When Civilization Lost Its Soul

I looked toward the sky. The stars were shining above the Persian garden. I wondered how many generations of human beings had gazed upon those same stars. Kings and peasants, philosophers and soldiers, poets and scientists—all had lived beneath the same heavens. Empires had risen and fallen. Borders had changed. Languages had evolved. Yet the essential human desire for safety, dignity, affection, and belonging had remained.

Suddenly, I asked Saadi: “Do you believe humanity can ever overcome war?” He thought for a moment. “I cannot promise you a world without conflict,” he replied. “But I believe human beings can learn to resolve more of their conflicts without destroying one another.”

Hafez smiled. “A garden does not become beautiful because every flower is identical. Its beauty lies partly in its diversity.” Rumi added: “Unity does not require sameness. It requires the recognition that difference need not become hatred.”

For a long time, we sat together without speaking. The fountain continued to flow. The fragrance of roses filled the air. Then Saadi turned toward me. “When you return to your century,” he said, “ask your people one question.” “What question?” “Have you become more civilized because you possess greater power, or because you have learned to use that power with greater responsibility?”

Hafez handed me the rose he had been holding. “And remind them that the fragrance of a rose belongs to everyone who comes near enough to appreciate it.” Rumi placed his hand over his heart. “Tell them that the future of civilization depends not only upon what humanity can create, but also upon what humanity chooses to protect.”

Suddenly, the fountain's sound grew distant. The moonlight seemed to dissolve into a pale mist. Somewhere, a cuckoo began calling again. Coo-hoo... coo-hoo... I closed my eyes.

When I opened them, I was sitting in my own room. Tagore's Persia lay open upon the table. The television was switched off. The clock showed that it was well past midnight. I looked around. There was no palace. No marble fountain. No Persian garden. No Rumi, Hafez, or Saadi. Had I fallen asleep while reading? Had it all been a dream?

Then I noticed something beside the book. A single red rose. I picked it up. Its fragrance was unmistakable. For a moment, I thought I could hear Rumi's voice again. “Power gives you the ability to act. Wisdom teaches you when to refrain.”