A Caretaker’s Lament: Faith in the Time of Ruin
As a Muslim, I am sad to say that my faith has been shaken, as though struck by a tornado, flung into the vast unknown, spinning in a state of limbo, wondering whether there is truly a God, or whether I have simply been wandering in ignorance all along.
Yet in the stillness of the early morning, when I sit quietly on my pillows and pray silently, I sometimes feel a gentle elation, as though the Divine touches my being from within. There are moments I feel truly connected. And yet, when my thoughts take flight over the desolate landscapes of this world — my own life’s burdens, and the endless suffering I witness globally — despair returns. I feel as though the God I have placed my faith in has abandoned humanity, if not me personally.
What, then, is the purpose of my existence, if not to witness the pain of mankind, the decadence of this beautiful Earth, the slow and silent extinction of one species after another? There is no one to blame. And how could I ever blame my Maker? After all, it is said that He has granted Man free will — to choose his own path, to write his own fate.
But from my personal observation, Islam — and many religions, in fact — seems to be a religion of the afterlife. Life here on Earth is portrayed as a mere pit stop, a waiting room, a transit lounge before the eternal hereafter. That belief might be tolerable, even understandable, if it didn’t come with such devastating consequences for the planet we temporarily inhabit.
This "transit mentality" leads to a dangerous detachment from the world around us. It’s as though caring for the Earth doesn’t matter — because it's not the final destination. I've heard it said many times in Malay Muslim circles: “Dunia ini hak mereka, Akhirat kita punya” (This world is theirs, the Hereafter is ours), and “Dunia ini hanya sementara, Akhirat selamanya” (This life is temporary, the afterlife is eternal).
But when this belief translates into apathy and negligence, the Earth suffers. The Earth — God's own creation — becomes an afterthought. And like a public park trashed after a beer-guzzling student party, it is left for someone else to clean up.
Islam teaches that cleanliness is next to Godliness, yet in practice, I have often found this to be an empty phrase. It's not just laziness; it is a deeply ingrained psychological state, the result of centuries of doctrine misunderstood or unexamined.
We are told that Man is khalifah, the vicegerent of God, appointed to care for the Earth, the solar system, even the unseen realms. But if this is true, then we have failed. Instead of caretakers, we have become exploiters — servants only of our own desires. The very beings charged with protecting the planet have become its most destructive force.
The religious mind, focused so intently on the afterlife, often loses sight of its responsibilities in the here and now. The goal becomes entry into paradise, even if it means leaving behind a burning, barren Earth. Instead of healers, we have become the disease — a cancer gnawing away at our only home.
I write this not as condemnation, but as confession. I am still searching. I still pray. I still yearn. But I can no longer turn a blind eye to the contradictions between what we preach and what we practice. I ask only this: If we truly believe God entrusted us with this world, why do we treat it like refuse?
The time has come to reawaken the soul of Islam — and of all faiths — to their original covenant: to care, to love, to protect. If heaven is out there, perhaps it begins here.
In pain and in prayer,
~ Cheeseburger Buddha
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