A bee does not waste its precious time and energy trying to convince a fly that honey is better than shit.
The Munajaat Shaabaniyya for the is indeed a spiritual tonic that takes a spiritual wayfarer to a point of stupor.
Fellow wayfarers,
sit for a moment. Let the noise pass. Let the slogans lie down.
This is not a lecture. It is a murmured vigil. A low lamp kept burning while the city sleeps.
I speak to you the way one speaks to the soul at night, when defenses loosen and truth no longer needs to shout.
The bee does not argue. It does not draft a manifesto against a decay. Any decay. It leaves. It flies toward fragrance. It returns weighted with sweetness, its silence louder than a thousand debates. The fly circles rot, convinced by appetite, deaf to reason. This is not a moral failure. It is an orientation. Creatures move toward what they love.
Why then do you exhaust yourself persuading flies, when the Munajaat teaches you how to grow honey.
It begins softly, as all serious things do. Not with your cause, but with God. Blessings first. Lineage first. Memory first. As if to say, you did not invent this road. Others walked it bleeding. Others cheer up while carrying weight. Humble yourself into that spring before you attempt to drink from it.
Then comes the whisper that rearranges priorities.
Oh my Lord Listen to me when I pray.
Listen to me when I call upon You.
Not hear me when I trend.
Not notice me when I am loud.
Listen to me when I turn inward.
This is the first correction. Being heard by God matters more than being heard by crowds. Without this, activism becomes a thirst trap for relevance. With it, even obscurity becomes fertile.
Then the line that sounds gentle but behaves like fire.
I have escaped toward You.
Escaped from what?
From myself.
From the need to respond to every insult.
From the compulsion to prove.
From the obsession of being right.
This is not withdrawal. It is purification. You cannot fight injustice while addicted to attention. You cannot heal wounds while feeding on applause. So the Munajaat teaches flight. Not from duty, but from the ego that corrodes duty.
And then posture. Always posture.
I stand before You, subdued, imploring.
Stand there long enough and you will notice something. Your voice shortens. Your chest softens. Your certainty loosens its grip. You remember that before you are an activist, you are a servant. Before you correct the world, you must allow yourself to be corrected.
God knows what is in you.
What you wanted to say.
What you swallowed.
What you dressed up as principle.
What you disguised as intelligence.
He knows your movements and your stillness. Your loud days and your silent bargains. So tell me, why rush to speak? Why rush to defend? Why perform when you are already known? Timɓir in His divine presence.
This is why, when are reproached, you keep your mouth short and your heart open. Not out of weakness. Out of intelligence. Real intelligence. Speech is cheap when the soul is crowded. Listening clears space. One mouth. Two ears. So, listen twice as you talk. Minimum! Nature does not stutter when it teaches.
Then comes the line that unhooks fear.
My increase and my decrease are in Your hands.
Say it slowly. Again.
Not in the hands of donors.
Not in the hands of critics.
Not in the hands of associates who clap today and vanish tomorrow.
If You withhold, who provides.
If You abandon, who rescues.
This sentence alone can cure a lifetime of anxious activism. No more trembling at backlash. No more bargaining with truth. You work. You leave outcomes to the One who owns them.
Then the real protection is requested. Not from enemies. From displeasure.
Protect me from earning Your anger.
Do you hear the sobriety in that? The activist fears becoming ugly more than being defeated. He fears corruption of method more than loss of momentum. He knows that evil spreads easily because it is evil. It borrows tactics. It cuts corners. It justifies itself with urgency.
The Munajaat refuses that shortcut.
Then entitlement is dismantled with tenderness.
Even if I do not deserve mercy, You deserve to give.
This is where arrogance dies. You realize your cause did not sanctify you. Your suffering did not crown you. You are still dependent. Still needy. Still prone error. This keeps you human and hume. This keeps you safe.
Then confession enters like a scalpel.
I have wronged my own soul.
Say it before nemesis forces you to say it later. The activist who cannot confess will eventually punish others for his hidden shame. Tyranny is often just unadmitted guilt wearing armor. The Munajaat trains you to disarm early.
It teaches gratitude as stamina.
Your goodness has never left me.
This line steadies you when progress stalls. It reminds you that despair is ingratitude with big grammar. You have been carried. You are being carried. Do not insult that mercy by rushing to bitterness.
Then comes restraint in exposure.
You covered me. Do not disgrace me.
Learn this well. Reform does not require humiliation. Justice does not need spectacle. If you long for God to cover your faults, practice covering where possible. Correction without cruelty is a valuable art. Learn it.
Hope then rises, disciplined, not drunk.
Your pardon exceeds my deeds.
Work hard. Speak less. But never worship your output. Outcomes are not altars. You do your part. You surrender the rest. This keeps the heart light and the hands steady.
Then the confession that should stop you mid sentence and give you sleepless nights.
I wasted my life in negligence.
You can be busy and asleep. Organizing and absent. Loud and far. The Munajaat wakes without flattering. It rocks you awake like a lullaby that refuses to lie.
Finally, the request that gathers everything.
Grant me complete turning to You.
Illuminate the eyes of my heart.
Not so I may escape the world.
So I may walk in it without poisoning myself.
So I may act without performing.
So my work may flow from nearness, not neurosis.
So what remains.
Silence that listens.
Speech that weighs.
Hands that work.
Do less explaining.
Do more becoming.
Never become the evil you abhor.
The bee does not convince.
The bee returns.
And the Munajaat is the quiet reflection that keeps its wings clean while the night passes.
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