As the crescent moon signals the start of another Ramadan despite the uncertainties surrounding the exact date, I must admit a sense of unease — a hope for the spiritual month of fasting ahead and a chance to renew oneself, all within a world that feels increasingly unstable. We are witnessing a paradox: we are more connected than ever, yet more divided; better informed, yet more anxious; more visible to one another, yet less able to trust.
Some describe this as a post-normal era — characterised by uncertainty and rapid change. For many communities, especially young people, the future feels less like a promise and more like a question mark.
In such a world, Ramadan can offer more than just ritual observance and institutionalised worship. It can provide a path to inner stillness, moral rebalancing, and what I would call radical hope — the courage to act for a better future even when certainty is scarce. After all, this is the core of Ramadan: a deeply personal relationship between the Divine and the individual. No one knows whether you are fasting, but you do it in the hope of something better.
The Foundation of Sakinah
Currently, the default setting rewards reaction speed, outrage, and constant stimulation. Ramadan teaches us the opposite. By breaking habits of reaction, status quo, consumption and distraction, the fast opens up space for reflection, restraint, and self-awareness.
The aim is not just discipline. It is sakinah — a profound inner stillness that enables us to respond rather than react. I recall what psychiatrist Viktor Frankl noted: between stimulus and response, there is a gap, and within that gap lies our freedom and power to choose. From an Islamic perspective, that gap is our intimate dialogue with the Divine, in which we select our response. Ramadan becomes a tool to help us reconnect with that gap as we choose how we respond to various stimuli while fasting.
This inner grounding is not only a spiritual aspiration; it influences how we navigate an anxious world. Without it, fear and urgency dictate our choices. With it, we foster clarity, empathy, and resilience, rooted in calmness, humility, and self-regulation.
The journey from the head to the heart is therefore the foundation for navigating a fractured world wisely.
The Shattered Mirror
Across many societies, identity has become defensive, and trust has declined. Communities increasingly see distorted images of each other. Public discourse favours certainty over curiosity, and social media enhances caricatures rather than recognising complexity. Difference is portrayed as a threat. This fragmentation is not only political; it is relational, impacting trust between communities, families, generations, and within our shared public life.
The image of the mirror has long been used to describe the human condition. A mirror allows us to see ourselves — but it also reflects our shared dignity and our connection to others. When the mirror is whole, we recognize ourselves in one another. When the mirror breaks, empathy becomes harder to find, and belonging becomes conditional.
Today, the mirror feels shattered into millions of pieces. Across many societies, identity has become defensive, trust has eroded, and communities increasingly see distorted reflections of one another. This fragmentation is not just political; it is relational — between communities, between generations, and even within institutions. Public discourse values certainty over curiosity. Social media amplifies caricature rather than complexity. Difference is framed as a threat.
The Victorian scholar Richard Burton once described humanity’s religious and philosophical traditions as fragments of a shattered mirror, each reflecting part of a greater truth. No single fragment contains the whole. A solution proposed by the Ghanaian Scholar Kwame Anthony Appiah is that wisdom lies in recognising that others hold pieces we need to see more clearly. Difference, therefore, broadens our understanding rather than threatening it.
Ramadan invites us to start the process of reassembling that mirror — and it begins within. The fast turns us inward before it turns us outward. Here, the wisdom of Rumi’s The Guest House offers guidance: every emotion — joy, sorrow, anger, uncertainty — is to be welcomed as a guest, each carrying a message for our growth. Ramadan is about welcoming that guest, so that at a time when discomfort is often projected outward, we are taught to sit with what arises and allow the heart to become more spacious.
Rumi’s reminder is that a heart that cannot accommodate its own complexity will find it difficult to make room for others' complexity. Therefore, inner work is necessary.
From this inner work arises sakinah — the stability that enables us to see others clearly. The Qur’anic view of a rightly balanced community (Ummah Wasat) urges us not to retreat into identity, but to live it as responsibility: to protect dignity, extend compassion, and bear witness to our shared humanity.
Belonging must shift from viewing identity as a boundary to viewing it as a responsibility.
Al Mizan
The Qur’anic principle of Al-Mizan — balance — directly addresses our current planetary stress, rising inequality, displacement, and social exclusion.
Ramadan reminds us of the need to recalibrate this balance through the distribution of Islamic Social Finance. Zakat and Sadaqah are generally seen as charitable obligations, but their deeper purpose is structural. They are tools meant to restore balance, redistribute opportunity, and uphold dignity. Accountability exists not only for the donor but also for the recipient and the distributor.
Too often, giving during Ramadan remains transactional — a calculation made, a donation given, immediate needs temporarily relieved. While these acts matter, the scale and complexity of today’s challenges demand a more strategic approach.
Thus, Islamic philanthropy is not simply about generosity. It is about justice. Islamic social finance — including Zakat, Sadaqah, and Waqf — has the potential to become a powerful engine for community resilience. When aligned with long-term thinking, it can:
- Invest in education and skills for young people
- Support livelihoods and economic inclusion
- Strengthen local institutions and community leadership
- Provide sustainable support for displaced and vulnerable populations
- Build social cohesion through locally led initiatives
- This shifts the paradigm from relief to empowerment — from charity to capability.
In a post-normal world where public systems are under strain, faith-based philanthropy represents a critical social infrastructure. When communities give not only to alleviate hardship but to unlock potential, generosity becomes an act of radical hope.
Radical Hope
For many people today, hope appears fragile. The magnitude of global challenges can make optimism seem naive.
Radical hope is distinctive. It does not mean believing that things will inevitably turn out well. Instead, it involves choosing to act even when the results are uncertain. It requires courage to continue building trust when institutions seem fragile, to persist in dialogue when polarisation seems easier, and to keep believing in human potential even when evidence appears scarce.
Ramadan cultivates this discipline. Every fast is an act of trust. Every act of generosity is a statement that the future remains worth investing in. Every moment of restraint strengthens the patience required for long-term change.
Radical hope is practised daily during Ramadan — through humility, service, community, and the refusal to succumb to despair caused by hunger and anger. It also presents an opportunity to bridge the growing divide between generations.
Young people today face climate anxiety, economic instability, conflict, and constant information overload. Yet, they are too often talked about rather than truly listened to. There is a need to rebuild trust to enable the passing of the baton between generations.
Ramadan provides a practical starting point. Shared meals, community gatherings, and spaces for reflection can serve as venues for intergenerational dialogue — where elders share experiences without nostalgia, and young people voice their fears and aspirations without fear of dismissal. When memory and imagination sit together, hope becomes collective. And through hope, trust is fostered.
Trust is not inherited; it is co-created through relationships. Communities that invest in listening across generations are rebuilding the trust infrastructure on which social cohesion depends.
Collective Renewal
There is a misperception that Muslims slow down during Ramadan. Quite the contrary, Ramadan is not a retreat from the world. It is preparation for engagement.
If we cultivate sakinah, we can lead with steadiness rather than anxiety.
If we reassemble the shattered mirror, we can rebuild trust across differences.
If we balance our compassion with the practicalities of Islamic social finance, we can turn generosity into lasting dignity.
If we practice radical hope and invest in listening to each other, we can strengthen the foundations of a more resilient future.
In a fractured world, the task before us is nothing less than the renewal of our shared humanity.
This year carries an unusual and powerful alignment. Ramadan begins within hours of the Lunar New Year and alongside the Christian season of Lent – an overlap not witnessed since 1863 and not expected again until 2189. Across continents and cultures, billions of people are stepping into sacred seasons of reflection, restraint, generosity, and renewal. Each tradition follows its own path, yet all are animated by a shared human longing: to restore balance, to seek meaning, and to nurture hope for a better world. Across traditions, these practices point to a shared wisdom: that transformation begins with restraint, that clarity emerges from stillness, and that renewal requires both humility and hope. In a fragmented world, such parallel journeys remind us that the work of inner change — and the responsibility to heal what is broken — is a shared human calling.
Ramadan is a beginning, not an end.
The work of renewal through radical hope begins within — but its true measure is the world we rebuild together
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