As a Muslim woman witnessing the turbulence of our times, I often feel the weight of how misunderstood my faith has become. The loudest voices in the world today are usually those filled with anger, voices that divide, provoke, and misrepresent. Yet beneath this noise lies a softer, older, and far more powerful tradition: Sufism. It is a tradition born not from confrontation but from compassion, not from rigidity but from reflection. Moreover, in an era where intolerance hardens hearts and radicalization seduces vulnerable minds, I find myself returning to Sufi teachings as a reminder of who we really are as believers and as human beings.
For many of us, the earliest lessons of Sufism began at home, often through mothers or grandmothers who may never have used the word “Sufism,” yet lived its spirit every day. I remember how the women in my family taught me that faith is not just in rituals but also in character, in mercy, in how gently we speak to someone in pain. They would say that Allah looks not at our anger but at our intentions, not at our loud claims but at our quiet honesty. Only later in life did I realize that these simple teachings were the essence of Sufi thought: nurturing a heart that chooses empathy even when the world encourages hostility.
At the centre of Sufism is Tazkiya, the cleansing of the inner self. When a person purifies their heart, removing resentment, arrogance, and the hunger to dominate, radicalization loses its power. Extremism thrives on anger; Sufism dissolves it. Extremism feeds on the desire to control; Sufism softens it. In many ways, radical ideologies prey on people who feel wounded or alienated. As someone who has seen young Muslims struggle with identity, rejection, and confusion, I know how seductive the promise of “power” can sound to a hurting heart, but Sufism teaches that real strength lies not in overpowering others, but in mastering the chaos inside oneself.
One of the most beautiful truths Sufism carries is the idea of Ishq, a love so profound that it transforms the believer’s way of seeing the world. Additionally, this love is not narrow or selective. It does not restrict itself to a specific community or religion; it shines on every human being simply because all are Allah’s creation. When a person embraces this worldview, intolerance becomes impossible. A heart that recognizes divine beauty in others cannot weaponize faith. A soul that has tasted spiritual love cannot be convinced that violence brings honour. As a Muslim woman, this teaching resonates with me deeply, because society often confines women to silence, yet Sufism reminds us that the heart has its own voice and that voice, when rooted in love, can be revolutionary.
Sufism also teaches Sabr (patience) that is not passive but purposeful. In a time when people erupt at the slightest disagreement, Sufi patience becomes a form of resistance. It is the courage to respond with dignity when provoked, the strength to rise above those who benefit from chaos. For communities targeted by hatred, this patience becomes a shield. For individuals tempted by extremism, it becomes a reminder that the path of righteousness is never paved with rage. I believe this lesson is particularly important today, when social media amplifies hostility, misinformation spreads rapidly, and young minds absorb more noise than wisdom.
Another dimension of Sufism that offers hope is its celebration of inclusivity. Historically, Sufi spaces, whether they were small gatherings in homes or large shrines welcomed people without demanding to know their background or beliefs. This openness is not just spiritual; it is social. It teaches us that Muslims do not flourish in isolation but in harmony with others. In addition, for those who fear that questioning intolerance weakens their identity, Sufism shows that embracing diversity is not a compromise of faith but a fulfilment of it. As a woman who navigates both modern expectations and spiritual devotion, I find strength in this balance, this reminder that Islam is not threatened by difference but enriched by it.
When we speak of solutions to radicalization, governments and experts often focus on policies, surveillance, or De-radicalization programs. While these have their place, they address symptoms, not roots. Radicalization is emotional before it becomes ideological. It begins with a wounded heart long before it becomes a dangerous mind. Sufism reaches that emotional core. It offers belonging without manipulation, purpose without violence, and identity without hate. It replaces the desire to destroy with the desire to understand. It gives young people something extremists never can, a sense of peace.
In the end, what Sufism offers the world is beautifully simple: the courage to love, the humility to listen, and the wisdom to see humanity before difference? As a Muslim woman, I believe these teachings are not just spiritual ideals but practical tools for healing the fractures around us. They remind us that the true measure of faith is not how loudly one defends it, but how gently one lives it. In addition, in a time when intolerance threatens to define entire communities, Sufism stands like a steady light, soft, patient, and unwavering, guiding us back to the essence of who we are meant to be. If the world is willing to listen, Sufism is ready to teach. In addition, perhaps that is what we need most today, not more arguments, but more heart.
The writer is a student of Francophone and Journalism Studies, Jamia Millia Islamia.
