we speak of fiṭrah rather frequently in muslim circles. it's one of those words that most of us have encountered enough times to feel familiar with, but familiarity can be deceptive. ask someone what fiṭrah means and you'll likely hear some variation of “our natural state of goodness” or “the purity we're born with” and while neither is entirely disconnected from the concept, both are somewhat insufficient.
then there's the nafs, which has acquired a rather unfortunate reputation. we speak of it as though it's this troublesome little creature living inside us, forever trying to sabotage our attempts at becoming better muslims. every time we give in to something we shouldn't have, there's our explanation: my nafs got the better of me.
so, one is pure and the other corrupt? one brings us closer to Allāh and the other pulls us away? is the purpose of our existence then to spend our lives trying to rescue one from the other?
well... that would make for a fairly convenient explanation of human nature. it would also be an inaccurate one.
what interests me about fiṭrah and nafs is the apparent contradiction they present. if we are created upon a disposition towards the truth, why is turning away from it sometimes so terribly easy? why can a person know something to be wrong, understand perfectly well why it is wrong, even advise others against it, and still find themselves doing precisely that thing?
think about the last time you justified something you knew you shouldn't have done. not a situation where the right thing was genuinely unclear, but one where you knew and went ahead anyway. perhaps you wanted to be seen... or loved. perhaps you were angry. perhaps your pride was wounded. perhaps doing the right thing would've cost you something you weren't prepared to lose.
it's remarkable, really, how quickly the human mind can produce a defence for conduct it would condemn in somebody else.
and perhaps that's a good place to begin.
of the nature upon which we were created
in sūrah al-rūm, Allāh says:
فَأَقِمْ وَجْهَكَ لِلدِّينِ حَنِيفًا ۚ فِطْرَتَ اللَّهِ الَّتِي فَطَرَ النَّاسَ عَلَيْهَا
“so direct your face towards the religion, inclining to truth, the fiṭrah of Allāh upon which He has created mankind.”
– qur'ān 30:30
the instruction comes first: turn yourself towards the dīn, towards the truth. and then comes the reference to fiṭrah, the disposition upon which mankind was created. that relationship matters. the āyah is speaking about our creation in direct connection with the true religion.
in his tafsīr, al-ṭabarī records explanations from the early authorities identifying fiṭrah with islām. al-qurṭubī, meanwhile, documents a more extensive scholarly discussion concerning what it means to be born upon it. among the explanations he records is that the human being is created with a constitution capable of recognising its Lord once the faculties of understanding develop.
these interpretations deserve more care than they're often given. saying that every child is born upon fiṭrah doesn't necessarily mean that every newborn possesses a fully formed, conscious understanding of tawḥīd. an infant cannot explain who Allāh is or articulate the foundations of īmān. what is being discussed is something concerning the original nature or constitution of the human being.
the prophet ﷺ tells us that every child is born upon fiṭrah, and that their parents subsequently make them a jew, a christian, or a magian. he then compares this to an animal giving birth to offspring that are physically whole. do you find them mutilated at birth?
– ṣaḥīḥ muslim 2658; ṣaḥīḥ al-bukhārī 1358
the comparison is rather extraordinary when you think about it.
the animal is born whole. whatever alterations are made to it afterwards are subsequent to that original condition. similarly, the human being enters this world upon a disposition that precedes the various influences which will come to shape their beliefs.
and influences there are... an almost inexhaustible number of them.
our families are our first introduction to the world. before we've developed the capacity to critically examine what we're being taught, we've already begun absorbing it. what is acceptable, what is shameful, what deserves admiration, what ought to be feared. eventually, we inherit an entire way of looking at the world, often without knowing precisely where our own convictions end and someone else's begin.
there is, of course, a difference between being influenced and being compelled. our upbringing matters enormously, but it doesn't absolve us of every responsibility we acquire once we're capable of discernment.
and environmental influences aren't the whole explanation either. the human being is capable of recognising the truth and subsequently rejecting it for reasons that have very little to do with ignorance.
this is where the question becomes rather uncomfortable.
if the truth is something our very nature is suited to recognise, why do we resist it?
i don't think we have to look very far for an example.
consider the number of people who acknowledge the existence of Allāh, believe in the ākhirah, understand that they will one day stand before Him and answer for their conduct... and still find themselves repeatedly neglecting what He has commanded.
i'm not referring exclusively to people who live in open disobedience. the contradiction exists within practising muslims too. knowing that backbiting is forbidden does not make us immune to it. believing that arrogance is blameworthy doesn't prevent us from being arrogant.
knowledge can exist in a person without governing their conduct.
which brings us to the nafs.
the self that must answer for itself
the word nafs is commonly translated as soul or self, although neither english equivalent captures every nuance of its usage in the qur'ān.
and here's something worth establishing at the outset: the nafs isn't inherently evil.
the qur'ān speaks of the nafs in several contexts and conditions. there is al-nafs al-ammārah, the self that urges towards wrongdoing, al-nafs al-lawwāmah, the self-reproaching soul, and al-nafs al-muṭmaʾinnah, the reassured soul.
these descriptions have become the basis of a familiar scholarly framework concerning the conditions of the self. we will examine them separately in the next essay, in shā Allāh, but for now, i want to draw attention to something simpler.
the nafs isn't a separate entity that occasionally hijacks an otherwise faultless human being. when we speak of its inclinations, we are speaking about the self, about us.
there's a certain convenience in treating our nafs like an unwelcome intruder. we can attribute every shameful inclination to it and preserve the idea that somewhere beneath all this wrongdoing exists the real us, entirely innocent of it.
but who exactly is this real us?
in sūrah ash-shams, Allāh takes an oath by the soul and the One who fashioned it:
وَنَفْسٍ وَمَا سَوَّاهَا
“and by the soul and the One who fashioned it.”
– qur'ān 91:7
He then speaks of inspiring it with its wickedness and its righteousness, before declaring the success of the one whose soul is purified and the failure associated with its corruption.
(qur'ān 91:8–10)
notice that the discussion begins with the creation of the soul itself. in fact, ibn kathīr, while explaining verse seven, explicitly refers to the fiṭrah mentioned in sūrah al-rūm and the hadith concerning every child being born upon it.
so the nafs and fiṭrah aren't necessarily opposing forces at all. we're discussing the same human being, only from different aspects of their existence.
fiṭrah concerns the original disposition upon which Allāh has created us, while the qur'ānic descriptions of the nafs allow us to examine the self in its various moral conditions. and the self is capable of quite a lot.
it can desire what is forbidden, resent what is good for it, and find itself drawn towards things it knows will cause harm. in sūrah yūsuf, the nafs is described as being inclined to command evil, except where Allāh extends His mercy (12:53).
but it can also reproach itself. it can recognise its failings and struggle against them. the qur'ān speaks of the reassured soul being called to return to its Lord, pleased and pleasing (89:27–30).
there is, then, the possibility of change. and this is where i think our understanding of the nafs becomes especially relevant to how we conduct our lives.
we live in a time when a great deal of importance is placed upon being authentic. be yourself. honour your feelings. listen to your inner voice.
none of these statements is necessarily objectionable in every circumstance. sometimes being honest about what we feel is precisely what's needed.
but what happens when that inner voice is urging us towards something blameworthy?
suppose someone has wronged you. your anger is understandable, perhaps entirely justified. you want to respond, and you want your response to hurt. there's a part of you that feels entitled to it. after all, you didn't initiate the injustice, so why should you be the one expected to exercise restraint?
now, if you've already decided that your feelings are the ultimate authority, the question is practically settled. you're angry, your anger has a cause, and therefore whatever it demands must be justified.
except it doesn't work that way.
the existence of a legitimate grievance doesn't make every response to it legitimate. someone else's wrongdoing doesn't suspend our own accountability.
and the nafs is quite capable of dressing an inclination in respectable language. arrogance may begin to sound like principle. a refusal to acknowledge wrongdoing may be defended as self-respect. sometimes we cling to resentment for so long that releasing it begins to feel like an injustice in itself.
we can become so invested in our explanations that we stop examining what it is we're trying to explain away.
the qur'ān warns against following one's hawā, one's blameworthy desire, and praises the person who fears standing before their Lord and restrains the nafs from such inclinations (79:40–41).
restraint, however, requires recognition. we have to be willing to admit that an inclination exists before we can responsibly decide what to do with it. there's little benefit in pretending to be above an emotion that is plainly there and i think another mistake we ought to address is the assumption that purifying the nafs requires us to stop feeling anything unpleasant.
some people seem to regard spiritual maturity as a state of almost permanent emotional composure. no anger, no fear, no sadness, no internal struggle. as though the ideal believer is someone whose human responses have gradually been replaced with a perfectly regulated calm.
but our religion doesn't ask us to pretend that we're unaffected by what happens to us.
when the prophet ﷺ held his dying son ibrāhīm, he wept. and when ʿabd al-raḥmān ibn ʿawf expressed surprise at this, he ﷺ explained that it was mercy. his eyes shed tears, his heart grieved, and he would say only what pleased his Lord.
– ṣaḥīḥ al-bukhārī 1303
i find this distinction immensely important.
the grief was real. the tears were real. and so was the submission.
we have to be careful about attaching moral blame to emotions simply because they're difficult to experience. feeling grief is not an act of disobedience and experiencing anger isn't automatically a sin. the moral questions concern what is being felt, why, and what we deliberately choose to do in response.
of course, some feelings may reveal inclinations that need correcting. envy, for instance, can become a serious disease of the heart when entertained and cultivated. but even there, the solution requires us to recognise what's happening rather than merely condemn ourselves for having discovered it.
there is a difference between being aware of our deficiencies and becoming consumed by them.
which is perhaps why the qur'ānic concept of tazkiyah matters so much.
the responsibility of becoming
in sūrah ash-shams, Allāh says:
قَدْ أَفْلَحَ مَن زَكَّاهَا
“successful indeed is the one who purifies it.”
– qur'ān 91:9
the purification of the soul, tazkiyat al-nafs, is among the central responsibilities of the believer.
and there's something i want to be particularly cautious about here.
i've written previously about how we sometimes approach acts of worship with the expectation that we'll emerge from them as entirely transformed individuals. 'umrah, for example, can become this grand exercise in spiritual self-optimisation, where we expect every unresolved part of ourselves to be repaired by the time we return home.
it would be rather ironic if we were to approach tazkiyah with the same expectation.
we aren't working towards a condition in which we become incapable of wrongdoing. the prophet ﷺ himself taught us to seek forgiveness and return to Allāh. the necessity of repentance is part of our condition as fallible human beings.
the work of purification is ongoing. it concerns what we allow ourselves to become through our choices, and what we do when those choices have taken us somewhere we ought not to have gone.
consider how many of our habits began as individual decisions. something we did once, then again, then again, until it no longer required much deliberation. keeping tabs on people we dislike, a particular way of reacting to criticism, a tendency to exaggerate our accomplishments, the ease with which we speak about people who aren't present to defend themselves.
eventually, the behaviour becomes familiar enough that we begin describing it as part of our personality.
that's just how i am.
but how much moral weight should that explanation carry? if we can acquire habits through repetition, surely it follows that our repeated choices deserve examination. what we permit ourselves today can influence what comes easily to us tomorrow.
this doesn't mean change is always straightforward. some patterns are deeply entrenched, and the circumstances in which they developed may be complicated. but difficulty doesn't automatically make correction impossible.
and neither can we rely upon our own strength as though purification were an accomplishment independent of Allāh.
there's a beautiful du'ā recorded in ṣaḥīḥ muslim in which the prophet ﷺ would ask:
اللَّهُمَّ آتِ نَفْسِي تَقْوَاهَا وَزَكِّهَا أَنْتَ خَيْرُ مَنْ زَكَّاهَا أَنْتَ وَلِيُّهَا وَمَوْلَاهَا
“o Allāh, grant my soul its taqwā and purify it. you are the best to purify it. you are its guardian and protector.”
– ṣaḥīḥ muslim 2722
i think there's something humbling about the fact that the best of mankind would ask Allāh to purify his soul.
if even rasūlallāh ﷺ sought that purification from his Lord, what exactly are we relying upon when we imagine we can reform ourselves through sheer determination?
there's a theological detail worth mentioning here too. the classical exegetes discussed the wording of ash-shams 91:9 and the attribution of purification. al-ṭabarī understands it as referring to the soul whom Allāh purifies, while also recording explanations from early authorities emphasising the righteous conduct through which a person purifies themselves.
the relationship between the two is important. we make an effort, and we seek the guidance and assistance of Allāh. He is the one upon whom our ability to do good ultimately depends.
so when we speak about tazkiyah, we're speaking about a form of moral responsibility that ought to bring us back to Allāh repeatedly.
there will be occasions when we recognise something blameworthy within ourselves and manage to resist it. there will be others when we fail.
what happens afterwards matters too.
sometimes a person commits a wrong, recognises it, and repents. another may remain so occupied with the fact that they have failed that they never get around to correcting what can still be corrected.
self-reproach can be useful, but it can also become strangely self-absorbed. we spend hours thinking about what our failure says about us, how far we have fallen, how much better we ought to have been... and somewhere in all that examination, the actual responsibility gets neglected.
if we have wronged someone, there's an obligation to make amends where possible. if we've neglected our duties towards Allāh, there's repentance and a return to obedience. the admission is supposed to lead somewhere. otherwise, we risk turning self-awareness into another way of remaining occupied with ourselves.
and there's also the matter of sincerity.
we may become so concerned with appearing righteous that we forget to examine whether we're actually trying to become righteous. or, conversely, become so afraid of being perceived as pious that we begin neglecting good deeds for the sake of other people's opinions.
the nafs is capable of making even our pursuit of goodness terribly complicated.
which is why the standard cannot simply be what makes us feel better about ourselves.
we need revelation. we need to be corrected by something beyond the limits of our own understanding, and we need the humility to accept that correction.
i think this is among the more demanding implications of believing in Allāh as our Lord. we acknowledge that He knows us more completely than we know ourselves. that His knowledge encompasses the intentions we haven't admitted, the excuses we've rehearsed until they sound like convictions, and the moral consequences of things we dismiss as insignificant.
and having acknowledged all that, we still have to act.
~
i keep returning to that moment during 'umrah.
thousands of people gathered around the ka'bah, moving together in ibādah. i remember how overwhelming it was to see devotion on that scale, to realise that the One i'd grown accustomed to calling upon in the privacy of my room was the Lord of every single person standing there.
in my earlier piece, i described that collective act of worship as an alignment with our fiṭrah. and i think there's something worth carrying forward from that observation.
every person in that gathering had a life beyond the matāf. there were responsibilities waiting for them, people they loved, people they had perhaps wronged, temptations they'd have to confront after leaving the haram. the act of tawāf didn't make any of us incapable of sin.
and yet, there we were, turning towards the One who had created us.
the fiṭrah upon which we were created finds its proper direction in the worship of Allāh. but the life we lead after that moment of worship remains our responsibility. we return to our routines, to the people around us, to our commitments, to the situations in which our patience and sincerity are actually tested.
we return, in other words, to ourselves.
perhaps one of the most sobering things about tazkiyah is how ordinary its demands can be. the grand questions concerning human nature eventually lead us back to decisions that no one else may even notice.
whether we'll admit that we were wrong. whether we will step back instead of lashing out. whether we'll restrain an impulse we know is unjust. whether we'll return to Allāh after a failure, despite the embarrassment of having to seek forgiveness for something we thought we'd overcome.
these decisions may appear small, but they belong to the life for which we'll be held accountable. and when i think of the nafs in that light, i find it difficult to regard it as some unfortunate burden we must spend our existence trying to escape.
it is the self for which we must answer. the self we bring before Allāh in sujūd, asking Him to purify what we cannot purify without His help.
the self that will one day return to Him. and what becomes of it... well, that ought to concern us a great deal.
