From the Inspiration of Forgiveness: A Journey in the Art Market and the “Public Taste” I entered—though I don’t know how—into a place that seemed like a paradise of arts or perhaps its exile. Suddenly, I stood before a carved door that read: “This is the Market of Public Taste; entrance for those who are shameless, exit for those who feel shame.” 🚪🎭 I hesitated, then a guide from the realm of imagination approached—like Apollo but with a tired look, as if he had waited too long in line to sing but went unheard. He said to me: — “Have you come to ask about art?” 🎨✨ I replied, “No, I came searching for taste, which was lost among people who once adored strings but now sing only of spears.” 🎻➡️⚔️ The guide took me inside the market. 🛒 I saw wonders: a choir applauding a sound like rusty metal clanging, repeating words that poetry never authorized, filled with corruption that revives the graves of dullness, and repetition that even mountain echoes shame. 🎶🔩💀 I asked, “Who is this?” He said, “That is the artist of the age, master of forced rhymes, king of deceived hearts. Followed by people who cannot distinguish between the flute and a crowbar, nor between eloquence and delirium.” 👑🎤😵‍💫 I said, “Where is the art that softens stone and flows with blood through our veins?” ❤️‍🔥🪨 He said, “It has been exiled, with poets who died standing, and voices not promoted by ads, but by truth, pain, and beauty.” 🕊️🪦 We passed a stage where a clown was honored, and an actor who mastered falling was applauded, while they mocked an actor who spoke Shakespeare’s tongue, calling him complicated. 🤡👏🎭🗣️❌ I asked, “Is this what they call ‘popular art’?” He said, “No, this is the art of those with no taste, no awareness, not even shame.” 🧟‍♂️🎨🚫 I asked, “Where are the critics?” He said, “Some sold their conscience for a handful of followers, the rest became strangers speaking an unknown language in the age of the trivial.” 🤑📉🗣️❓ I cried out, not to people, but to my memory: “Oh art, how did you allow yourself to be stoned by fallen letters? Oh taste, why were you silent when baseness was crowned king? Have we become pleased by the rhyme of fools and deaf to the strings of emotion? Is this the reward for those who taught us to grieve nobly, rejoice deeply, and dwell from image to meaning?” 😢📜👑🎭 The guide whispered, with sorrow: — “Do not despair, for art still has hearts that beat, and taste has roots still drinking from the water of awareness, but you live in a time of neglect. Be a flame, not a curse.” 🔥💔🌿 I left the market, searching for a poem, a melody, or a pure scene to hang my heart upon in a time filled with many clowns and few listeners. 🎼💔🎭👂

Those Who Faltered Midway God Almighty said: "Now, what is the matter with them that they are turning away from the reminder" (Surah Al-Muddathir: 49) It is as if this verse was revealed to the writers of our time—those who chose to write about the people, not for them. About oppression, but without the ache of the oppressed. About revolution, but without the blood of the dreamers. Between the mosque and the café, Since the revelation descended, the word has been a weapon. The word is a verse, a sermon, a fire, and a dew. Throughout this nation’s history, the writer was never a follower of a sultan, nor a servant to a class, but a mirror that yearns for truth and detests falsehood. But today, we face a different scene. We see writers who once carried the banner of the left, who sang of democracy—yet turned out to be the most fearful of freedom, and the most hesitant before truth. They entered the text like a worshipper entering prayer without ablution: An intention without purity, a slogan without conviction. O writers of the left... why do you stumble in speech? Comrades, Where did your first promise go? To be the voice of the poor, the conscience of the deprived, the prophecy of justice? What we see today is literature that wears the mask of boldness but only whispers, That speaks of “power” in its absence, Of “the people” in the language of the elite, Of “revolution” like an old historian recounting a war he never witnessed. As if you fear saying a word that might cost you your bread, Or displease a cultural sponsor, or exclude you from a festival invitation. And when asked about the defeat, you say: "The people are to blame… they were not aware enough." And you? Were you faithful enough to the truth? Were you witnesses—or paid narrators of a silent tale? Between the people and the elite… faces without mirrors. You faltered between the masses who sleep from hunger, And the elites who discuss revolution from air-conditioned lounges. Your writing now neither feeds the hungry nor amazes the intellectual. It is literature crafted with a trembling hand, a hesitant heart, and a tongue that apologizes before it speaks. Even when you write about religion, you write like a tourist describing a land whose language he doesn’t understand. And when you write about hunger, you describe it as a doctor describes the pain of a patient he never truly felt. You—writers of half-positions— Have turned the people into an accusation, The elite into a goal, And truth into an impossible illusion. O people of the pen… do not turn it into a stage prop. Remember, the word is not an ornament— But a trust, a question, a beautiful anger. It does not suit those who read Marx and Gramsci to bow under the ruler’s table. Nor does it suit those who sang for the poor to blame them for the sins of the palaces. The people are not foolish… But they are tired— Tired of waiting, And tired of poets who praise them in festivals, and betray them in articles. Return to your original clarity. As Al-Hasan Al-Basri once said: "When a word comes from the heart, it falls upon the heart. But when it comes only from the tongue, it goes no further than the ears." Return to your hearts. Write with the blood of the question, not the ink of rhetoric. Bear witness for the oppressed, not against them. Choose your stance—before the hand of oblivion chooses it for you. For neutrality in times of injustice is betrayal, Hesitation in times of bloodshed is a stab, And a word that changes nothing... does not deserve to be spoken.

When the Home Became an Exile Allah Almighty says: “And Allah has made your homes a place to rest, and has given you tents from the hide of animals, light to handle when you travel and when you camp. And out of their wool, fur, and hair He has given you furnishings and goods for a while.” [An-Nahl: 80] “And one of His signs is that He created for you spouses from among yourselves so that you may find comfort in them. And He has placed between you compassion and mercy. Surely in this are signs for people who reflect.” [Ar-Rum: 21] What divine eloquence this is! Rest in the sight of Allah... is not walls that close, but a chest that opens. It is not just a place you reside in... but a warmth that resides within you. But... Do we truly reside in our homes today? Or do we reside in our exile within them? Rest... or Residence? In the past, the home was a place for the soul, a garden of tranquility, a room for remembrance, and a prayer niche with no timetable but the heartbeat. The home was a homeland before countries even existed. It was once shameful to say, "He fled from his home!" For the home was where we would seek refuge when the fronts collapsed. But today, In the era of "Globalization," New concepts have seeped into the architecture of life: Houses that resemble hotels, and souls that resemble waiting rooms... Everything is transient, even the home. The Cave of Hira'... is not just a cave The Prophet ﷺ secluded himself in Hira', He escaped from the noise of Mecca, not from his home. He contemplated… detached from frivolity… And revelation came to him. So where is Hira' today? Is there still a place we can seek refuge in? Or have we started leaving our homes to search for another “home” in the corners of strangers? What a strange era this is! We escaped the noise… only to find another noise, From screen to screen, And from room to “mall,” As if we are making tawaf... without a Ka'bah. Empty Souls in Malls In shopping centers: Families stroll, Teenagers loiter, Our souls chase conflicts and facades that have no meaning. A child chases a light, A woman searches for herself in a store mirror, A man contemplates a shirt… hoping it might fit his tired heart! We buy... not because we need, But because deep within, there is emptiness... and we wish to cover it with a shopping list. Glory be to Allah! Malls have become “rest centers,” And the home... has become just a stop between departures. When the Square Meter Becomes Smaller Than the Heart We own more rooms, But sleep less. We buy luxurious couches, But no one sits to listen to anyone. We live in an era where "residence" is mixed with investment, Where "engineering" has overpowered "mercy," And "privacy" has been lost between surveillance cameras and social networks. The Philosophy of Home in Islam In Islam, the home is not just a building, but a relationship. With Allah: in the prayer mat and the corner for worship. With your family: in the warmth of your gathering and the simplicity of your food. With yourself: in stillness and veiling, and in contemplation of "What comes next?" So if the home becomes a place only for sleeping... you are not living, but postponing life. From Bricks to Tranquility Tranquility will not return if you simply return to the home... Rather, it is when the home returns to you! When you make your prayer room a cave for your soul, When the courtyard of your home becomes a garden of love, When your window becomes a pulpit for contemplating the sky, Then... the ancient meaning returns: "The home is a place of rest." We Conclude with a Prayer not Written on Walls... but on Souls O Allah, Make our homes places of rest as You made the Ka'bah a place of security. Plant in its walls Your mercy, In its corners Your light, And in its gatherings, tranquility that never departs.