Let Us Be Muslims. Sayyid Abul A'la Mawdudi
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instead of remaining passive receivers of his findings.
For example: Iman implies the possibility of disbelief. The idea that a Muslim is different from an unbeliever is deeply ingrained in our minds. On the basis of this firmly-held notion Sayyid Mawdudi drives home the true nature of Iman. ‘Does it mean that if an unbeliever has two eyes, a Muslim will have four? Or that if an unbeliever has one head, a Muslim will have two? You will say: “No, it does not mean that”.’5 We all think that Muslims will go to Heaven and unbelievers to Hell. But unbelievers, he appeals forcefully to our sense of fairness, which is inherent in every decent human being, ‘are human beings like yourselves. They possess hands, feet, eyes and ears. They breathe the same air as you, drink the same water and inhabit the same land. The God who created you also created them. So why should they be ranked lower and you higher? Why should you go to Heaven and why should they be cast into Hell?’.6
Obviously, an unbeliever is one because he ‘does not understand God’s relationship to him and his relationship to God’, nor, therefore, does he live by it. But, Sayyid Mawdudi asks us to think, ‘If a Muslim, too, grows up ignorant of God’s will, what ground can there be to continue calling him a Muslim rather than an unbelievers?’.7 Now he leaves it to us to answer the unpleasant but crucial and unavoidable question which must follow as its conclusion: ‘Now, in all fairness, tell me: if you call yourselves Muslims but in fact are as ignorant and disobedient as a unbeliever, can you in reality be superior to the latter merely on the strength of bearing different names, wearing different clothes and eating different food? Can you on this basis be entitled to the blessings of God in this world and in the Hereafter?’8
But, fourthly, Sayyid Mawdudi’s argument is never the dry bones of rational logic; it is always alive, a piece of flesh and blood, throbbing with emotion and feeling. The power of his discourse is greatly heightened because he combines the plain and simple logic of everyday life with the emotional argument; we find both deeply intertwined at every step of his writing. He suffuses his rationality with passion, which is an equally important constituent of our being. It is not the passion of frenzy, it is the passion which springs from sincerity and truth.
Put simply: his logic has the warmth of emotion, his emotion the force of logic. Cool arguments joined with burning appeals, with ironic contrasts, with charming eloquence, soak into the very depth of our existence. Together they hammer the truth into our minds and provoke us to respond.
His tone, too, is all along personal and intimate. He does not speak as an outsider who is delivering moral sermons from lofty towers. He is part of us. He shares our agonies and difficult decisions. That is why he is also always prepared to lay bare his innermost feelings and thoughts. It is this personal quality that never lets his discourse become wooden, that always accentuates the force of his appeal.
Look how the foolish and ironic inconsistencies of our conduct towards the Qur’ān are exposed in a convincingly reasoned argument that shakes us to our foundations. The fusion of rationality with feeling compels us to reflect upon our situation as well as awakens us to do something about it:
Tell me: what would you say if somebody got a doctor’s prescription and hung it round his neck after wrapping it in a piece of cloth or washed it in water and drank it? Would you not laugh at him and call him a fool? Yet this is the very treatment being given before your eyes to the matchless prescription written by the greatest of all doctors … and nobody laughs! …
Tell me: what would you think if someone who was ill picked up a book on medicine and began to read it, believing, thinking that this would cure him. Would you not say that he was deranged? Yet this is how we treat the Book which the supreme Healer has sent for the cure of our diseases.9
Or, see how, after depicting the miserable situation in which we Muslims find ourselves today, he appeals to our sense of honour, our sense of justice, and thereby leads us to think about the state of our Islam.
Is this the blessing of Allah? If it is not – but rather a sign of anger – then how strange it is that it is Muslims on whom it is descending! You are Muslims and yet are wallowing in ignominy! You are Muslims and yet are slaves! This situation is as impossible as it is for an object to be white and black …
If it is an article of faith with you that God is not unjust and obedience to God can never result in disgrace, then you will have to concede that there is something wrong in your claim to be Muslims. Although you may be registered as Muslims on your birth certificates, Allah does not base His judgements on what is written on pieces of paper.10
Above all, and fifthly, what matters most, what really startles and provokes us, what compels us to choose and respond to the summons of our Creator, is the rhythm of confrontation that permeates Sayyid Mawdudi’s entire discourse. His rhythm is not that of narration and exhortation, or even mere persuasion. From a series of kernels of simple truth, he expands his rhythm into one that persistently challenges and confronts us.
The simple truths, in his hands, become the tools with which he makes us expose our inner selves, as well as they provide us with a powerful critique of our society. His purpose is not to preach to us, but to change us. He wants us to think for ourselves and make our own choices. What startles us is the way he lays bare the implications of what we have always so placidly and lazily continued to believe; what provokes us is the way he divulges our inner contradictions and hypocricies, our incongruous, incomprehensible attitudes towards things we claim to value most.
The above examples illustrate how everything that Sayyid Mawdudi says pulsates with the rhythm of confrontation. But nowhere does it stand out so sharply and powerfully as when he calls upon us to compare our lives and conduct with those of Unbelievers:
Unbelievers do not read the Qur’ān and do not know what is written in it. If so-called Muslims are equally ignorant, why should they be called Muslims? Unbelievers do not know the teachings of the Prophet, blessings and peace be on him, and the straight path he has shown to reach God. If Muslims are equally ignorant of these, how can they be Muslims? Unbelievers follow their own desires instead of the commands of Allah. If Muslims are similarly wilful and undisciplined, setting their own ideas and opinions on a pedestal, indifferent to God and a slave to lust, what right have they to call themselves Muslims? …
… [indeed] almost the only difference now left between us and Unbelievers is that of mere name …
I say ‘almost’ because there is, of course, a difference between us: we know that the Qur’ān is the Book of God, … yet we treat it as an Unbeliever treats it. And this makes us all the more deserving of punishment. We know that Muhammad, blessings and peace be on him, is the Prophet of Allah and yet we are as unwilling as an Unbeliever to follow him.11
There are many reasons for these paradoxes. But one reason Sayyid Mawdudi explains in his characteristic style: ‘You know the damage caused if crops are burnt; you know the suffering which results from failure to earn a livelihood; you know the harm resulting from loss of property. But you do not know the loss of being ignorant of Islam.’12
Finally, let us look at one especially exquisite extract from Sayyid Mawdudi’s discourse which epitomizes all the distinguishing characteristics of his style. Answering the question, has the Prayer lost its power to change lives, he points to the clock which was in front of his audience and which all of us have, and proceeds to explain why. Note the simple but powerful argument and the beauty and grace of language.
Look at the clock fixed to the wall: there are lots of small