Letter to Imam Mahdi | From Waiting to Justice
Letter to Imam Mahdi | From Waiting to Justice
O Master, a Letter Written with Blood from the Heart
A Greeting from the Bottom of My Throat
O Master, peace be upon you.
This isn’t the polite “hello” you write at the top of a letter. This is a greeting that rises from the bottom of my throat, from a place where a lump has been nesting for years. A greeting that smells like the tea my mother brewed, and sounds like the sigh my father sends up to the sky every night behind the window.
I don’t want to show off like some intellectual in this letter, or recite poetry like a eulogy singer. I want to talk simple and plain, like a kid who’s lost his father’s hand. Because you are the father of the orphans of this earth — and we, by God, are the most orphaned generation in history.
O Master, we want your reappearance. Not just our own relief. We ask God for you — not just for our own comfort. I’m writing this from the start so you know: this letter isn’t a letter of self-interest. It’s a letter of love.
What Does Waiting Mean These Days?
O Master, waiting isn’t just sitting on a prayer stone and reading Du’a Nudba.
Waiting means when the dollar price goes up, my heart drops and my hand shakes.
Waiting means on the first of the month, when I sign the rent agreement, I stare at the wall and ask myself: “Am I living, or just surviving?”
Waiting means an old man with a tiny pension, trying to decide whether to buy medicine or food.
Waiting means a young guy with two university degrees, at a red light, wearing a sign that says “I’ll do any job,” and nobody even looks at him.
Waiting means a mother who cries quietly over her sleeping child at night, and wakes him with a smile in the morning.
And worse than having nothing is being alone. Look at the streets — full of lit houses and residents with no light inside. Neighbors don’t know each other. When the elevator door opens, everyone buries their head in their phone so they don’t have to look.
O Master, this city is like a dead body dressed in new clothes.
Over There, Fire and Blood
O Master, have you seen Lebanon?
Lebanon, that small piece of resistance, is under fire and iron. Houses have collapsed, children are under the rubble, hospitals have no medicine and no electricity. A people who held their heads high for years are now under American- and Israeli-made bombs, barely breathing.
And Iran, Lebanon’s big sister, wounded and sanctioned, has empty hands but a full heart. It sends its young men, makes its mothers cry, and at night in the mosques prays for victory.
O Master, we watch from behind phone screens. The image comes, shakes, cuts out. A few seconds later it connects again — as if truth itself can’t stand to watch anymore.
We do wudu here, we pray, we make dua for them. But deep down we know: prayer doesn’t take the place of a bomb. Only one hand can take the place of a bomb. Your hand.
O Master, bombs don’t know home, school, or hospital. This world has been owing one breath of justice for years.
The Arrogant Powers and the Big Lie of Western Civilization
O Master, these days everyone talks about “Western civilization.” But from behind the wooden desks of the White House, this civilization has sent us only two things: bombs and Bluetooth.
America and Europe, who call themselves champions of freedom and human rights, set the Middle East on fire and then watch from the other side of the world with a cup of coffee. When a child in Gaza or Lebanon dies, they’re worried about “oil” and “deals.” O Master, these are the same people who claim civilization but pawned their conscience in Swiss banks years ago.
And worse than them are their puppets in this region: mercenary rulers, West-struck secularists, bankrupt intellectuals who forget their whole identity with one visa ticket and shout for “freedom” in London and Paris, but can’t hear the voice of the oppressed in Gaza.
O Master, these are the same ones whose names are on paper as “allies,” but in their hearts they are a silent enemy. For years, with oil money and false promises, they have been swallowing this land.
Social Crises; A House Burning from Within
O Master, we get bombed from outside, but we’re also burning from within.
Usury is like a mouse crawling up under the wall of this country’s economy. Banks that should be servants have become blades. Astronomical loans went to the people who never needed them; and the farmer, the worker, the employee are bent under back-breaking interest. O Master, this usury isn’t just a number; it’s blood draining from the nation’s vein.
Gambling, with pretty names, has nested in the pockets of our youth. Online games, betting, prediction sites, money that leaves family tables and goes into the pockets of owners on the other side of the world. O Master, these things eat the souls of our youth while we just watch.
Immodesty is a wound that gets deeper every day. Hijab isn’t just a piece of cloth; hijab is the sacred boundary of a society. When you come, you will restore this boundary. O Master, we are ashamed of immodesty — not because someone forced us, but out of love. Out of honor.
Moral corruption has entered our homes through antennas and Instagram. Our sons and daughters, instead of taking Lady Fatima and Imam Ali as role models, follow celebrities and bloggers — people who promote money, fame, and immorality. Every morning, our young person wakes up with a new post and goes to sleep with a new sorrow. O Master, these are the quiet thieves of our children’s faith.
Gambling, betting, Instagram, Twitter, pornographic networks — all of these have one goal: to empty our homes of faith, modesty, and honor. And worse than all, Iran International and those satellite networks that, with Saudi and Zionist money, work day and night to sow division and brainwash our youth. O Master, these are all soldiers of the enemy — without weapons; with money, images, and corruption.
Dog walking has become a sign of luxury and lack of honor. A woman carries a dog in her arms with coquetry, but doesn’t look at a child begging under the sun. O Master, these are signs of a sick society — a society whose values have been turned upside down.
Consumerism and luxury have replaced contentment and simple living. Lies and hypocrisy have replaced honesty and loyalty. And all of this, in the shadow of our negligence, has slowly taken root.
O Master, all of this is one side; and our indifference is the other side.
Even the Sky Is Sad
O Master, these days even breathing has become a rehearsal for death.
The air is so heavy that the sky has lost its blue. We breathe through masks in winter, through the silence of power outages in summer. When the water is cut, the tanker comes, and patience comes, and I understand that even water can be a wish.
The earth shakes. A few seconds, a few merciless seconds. Then we count how many houses are left and how many people are not. And we just say: “May God have mercy.” O Master, saying this is easier than what we should be doing.
Lakes have dried up, wells have run dry, forests have burned, and we just watched — like spectators of a movie who are sure their own house isn’t in danger.
O Master, even the soil can’t take us anymore.
Reappearance Means Justice Can Breathe
O Master, I don’t just want you to come; I want to breathe through you.
When you come, justice breathes.
When you come, empty hands are filled, and full hands are emptied of greed.
When you come, usury disappears and loans take on a human color.
When you come, banks build people’s homes instead of towers of luxury.
When you come, our daughters look to Lady Fatima (a.s.) instead of celebrities.
When you come, our youth take refuge in the Qur’an and the mosque instead of gambling and Instagram.
When you come, our men don’t lose their honor and our women don’t lose their modesty.
When you come, Iran International and the networks of corruption are silenced.
When you come, Gaza and Lebanon breathe, and America and Israel bow their heads.
When you come, the arrogant powers of the world kneel before your justice.
When you come, mothers don’t call their children’s names under the rubble.
When you come, neighbors know each other.
When you come, tables don’t get smaller; hearts get bigger.
O Master, let me say one thing clearly: we don’t deserve you. We are the same ones who pray for ourselves every night and in the morning, over bread and shares, knock our brother to the ground. We are the same ones who call you in prayer and in action replace you with our own interests. But you still deal with us. You said so yourself; we’ve just emptied our hands so you can fill them.
Waiting Isn’t Just Crying
O Master, I want to make a commitment, not a complaint:
From today, if I am waiting, then I must be just.
If I am waiting, then I must not lie.
If I am waiting, then I must not take usury.
If I am waiting, then I must not waste my life on gambling and betting.
If I am waiting, then my eyes must not follow celebrities and bloggers.
If I am waiting, then my Instagram page must not be a mirror of corruption.
If I am waiting, then I must not take an old man’s place in line.
If I am waiting, then I must not ignore a needy neighbor.
If I am waiting, then I must not be indifferent when the honor of a Muslim is violated.
If I am waiting, then I must build; not just pray.
Waiting isn’t crying at night; waiting is building the morning.
Come
O Master, the earth has been listening for you for years.
An old man irons his clothes every Friday and says: “Maybe he’ll come today.”
A mother stands by the window every night and says: “Maybe his voice will come today.”
Come, O morning after all these nights.
Come, O sound of footsteps that the sea and the desert have been waiting for.
Come, O Joseph, for without you these wells are full of jealous brothers.
Come, O owner of those hands that must only take empty hands.
Come, O lost justice of history.
Come, O cry of the oppressed of Gaza and Lebanon.
Come, O defeater of the arrogant powers.
Come, O eraser of usury, corruption, gambling, and shamelessness.
Just come. We will come too — with our trembling hands and our small faith.
Let the world understand that “Mahdi” isn’t just a name.
It’s a rescue.
A name for all the nameless days of history.
O Allah, hasten the relief of your guardian.
Ya Mahdi (a.s.).
