Yusuf Is Gone, and Now So Are We

I am writing this as the haunting voice of Shajarian flows softly through my room, his words echoing in the silence: "Where is my beloved Yusuf?"

And as I listen, something stirs deep within me. It feels like a door opening inside the heart. I am no longer here, in this silent house, between cold walls and flickering screens. I am pulled back into a world that once was. A world where everything had meaning. Where people mattered. Where life was not perfect, but real.

The melody brings back memories-those warm, golden memories that live in the corners of the heart. I remember a time when neighbors were closer than family. In the narrow alleys of my childhood in Iraq, I knew every face, every voice, every door.

When I go back now, some of those neighbors are still there, old and weathered like the bricks of our homes. They look at me with eyes full of love and sadness. We don't need words. I see everything in their gaze-the passing time, the silent loss, the vanishing world.

Once, when I scraped my knee, the neighbor's door would open before I even cried. One brought a cloth, another brought water, and someone gave me sweets to make me smile. Our lives were tied together by threads of compassion.

You didn't need an invitation to enter a house; you just knocked and walked in. You belonged. Everyone belonged. The smell of bread from a neighbor's kitchen was not just a scent; it was a message: you're not alone.

But today, I am living in this house , and I do not know who lives on the other side of the wall. I don't know their names. I don't know if they are sad, or sick, or in need. Our doors are closed, our hearts even more so.

Sometimes I hear footsteps, a door creaking, a child crying-and I wonder, do they hear me too? Do they wonder who I am? But no one asks. No one knocks. We live beside each other like shadows in silence.

They say we are now more civilized. More connected. But is this humanity? or civilization ? They are preparing us for a world with no feeling, no roots, no weight.

They tell us, "Trust AI. It will fix everything." Climate change? AI will reverse it. War? AI will predict and prevent it. Hunger? AI will manage food. Even death-they say it might be defeated. There are projects worth trillions-about singularity, immortality, downloading consciousness into machines.

They speak as if humanity was the problem all along.

But while they chase eternal life, children in Gaza are dying under rubble. Villages in Africa still wait for clean water. Families are being torn apart by war in Ukraine, Sudan, Myanmar. And what about the soul? What about the heart? No machine can carry our pain, no code can cry our tears. They are building a future where we will be surrounded by machines-smart assistants, digital doctors, robot teachers. And they tell us, "You won't need to work. AI will do it." But then what are we for?

Even education is under attack. Schools once taught us how to live, how to think, how to become better. Teachers, lecturers, professors-they used to be fountains of wisdom. Now they are being told, "You will be replaced." AI can teach faster, more accurately. It can explain chemistry, solve equations, even write poetry. Students are told, "Don't worry if you don't understand. Just ask ChatGPT." So what is the teacher now? A supervisor? An outdated model?

Doctors, too. AI is learning to diagnose diseases more accurately than humans. It can scan your lungs, read your blood, even prescribe your medicine. So where is the doctor's care? His warmth? His eyes that calm you when you're scared? They say AI will be better-faster, cleaner, cheaper. But it will also be emptier.

They are telling us-softly, cleverly-that in the future, we will be useless. We won't work. We won't create. We won't teach. We won't heal. We won't be needed.

Is that the dream?

Children today grow up with screens in their hands. They spend hours fighting battles in games, becoming heroes in virtual worlds-Spiderman, Ironman, Superman. In that world, they matter. In that world, they're applauded. But when the game ends, they return to a world that makes them feel like nothing. No cape. No power. No meaning. So they escape again and again-into the screen, into the illusion. And the real world? It becomes dull, grey, unwanted.

When I was a child, I dreamed of becoming a teacher like my father-or a doctor like the one who cared for my mother. Today, many children no longer dream of becoming something meaningful. They want likes. They want followers. They crave attention-like Darren "IShowSpeed" and others who shout on YouTube, do little of substance, yet gain millions of views and followers, with money pouring in for seemingly doing nothing.

We've raised a generation to believe that fame and fantasy are the only things worth pursuing. The slow, difficult road of real achievement no longer seems appealing.

Even words are being rewritten. Father, mother, neighbor, friend-what do they mean now? "Home" used to mean the smell of my father's oud, the touch of my mother's hand, the voice of my neighbor calling my name. Today, home is a Wi-Fi zone, a charging port, a screen.

People sit at the same table but talk to someone miles away. They scroll while their child speaks. They record their meal but forget to say "Bismillah."

Have we really progressed?

Sometimes I ask myself, have we moved forward or have we just... wandered away?

And I think of that verse in the Qur'an, in Surah Yusuf, where Prophet Yaqub tells his sons: "O my sons, go and find Yusuf and his brother. And do not despair of the mercy of Allah. Indeed, none despairs of the mercy of Allah except those who disbelieve." (12:87)

He was blind from sorrow. Yet he still had hope. He still believed in the return of Yusuf. He didn't give up on his children, even when they betrayed him. He didn't give up on the world, even when everything fell apart.

That's what we've lost. Hope. Not the empty hope of machines, but the deep hope that Allah's mercy can restore what is broken. That humanity still has a soul.

So I sit here now, the voice of Shajarian still echoing, and I whisper with him:

Where is my Yusuf?

Where is the world that made me who I am?

Where is the kindness of neighbors, the laughter of streets, the dignity of work, the honesty of teachers, the wisdom of elders?

Where is the humanity that AI cannot replicate?

Where are we going? And what will be left of us when we get there?

If we do not wake up, if we do not return-not to the past, but to the essence of what made life meaningful-then we may gain everything the world offers and lose everything that makes life worth living.

We may build cities of gold but find no one to talk to. We may live forever but forget why we lived. And no machine, no matter how intelligent, can ever teach us how to love, how to forgive, how to believe, how to hope.

Those are the lessons of the prophets. The legacy of humanity. And I still believe.

I still believe Yusuf will return. I still believe the scent of bread, the smile of neighbors, the tears of teachers, the embrace of a mother-these things matter more than any code, any algorithm, any machine. We are not useless. We are human.

And that, in the end, is the most sacred thing of all.

Dr. AbdulWahed Jalal Nori is an Assistant Professor at the International Islamic University Malaysia (IIUM), specializing in political science, Islamic philosophy, and futures studies. His work bridges classical Islamic thought with contemporary global challenges, focusing on the intersection of ethics, civilization, and strategic foresight. His research aims to contribute to shaping a just and resilient future for the Muslim world and beyond.