By Heba Abayaa
The phrase “Adab di atas ilmu” (manners before knowledge) resonates deeply, often
invoked as a comforting, noble ideal. It suggests a foundational truth, a principle we
aspire to embody. However, a stark reality often undercuts this aspiration, causing a
visceral unease as we observe a growing chasm between this proclaimed value and our
actual behavior.
We seem to have transformed a profound truth into an empty slogan, championing adab while our actions betray its very essence. The unsettling truth is, we are largely aware of this hypocrisy.
Instead of patience and introspection, our default response is often fury. When our
sacred beliefs, institutions, or leaders are challenged, we frequently forgo genuine
engagement in favor of immediate, aggressive dismissal. It’s easier to attack the
messenger and discredit their concerns than to confront potential flaws within our own
systems.
This reluctance stems from a fear of muhasabah—the rigorous, often painful,
self-examination required to acknowledge our own contributions to collective problems.
Such introspection is demanding and humbling, so we often opt for the easier path:
protecting our egos, clinging to convenient narratives, and in doing so, becoming
hypocrites. We selectively embrace aspects of piety that align with our biases, while
sidestepping those that demand profound internal transformation.
This selective application of principles creates a profound contradiction. We meticulously adhere to visible rules, such as those concerning physical purity, yet often
overlook the insidious spiritual impurities that can corrupt the human heart.
Consider the pervasive double standard in our communities. We rigorously debate the
haram status of pork and the nuances of a dog’s saliva, expending considerable mental
energy on these matters. Yet, in the very next breath, we engage in—or silently
endorse—cyber-bullying, public shaming, and malicious gossip online, inflicting severe
damage on individuals’ lives.
The destruction of a human soul is often minimized or even rationalized as a justifiable act. Where is the adab in such behavior? The Prophet (peace be upon him), known as The Trustworthy, dedicated his life to uplifting people and safeguarding their dignity. How would he view our eagerness to tear others down?
Is the toxicity of hatred truly less impure than the animals we so fervently discuss?
Until we do that, our words about adab are just noise. An empty clatter that’s drowned
out by the roaring truth of our actions.
We readily condemn alcohol as haram due to the chaos it causes. Yet, we witness the bizarre spectacle of water used for a cleric’s ablutions being bottled, sold, and fiercely contested.
This feels like a spiritual ailment, transforming a humble act of worship into a cheap,
superstitious commodity. Such behavior is a stark departure from the Prophet’s
grounded and simple life, which stood in opposition to extremism and ostentation.
We fret over the minute Islamic rulings on a handshake, elevating it to cosmicimportance. However, when real-world mobs materialize to “enforce morality” through
intimidation or violence, our collective voice often falters into cowardly silence. We are
so preoccupied with policing symbols that we neglect the substance. We forget that the
Prophet’s city, Medina, was founded on justice and safety for all, not the vigilante justice
of an enraged populace.
With utmost sincerity, I must ask: Where is the Prophet’s adab in any of this? Where is
the gentle, consistent, deep-seated integrity?
The irony is piercing. Those who thunder loudest about “adab before knowledge”
frequently embody it the least. They demand respect but offer none.
They preach patience but practice instant retaliation. They meticulously scrutinize the speck of ritual impurity in your eye while ignoring the colossal plank of arrogance, tribalism, and hatred in their own.
The principle of adab itself is not flawed; it remains perfect and beautiful. We are the
problem. We have weaponized it, using it as a cudgel against others instead of a mirror
to reflect our own imperfections.
For “adab before knowledge” to regain any genuine meaning, it must cease being a
mere slogan. It must become a silent prayer in how we speak to our children. It must be
the deep breath we take before responding to a critic. It must be the humility evident in
a leader’s public apology.
True adab is not about subservience to authority. It is about the visceral courage to be
honest with oneself. It is about taking radical responsibility for our own shortcomings
and, finally and painstakingly, aligning our lives with the beautiful words that flow so
effortlessly from our lips.
Until we achieve this, our pronouncements about adab are nothing but noise—an empty
clatter drowned out by the resounding truth of our actions.
Heba Abayaa
