, “Ummati, ummati… my ummah, my ummah…” He feared for our akhirah while we laugh at haram skits and dirty reels. He feared the Fire for us while we play with flames willingly. We say we love him, yet look at how we repay that love: We drown in sin and call it entertainment. We fill our homes with music that makes angels flee. We fill our eyes with haram scenes that rust the heart. We clap for vulgar dances and spread them further with our own hands. We give our children devices that lead them into the arms of Shaytan. And when someone reminds us of Allah, we roll our eyes and say, “It’s just life, let them enjoy.” What enjoyment is this that ends in the grave, that transforms into snakes and scorpions in the darkness under the soil?
We chase dunya as if it will save us from death, as if our cars, our brands, our followers will stand beside us on the Day when the sun will be one mile above our heads, and sweat will rise to people’s throats. We build our homes with marble, but leave our akhirah in ruins. We dress our bodies in designer labels, while our souls are naked and starving. We spend thousands on parties, weddings, gadgets—but hesitate to spend even a fraction on charity, Qur’an, or teaching our children deen. We forget that our bodies will one day become dust, bones shattering, flesh dissolving, and all that will remain is the record of our deeds. The angels have recorded every word we typed, every video we watched, every sin we laughed at, every gaze that betrayed our haya. And there, in that eternal court, no lawyer, no follower count, no diploma, no bank balance will save us. Only one question will remain: Was Allah pleased with you… or not?
Because on that Day, no reels, no followers, no degrees, no cars, no fashion—none of it will matter. The cameras will be gone, the screens shattered, the stage of dunya collapsed into dust. The very fingers that swiped and scrolled endlessly will tremble as they are forced to testify. The tongues that sang vulgar lyrics, that uttered curses, that flirted shamelessly online will stutter in fear, unable to lie before the Lord of all worlds. The eyes that stared with desire at haram images will be lowered in humiliation, wishing they could melt into the earth.
The hearts that once beat faster for notifications and likes will pound in terror at the approach of angels, clothed in fire and lightning. All the illusions of dunya will vanish like smoke. The clothes we prided ourselves on, the brands we chased, the fashion we flaunted—will become worthless rags, unable to shield us from the scorching heat of the Sun, brought low until it hovers above our heads.
Our cars, our mansions, our bank balances—all left behind in the soil that devours our bodies. The degrees we earned, the applause we craved, the social status we clung to—none of it will purchase us a single drop of water on that Day when tongues will hang dry, and souls will beg for mercy.
On that Day, only two things will stand beside us: the deeds we carried and the tears we shed in sincere repentance. The scrolls will be unrolled. The angels will read out every click, every word, every step, every gaze.
Yet how many of us have prepared for that Day? How many of us live as if we believe it’s real? We chase this world as if it’s forever, and forget that one single blow of the trumpet will end it all. May Allah wake us from this heedlessness before the Angel of Death arrives without warning, before the earth seals us in darkness, before our limbs speak against us, and before regret becomes a fire that burns eternally in our chests? May Allah forgive our sins, wipe our records clean, guide our children back to the light, and save us all from the flames of this world and the next.
