The Attributes of the Nafs al-Ammārah - Riyāʾ

This text has been republished following partial revision.

Riyāʾ (ostentation) is not a weakness that can be reduced simply to a "desire to be seen." At a deeper level, it is the agitation upon the stage of a soul that has lost its ground and has come to depend upon being seen in order to exist. One cannot understand riyāʾ without first understanding this. For today, the world has become an immense stage. To be seen upon this stage is no longer a choice; it has become almost a necessity. So much so that whoever is unseen seems almost not to exist.

Visibility has come to be equated with existence. Yet no existence on the stage is fully real. Everything is recorded; every smile is captured as an image; even suffering is transformed into an aesthetic spectacle. The Human no longer simply lives; one watches one's own life and makes others watch it. Riyāʾ is the most pervasive and silent idol of this age. And there are scarcely any left who have not bowed before it.

When a good deed is done, the Human no longer feels inward stillness; one turns toward the stage, searching for an eye, a camera, applause. When one suffers, one does not withdraw inwardly and remain silent, but tries to erect a monument from words. When one hears a Truth, instead of falling into prostration, one presses the share button. Yet Truth is not something to be shared. Truth is not a commodity. Truth is lived upon the ground, and it burns the one who bears it. Every spark that falls upon the stage, however, leaves behind only a shadow, a dark trace. There is no soul in that shadow, but there is spectacle.

The murshid (spiritual master) did not look at the sālik's (wayfarer) screen. He looked at the eye the screen had blinded. He looked at the heart the eye had captured. The public display of a good deed... An embellished sigh left beneath the words of an ʿārif... A cry of "I" written beneath a publicly displayed act of surrender...

He did not ask, "Why did you share this?" For that is a question asked of the one upon the stage. The one who wishes to speak from the ground remains silent. And he said only: "Where are you, that what you display should be there?"

The sālik fell silent. For even if one were to say, "for the sake of Allah," the "I" seeking that Divine pleasure stood at the very center of the stage. And there, riyāʾ was not silent.

The riyāʾ of the modern human has become a digital epidemic. Once it was practiced through the face and the tongue; now it is performed with a fingertip, with a single "click." Once it was directed toward the crowd; now it is performed before an invisible eye called the "algorithm." Yet its essence has not changed: fleeing the emptiness within and attempting to exist through an image outside oneself.

Yet Truth is born not by becoming visible, but by stripping away all that is visible. One who cannot relinquish the desire to be seen cannot touch Truth.

And riyāʾ is no longer merely the concern of the religious person, the murīd, or the sālik. It is the existential crisis of us all. We are all born with it, grow with it, speak with it, and fall silent with it. With it, we pray; with it, we rebel. There is scarcely anyone left who does not wish to be seen. For to remain unseen has come to feel like ceasing to exist.

But this must not be forgotten: within the one who longs to be seen, there is often little left that is worth seeing.

The provisional self is an imagined image of oneself that a person draws but has never actually lived, an image with no correspondence to the ground. It appears as an ideal, yet it is empty within. Every act is undertaken to drive this image like a nail into another's mind. Yet the irony is this: that image has not even taken root in one's own mind. One attempts to sell to others an image that one does not believe in. It is precisely here that riyāʾ reveals itself in its most naked form: it alienates the Human not only from others but also from oneself. For this is not merely deception; it is betrayal in its purest form. Truth, however, does not deceive. Truth shows neither less nor more than what it is. It is only what it is; it simply is.

The murshid says: "The moment you stop displaying yourself, you begin to exist. For the first time, you withdraw from the stage and come into contact with what is Real, that is, with the unseen." The unseen is not even the opposite of the visible; it is its ground. It is not what is displayed, but what is. And the murshid teaches this not through lengthy discourses, but through silence, sometimes simply by withdrawing his gaze. For it is a kind of absence.

The Human often stands where one does not belong, forcing oneself onto a foreign stage. Yet even one's departure from that stage must not become another performance. Truth always speaks to you from the place where you truly are: from your lack, from what is incomplete in you, from that silence you conceal. And there, the language of Truth remains the same: absence.

Few are able to guard themselves against the deception of the eye and seek a remedy for the blindness of the heart. For the eye is often the executioner of Truth. The eye judges by what it sees. To see is to suppose one knows. And this is ghaflah (heedlessness) in its most naked form. Yet Truth cannot be seen in this way; Truth burns the one who bears it and shakes the one it touches inwardly. The eye reads what is outside but cannot see what is within. Everything that shines before it leaves a darkness within. And the more the Human turns toward the glitter of the stage, the more one loses the ground within.

The modern age has sacralized the visual. Spectacle has become almost a form of worship. What shines is taken as true. What the crowd sees comes to stand in for Truth. Riyāʾ is the brightest and most false fruit of this culture of the eye.

The eye knows only the outward. Yet the outward often exists to conceal the inward. And the inward that strives to make itself visible from the outside is almost always empty. The moment the Human begins to look at oneself through the eye, one is severed from the heart.

The murshid looks into the sālik's eyes, and if he sees a light there, he remains silent. For he knows: that light is not the light of Truth; it is the light of the stage.

To look into the heart's darkness requires another kind of seeing. But no one wishes to look into darkness. Everyone runs toward the light. Yet light is for the eye, not the heart.

The heart does not seek an image. The heart seeks to become. To become, it remains silent. The eye, by contrast, speaks, wants, and desires. The eye depends on the stage. The heart is what falls to the ground. For this reason, the source of riyāʾ is desire turned from the heart toward the eye, begging for approval: to be accepted by the eye, to live as though what is absent within were actually there...

The eye does not only look outward. At times, the gaze turns outward from within as well: when you begin to look at yourself by asking, "How do others see me?" At that moment, your gaze ceases to be your own. You construct an image by imagining how another will see you. And this, through riyāʾ, is the most hidden murder of Truth.

The murshid says: "You are not afraid of the eye. You are trying to exist through the eye's desire because you cannot descend into the silence of your own heart." For this reason, riyāʾ is more than a performance; it is an escape.

One who cannot descend to one's own ground seeks refuge on another's stage. One wants to be defined by the eye. Yet the heart does not define; it simply is. When the heart truly is, the eye closes of its own accord. For the light of Truth cannot be seen with the eye. That light is a silence within. And this is the highest form of seeing: to see without eyes. What is seen without eyes can no longer be put into words. Every Truth put into words becomes touched by the glitter of the stage; once touched by it, it can all too easily become spectacle. And spectacle is for the eye.

The root of riyāʾ lies, in truth, in groundlessness. Yet the eye is its first instrument, the gateway to the stage. The heart must be freed from the eye's tyranny.

It must strip itself of the allure of being seen. For the allure of being seen draws its force from the pressure of an emptiness within. And that emptiness grows still only when the eye falls silent. Yet there is one exception to this: when the equation is reversed. For most often, the eye is dominant, while the heart is either absent or the very place one seeks to deceive. But there is also the overflow onto the face of what the heart knows within. When the heart overflows through the eyes, it points to an altogether different state. There, the eye is no longer merely an eye. This is a secret known only to lovers. It cannot be staged; it cannot be put into words.

When the murshid sees one whose heart has risen to the face, he does not remain silent; he speaks. Yet not everyone can hear this speech. Even if they hear it, they cannot understand it. For the kalām exists only between the one who hears and the one who speaks.

In discussing riyāʾ, one must also address the evil that feeds on goodness and the moral corruption caused by riyāʾ. For this is its most hidden and most poisonous form.

When evil is recognized as evil, resistance arises within the Human. Yet no one can easily guard against an evil that wears the mask of goodness. It is precisely here, in this marketplace of false goodness, that riyāʾ finds its greatest capacity to spread, to infect, and to take root.

We live in an age when evil deepens by wearing the mask of goodness. Charity becomes a spectacle; humility, a competition; truthfulness, a slogan; religiosity, an identity card. The Human no longer does good from an impulse arising within, but does good to appear good on the stage. Goodness becomes an ornament in a shop window. Yet Truth cannot be placed in a shop window. Truth cannot be displayed there, put into circulation, or used. Most importantly, when it is applauded, it becomes tainted.

If a person does not feel an inward expansion when helping another but is moved to act the moment they know eyes are watching, that is not goodness. The children of this age have listened to an invisible whisper that says, "Goodness is incomplete unless it is seen." Yet that sense of lack does not belong to Truth; it belongs to the stage. What receives no approval is deemed worthless. Goodness unseen is treated as though it did not exist. A prayer unheard is regarded as wasted breath. Patience unknown is considered wasted. Yet Truth is most fully Truth when it is lived without being known, and most of all then.

The murshid stopped the sālik as he was leaving the mosque, after the sālik had discreetly left some money on the ground and then instinctively looked around. That glance was not searching for who had taken the money; it was searching for who had seen the one who gave it. The murshid said: "You did not give ṣadaqah (charity). You lent to your nafs, and to the most dangerous creditor of all."

The one who does good and wishes to be seen does not, in truth, love goodness but visibility. The one who displays humility and wishes to be noticed is an addict. In this form, riyāʾ is subtle enough to infiltrate even the most innocent of acts: prayers, acts of charity, acts of service, prayers performed after rising in the night... Outwardly, they may be done "not to be seen," while inwardly there remains the desire that someone should hear of them, know of them, or appreciate them. Even while saying, "Let Allah alone know," one may take pleasure in others knowing that one is the person who says such a thing.

In today's world, appearing good has become more valuable than being good. For appearance enters circulation; it can be marketed and made valuable. Truth, meanwhile, remains alone. A photograph of a good deed shared on social media reveals the person's attempt to vindicate oneself and place oneself upon the stage. And this effort is riyāʾ in its plainest form. The murshid says: "When you do good, forget it yourself as well. For as long as you remember it, you are keeping track of your own riyāʾ."

Goodness need not, of course, be invisible, but it should not be remembered. For what remains unseen can be forgotten. What is remembered, however, will one day inevitably be told or somehow allowed to escape into the open. Every good deed recounted is put into words to satisfy a desire within: "I too am good." "I too have done this." "I too bear the burden." As long as this "I" continues to speak, the homeland of riyāʾ remains standing.

At the heart of morality lies the ability to forget the self, and the self that exists upon the stage. Yet this age does not allow the Human to forget oneself. On the contrary, it constantly says: "Construct yourself. Display yourself. Tell yourself. Make yourself shine. Take pride in yourself." And this pride is no longer carried through evil, but through goodness itself. For when evil is displayed, everyone finds it ugly; but when goodness is displayed, it becomes corrupted and turns into the most dangerous form of evil.

The most dangerous riyāʾ is the one that becomes entangled with the sacred. For the lie concealed in the place that appears closest to Truth is the hardest to discern. A kneeling, a bowed head, a silence... From the outside, they may appear to be absolute surrender, while within them lies a burning desire to be admired. This happens when the Human turns toward displaying the sacred rather than bearing it. For bearing is difficult; it burns, exhausts, annihilates. Displaying, by contrast, lightens the burden and gives the illusion of bringing the self into being. Those who bear are burning. Those who display are finding relief. And their riyāʾ is precisely this relief, clothed in the form of nūr.

The murshid hears that a dervish has been engaged in dhikr night after night, weeping until dawn. One morning, he calls him to his side and says: "You think you have turned toward Allah, yet you are still circling around yourself. Your dhikr is nothing but a voice praising your own self." For if the Human turns to dhikr without relinquishing the anāniyyah of the self upon the stage, that dhikr too returns only to the self, merely in another guise. Prostration is not performed to be seen. Prayer is not offered to be heard. Worship is not proclaimed. Yet our age seeks to bring everything onto the stage, to put every state on display. Even spirituality becomes a setting, an identity, a role. The one who displays one's silence is practicing the most refined and subtle form of ostentation.

Riyāʾ that infiltrates the sacred goes unnoticed. For it is silent; it comes with tears, waits with patience, and speaks with adab. Yet within, a desire to be recognized remains. One wants others to say, "What a patient person." One wants them to say, "What a profound ʿārif (Gnostic). Yet depth cannot be known in this way. Maʿrifah (Gnosis) cannot be recognized from without. The true murīd remains unseen. Visibility is the end of the path; but this end does not lead to Truth, and it is the end that belongs to the stage.

Spiritual riyāʾ can hide even in the presence of the murshid. One kneels beside him yet wants others to see that kneeling. One remains silent yet displays even that silence in the shop window. One says, "I am nothing," yet bears that nothingness like a banner. These are all masks of spiritual riyāʾ, and it is precisely these masks that receive the greatest praise.

Yet spirituality is real only as long as it remains unseen. For what remains unseen is preserved. Every state that is exposed, every secret that falls upon the stage, begins to lose its purity. All the more so when that state is spoken of... All the more so when it is turned into an identity, into a story...

Forget your spirituality. If you can forget it, it was never real to begin with. What is Real is not known through you; it disappears with you. The moment you say, "I have become," you are finished. When you say, "I have burned," you have gone out. When you say, "I was there," you have fallen.

The murshid says: "The one who takes pride in one's spiritual states has no state at all. The self of the one who takes pride in one's own fanāʾ is seated within the strongest fortress."

This saying is the gravestone of spiritual riyāʾ. And upon that stone there is only one inscription: silence. Silence has value only so long as it is neither displayed, spoken of, nor made noticeable.

Truth is a fire that is never put on display. It is not extinguished when the eye falls upon it, but it disappears when it is spoken of. The deadliest form of riyāʾ is the hand that touches the sacred and brings it onto the stage. That hand does not reveal Truth; it casts a mask over it. Over time, the mask itself comes to be mistaken for Truth. This is why spirituality must remain silent. A soul that tells of itself is already lost.

Souls that have truly burned recognize one another. Yet this recognition does not occur through words, the stage, or proclamation. Even their speech is a kind of exchange of silences.

One day, the murshid gives the sālik a stone. "Show this stone to everyone," he says. "But even if no one understands, continue to carry it." At first, the sālik objects and questions the command's wisdom. Then he takes the stone and goes from place to place, showing it to everyone. No one takes any interest. Some laugh; others shrug. Finally, exhausted and without hope, he puts the stone down.

The murshid asks, "Why did you put it down?"

The sālik replies, "No one saw its worth."

The murshid remains silent. For the answer itself is riyāʾ.

Every being that does not believe in what it bears, that cannot find its worth on its own ground, ultimately lives in pursuit of approval. When approval does not come, the burden grows heavy. Yet had the sālik known the stone's worth himself, he would not have put it down. He would not have displayed it. He would simply have carried it.

The desire to be admired is one of the most subtle distortions of existence. The essence seeks to remain with itself, while the shadow seeks to remain with others. Riyāʾ is the shadow's state when it becomes dependent on light and the stage. The Human lives with a longing that does not truly belong to oneself. To desire to be seen is not so much to seek recognition as to believe that one cannot exist without being recognized. This search for existence inevitably becomes a dependence on the stage. Every stage requires an audience; without an audience, there is no stage. This is the state of riyāʾ in the modern Human: a consciousness of performance, terrified of being left without a stage.

Nor is the desire to be admired merely a social sickness; it is an inward, silent epidemic. It is an inner dialogue that operates beneath the surface and governs without revealing itself. It continually whispers: "Notice me." "Approve of me." "I am something."

For the moment, one says, "I am nothing." Approval ceases, the lights go out, and the stage closes. What remains is oneself alone. Yet when one is left alone with oneself, there is no "I" there either. A self fashioned through the gaze of others dissolves like vapor in that solitude.

Watch your effort to make yourself noticed. Be aware of every whisper that passes within: even remaining silent to be seen is riyāʾ. Making your silence noticeable is as much a performance as speaking. So accept being unseen. Accept even that no one should know you have gone unnoticed. For Truth does not seek to be noticed. Truth simply is. And what truly is is unseen. It is simply borne and borne within, while encompassing what is without.

The desire to be admired is often the voice of a childhood that was never heard. It is the voice of a child who was not loved, not embraced, not listened to, still whispering from within, pleading, "Love me." In adulthood, a mask is constructed over that voice. The identity appears strong, profound, silent, self-sacrificing, learned, and mature. Yet within, that child still cries to be loved. Riyāʾ is precisely the stage upon which this vulnerability, concealed from the gaze, is clothed in the appearance of virtue.

The Human is not, in truth, afraid of being alone. What one fears is hearing one's own voice and confronting one's own emptiness. This is why one seeks the crowd. One wants to exist within a community, a congregation, a "we." For the weight of confronting oneself can be borne only by the gaze and voices of others. And communities are a paradise for this gaze. Everyone looks at one another, everyone affirms one another, everyone approves of one another. Yet no one truly sees. And it is precisely where there is no true seeing that riyāʾ begins to arise. For riyāʾ takes root not only in the attempt to be noticed, but also in pretending to be noticed.

The crowd is where visibility comes easily and responsibility is dispersed. Faces multiply, and those who cannot face Truth individually console themselves by becoming visible collectively, by belonging to a cause or to some other abstract form of togetherness. "Congregation," "community," "path," "team," "service," "cause," "ummah," "unity of intention," "bond of the heart"... The names may change, yet from within there arises, at least once, a voice that says: "Let them notice me here." At that very moment, riyāʾ penetrates the center like a virus. For what is now at work is no longer unity but a personal and subjective identity. And wherever that identity takes hold, spectacle becomes inevitable.

The murshid moves in silence among the sāliks seated in a circle. Some close their eyes, some fall into prostration, and some wait in stillness. Yet the murshid knows: even in silence, there can be performance. A thought arising within, "I am the one who remains most silent," "I am the one experiencing the deepest khushū(serenity)ʿ", is a sign of riyāʾ in its most refined form. To be noticed in silence is more concealed than to be applauded in speech. But it is more dangerous.

Within a community, everyone has a role: "one devoted to service," "a traveler on the path of dhikr," "the humble one," "one burning with love," "one who touches hearts," "the silent and profound one"... Over time, these roles cling to the self like skin. No one truly sees anyone anymore. Everyone performs a role, and everyone admires the roles others perform. The Real is forgotten; the role remains. And that role gives birth to riyāʾ.

Even emotions shared together can become spectacle. "How much we wept," "What a night it was," "We were all shaken," "Our hearts became one"... Once such words begin, narrative has taken the place of Truth. What is being told is no longer even what was lived; it consists of traces of what one wished to have lived. And riyāʾ moves through all of this.

Yet Truth is not narrated. It is only lived, and then forgotten, preserved as maḥfūẓ.

Be present in the community not to exist, but to disappear. Let your name not be mentioned. Let no gaze fall upon you. Let no praise reach you. Let an emptiness remain where you stood, but let that emptiness not be filled with your name. Let the service be seen, but let it not be credited to you. For true belonging is the ability to forget oneself. Every belonging in which the self is not forgotten eventually builds a fortress of riyāʾ around itself.

Humility resides not in words but in absence. Yet humility expressed through words is often the most hidden and subtle form of pride. If the voice of the one who says, "I am nothing," is still heard, there is no nothingness there; the self is still present. If the face of the one who says, "I am absent" still shines, it is not absence that burns there but visibility. Riyāʾ takes refuge beneath precisely this radiance. It appears silent yet makes itself noticed. It steps back yet ensures that everyone feels its presence. It does not speak yet leaves a trace through its silence. Once humility becomes a performance, it is no longer humility; it is silent pride, and the language of pride after it has learned to be silent.

The murshid fears the sālik's humility most of all. For it is the virtue most easily corrupted and most easily imitated. It is a stage that reveals itself without seeming to reveal, constructed without seeming to draw attention to itself. If someone says, "I do not exist upon this path," then if one truly does not exist, why speak of oneself at all? If someone says, "I have chosen silence," why announce that choice to another?

Humility is not speaking in silence; it is being able to forget even that one is silent. Every remembered silence still carries an "I." Silence that has been forgotten, however, belongs to a self that has withdrawn from the stage. And what withdraws from the stage becomes unseen. Its Truth remains concealed. This is why the murshid listens most closely to the one who does not speak, yet does not readily believe in that silence. For even silence may be a role. He watches the steps of many a tearful dervish and passes by. For those tears may be less an emotion than a signal: "See me. Understand my suffering." This is something that must be examined.

The modern Human wears humility like a costume, revealing oneself through the words one uses, the praise one refuses, and the positions one declines. Yet beneath all these signs there is a single cry: "See me as different. Know me as profound. Think of me as exalted." Depth does not display itself. What is deep does not appear like the sea; it is like the earth, silent and inward. Humility is not an attribute but a forgetting. The one who has forgotten oneself has attained humility. The one who believes oneself to possess humility is still concealed on the highest peaks of pride.

Forget your humility. Forget your silence. Do not know that you are holding back. Do not even feel that you are refraining from stepping forward. Do not exist through silence; disappear through silence. For every humility that makes itself noticeable still carries the desire to be seen. And the one who desires to be seen is still crowded within.

The murshid says: "The most dangerous form of humility is to lie on the ground and wait for people to walk over you. For even in that waiting, a desire to be recognized remains: to be loved quietly, to be praised gently, to be appreciated in silence."

Solitude is the place where there is no seeing eye, no hearing ear, no hand that reaches out to touch. There, only you remain. Yet this "you" is a self upon whom even your own gaze cannot rest. For the greatest danger of solitude is not that another's gaze turns toward you, but that your own does. A single gaze is enough for riyāʾ to be born again. And if that gaze does not belong to another, it comes from you. "What am I doing here?" "If only there were someone to see me..." And there it is: the final refuge of the desire to be seen, and the point from which it begins all over again.

The murshid sends the sālik to a hut on a mountainside. There is no mirror, no voice, no gaze. A week later, the sālik returns. Kneeling in tears, he says, "There, I could no longer even recognize myself. I thought I had disappeared." The murshid smiles: "Now you are beginning."

For riyāʾ begins in the attempt to recognize oneself, to construct an identity. The one who is willing to forget oneself and consent to disappearing is the one who is ready to part with it.

Nothingness is solitude deepened. There, even you no longer remain. What arises is not the desire to make yourself known, but the desire not to know yourself. The question "Who am I?" has given way to the reality: "I am not." One who does not consent to nothingness continues to produce riyāʾ. For nothingness lies beyond being unseen: it is the state in which there is nothing left to display. No past to recount, no state to defend, no identity to parade and erect before the world.

Do not display yourself, even to yourself. Silence your inner voice.

If only the bearer remains, you come to understand that what you bear does not belong to you. It is only an amānah. Solitude does not tell you who you are; it takes you away from yourself. Nothingness erases even the shadows that remain of you. And the absolute silence that begins there is no different from death for riyāʾ.

The modern human cannot endure solitude. Solitude means hearing one's own lies. Silence means hearing the absence of applause within. Riyāʾ is the single voice of a self that cannot live without applause. When that voice falls silent, an emptiness opens. The one who dares to bear that emptiness opens the first crack in riyāʾ. Through that crack, Truth seeps in. Yet Truth speaks only to those who are alone. Solitude does not come of itself; it is chosen. Solitude is not abandonment; it is being called.

The murshid says: "Riyāʾ has died not when you reach the point where you can no longer explain yourself to anyone, but when you reach the point where you no longer feel the need to."

The Final Severance

Every eye is a desire. Every gaze is a call. Every desire to be seen is a declaration of existence. And riyāʾ is this desire taking form. At first, the Human does not act to put oneself on display; one simply wants to be seen. One believes one cannot live without being seen. One is always searching for an eye. Always a witness, always someone to bear witness, always an affirmation.

To break this cycle, the murshid begins by not speaking. Then he does not look. Finally, he does not see.

When the murshid falls silent, the sālik is brought up against his own false voice. When the murshid does not look, the sālik feels his own emptiness like a wall. When the murshid does not see him, the sālik finally realizes that he is no longer seen. Riyāʾ needs an eye. And so the murshid strikes the final blow at the eye: he withdraws his gaze from you.

Whatever the sālik does, the murshid no longer turns to look. For if he does, the sālik begins to reconstruct himself within that gaze. Yet Truth is not constructed; Truth dismantles. And the eye is the last thing dismantled.

The human lives through the murshid's eye. One finds direction in his approval and sees oneself through his eyes. The greatest riyāʾ is to take form within the murshid's gaze: "He saw me." "He approved of me." "He gave me a sign." Yet what comes through the eye also departs through the eye.

This is why the murshid is the one who has withdrawn his gaze. That withdrawal is death to riyāʾ. There is no one left before whom to display oneself. No one left to grant approval. No stage left to lend meaning to what one does. And it is here that the true path begins: a bloody yet silent journey toward the ground.

Remove yourself even from the gaze of the murshid. Dare to drown in his silence. Remain within the emptiness that seems like abandonment. For it is not abandonment but tarbiyah. That silence is not denial but the highest form of recognition. Recognition comes without recognizing you as you know yourself; it comes by freeing you from yourself.

The murshid speaks one last time. But not in words. In a gaze, in an absence, in a silence: "When you stop explaining yourself, I hear you. When you relinquish the desire to be seen, I see you. When you relinquish being 'I,' I carry you."

And there, riyāʾ dies. The eye falls silent. The tongue falls silent. The heart falls silent. Only one thing remains: not to be.

The one who is not cannot make a spectacle of oneself. The one who is not has no voice. The one who is not needs no witness. The one who is not does not explain oneself. The one who is not is not noticed. The one who is not cannot be destroyed. For the one who is not is no longer the object of anything. Only one who is no longer the object of anything is ready to become a bearer of Truth.

The murshid lowers his gaze. The sālik does not raise his head. For he knows: nothing remains to be seen. No state remains to be displayed, no path to be narrated. All that remains is an inwardness brought to silence.

It is there that riyāʾ has died.