When Civilization Lost Its Soul

He placed the rose upon the table. “Our poetry celebrated love, beauty, spiritual longing, and the mysteries of existence. Yet today, the land of our cultural inheritance is spoken of as though it were merely a military target.” His expression grew sorrowful. “Tell me, when a city is destroyed, what exactly disappears?” “Buildings, roads, bridges, schools, and hospitals,” I answered. “Only those?” I thought for a moment. “Human lives are endangered, too.” Hafez shook his head gently. “Think more deeply.”

He pointed toward the distant palace windows. “Imagine a small home in a Persian city. This evening, a mother has prepared dinner for her children. The fragrance of rice and herbs fills her kitchen. A little girl has arranged her schoolbooks for tomorrow. A young boy has drawn a picture of the house he hopes to build when he grows older. An elderly father sits by the window, waiting for his son to return. And a young researcher, working late into the night, dreams of discovering something that might one day save thousands of lives.”

He paused. “Now imagine that war reaches their neighborhood.” His voice softened. “The loss is not merely architectural. It is the disruption of relationships, memories, possibilities, and dreams.” I felt a heaviness in my chest. Hafez continued. “A ruined bridge may be rebuilt. A damaged road may be repaired. But who can restore a childhood spent in fear? Who can calculate the value of an education interrupted, or a scientific discovery that was never made?”

The garden fell silent. Then Sheikh Saadi rose from his chair. “I would like to remind you of something I wrote many centuries ago,” he said. He began reciting the celebrated opening of Bani Adam, from his Gulistan:

بنی آدم اعضای یکدیگرند که در آفرینش ز یک گوهرند

He explained its meaning: “Human beings are members of one another, created from the same essence.” He continued by explaining that when one member suffers, the others cannot remain at peace. “Tell me,” he asked, “has your civilization forgotten this simple truth?” I lowered my eyes.

Saadi continued. “You speak proudly of globalization. You call your world a global village. You have built communication networks connecting billions of people.” “Yes,” I replied. “Then why do you sometimes behave as though suffering stops at national borders?” I could not answer. “Does a child's cry have a nationality?” he asked. “No.” “Does a mother's grief require a passport?” “No.” “Does hunger recognize religion?” “No.” “Then why should compassion?”