AlyGadElmoula

  “O mankind, worship your Lord, who created you and those before you, that you may become righteous.” (Surah Al-Baqarah 2:21) Before the Quran Before the Quran, humanity’s worship often mirrored their fears, their tribes, or even their own egos. Religion served kings, not communities. Gods were crafted in men’s images—jealous, vengeful, and transactional. And when idols weren’t carved from stone, they were carved from status, power, and self-importance. Even in Arabia, people bowed to ancestors, tribal customs, and their own unchecked desires. Worship wasn’t a path to truth—it was a reflection of power. People obeyed what they feared, not what they respected. There was no call to look inward. No challenge to ego. No invitation to humility. After the Quran Then this verse came. It didn’t speak just to believers. It didn’t speak just to Arabs. It opened with a universal address: “O mankind…” This wasn’t about religion as inheritance anymore. It was about accountability. A...

  “Or [it is] like a rainstorm from the sky within which is darkness, thunder, and lightning. They put their fingers in their ears against the thunderclaps in dread of death. But Allah is encompassing of the disbelievers.” (Surah Al-Baqarah 2:19) Before the Quran Before revelation illuminated the world, fear was a private prison. Superstition ruled the unknown. Storms in the sky were signs of angry gods. Hardship was seen as a curse. People fled from anything that disturbed their comfort—be it truth, trial, or change. Religion was either ritual or retreat, rarely a means of facing life’s chaos with courage and purpose. After the Quran Then came the Quran, not to remove the storms—but to transform how we stand in them. This verse painted a mirror of the soul under trial: when truth strikes like thunder and lightning, some cover their ears, afraid of what it might awaken. They fear the voice of conscience, the light of divine truth, the demands of faith. But fear, the Quran t...

  “Deaf, dumb, and blind—so they will not return.” (Al-Baqarah 2:18) Before the Quran In pre-Islamic Arabia, power meant being loud, heard, and obeyed. Listening was weakness. Speaking with humility was lowly. Reflecting before reacting? That was not the norm. Arrogance had no cost—and no name. So when someone refused to see truth or hear advice, it wasn’t a moral failure—it was confidence. Pride. Strength. No one labeled it a disease of the soul. There was no sacred language for wilful ignorance. After the Quran Then came a verse like this—blunt, shocking, and hard to ignore. The Quran didn’t just describe physical conditions. It diagnosed a spiritual one. “Deaf.” Not physically, but unwilling to hear. “Dumb.” Not incapable of speech, but unwilling to speak the truth. “Blind.” Not lacking eyes, but refusing to see. And the worst part: “They will not return.” Because arrogance isn’t just a detour—it’s a locked door. This verse wasn’t name-calling. It was soul-m...

  “Their example is that of one who kindled a fire, but when it lit up all around him, Allah took away their light and left them in darkness, unable to see.” (Al-Baqarah 2:17) Before the Quran Long before electricity, fire was more than warmth—it was life. It offered sight in the night, safety from predators, and hope in the dark. But fire also symbolized something deeper: awareness. The flicker of moral insight. A conscience that could still distinguish right from wrong. But what happens when you light that fire... and then lose it? When you start your journey with clarity, but then abandon it for comfort or pride? Before the Quran, there was no language for this spiritual burnout. No way to describe someone who once saw—but now stumbles blindly. After the Quran Then this verse descended—suddenly, hauntingly. It described a person who lit a fire. It illuminated everything. The truth was visible. The way forward was clear. But instead of walking the path, they stopped. ...

  “They are the ones who have purchased error in exchange for guidance, so their trade brought no profit, nor were they guided.” (Al-Baqarah 2:16) Before the Quran Before revelation corrected the moral compass, religion was often transactional. Belief could be bartered. Influence bought safety. Deeds were judged by convenience, not conscience. People crafted their own versions of “truth,” traded it among themselves, and called it wisdom. Guidance wasn’t lost—it was sold. And error wasn’t just accidental—it was chosen. There was a kind of comfort in self-deception. You could dress it up in fine speech, offer it to others, and walk away feeling secure. After all, if everyone believed the same lie, how could it be wrong? After the Quran Then came this verse—a divine audit. Not of assets, but of illusions. The Quran didn’t just warn against error; it revealed that some people buy it deliberately. They see guidance, understand its cost—and walk away. Not because they didn’t...

  “Allah mocks them, and prolongs them in their transgression while they wander blindly.” (Al-Baqarah 2:15) Before the Quran Mockery was power. It was the language of empires and elites, used to belittle prophets, truth-seekers, and anyone who challenged the status quo. To scoff was to stand above. Ridicule replaced argument. Laughing at something meant you didn’t have to face it. It was clever to dismiss. It was fashionable to scorn. And the ones who dared to believe? They were the punchlines. After the Quran Then came this verse. Not a plea. Not a warning. A verdict. The Quran flipped the entire dynamic: God responds to mockery not with silence, but with a divine irony— He mocks them. Not by lowering Himself, but by letting them sink—slowly, blindly, into the consequences they crafted for themselves. They thought they were clever. But the distance they felt from God was not freedom. It was abandonment. They were not rising above faith. They were being led away ...

  “And when they meet those who believe, they say, ‘We believe.’ But when they are alone with their devils, they say, ‘Indeed, we are with you; we were only mocking.’” (Al-Baqarah 2:14) Before the Quran Integrity wasn’t always a virtue. In tribal politics and religious games, duplicity was often praised. Saying one thing and doing another—so long as it worked—was seen as clever. There was no shame in wearing masks, especially if those masks bought you safety, status, or power. Truth was just another tool—bendable, disposable, optional. Faith was performative, not transformative. After the Quran Then came a verse like this—quiet, brief, and sharp. A mirror held up to those who perform righteousness in public, but twist it in private. Those who hide behind faith to fit in, but mock it when the crowd changes. The Quran called this not just hypocrisy—it called it a disease of the soul . A sickness that grows in silence, behind smiles, and under layers of self-deceit. Thi...