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.