Ramadan comes and goes, but some people remain untouched, unmoved, unchanged. They fast from food but not from cruelty, recite verses but never pause to understand them.

They rush through thirty chapters as if tallying marks on a scorecard, as if faith is something to be completed, not lived. They worry about missing a prayer but not about the words they spit like venom between rak’ahs.

They keep their stomachs empty but feed their egos, keep their lips sealed from water but not from backbiting, cursing, breaking souls with sharp tongues and sharper stares.

And yet, they are the first to judge, the first to weigh your sins, the first to decide if God will ever love you. They decide your hell and heaven as if God decrees according to their wishes.

They do not see the filth in their own hearts, but they will carve your flaws into stone, recite them like a sermon, make you believe that your faith is in their hands, that your worth is measured by their approval.

They have never tasted patience, never held gratitude in their palms, never known what it means to truly fast. Because Ramadan may have entered their homes, their mosques, their routines—but it has never once entered their hearts.

May we never be among those whose lips touch religion but whose souls remain dry, whose hands count religious obligations but whose hearts remain starved—who utter words they do not understand, who talk about others religions but hardly practice their own. May God save us from sins that will consume our mountains of good deeds on the Day of Judgment.

— Sadia Hakim // Letters Unsent