Not long ago, I found myself lingering near a small neighborhood square being constructed outside my home. As I passed by, I saw workers digging holes into the ground, each about a meter wide, slicing through the concrete as if wounding the earth itself. Days later, I returned to the same spot, now filled with rows of trees lying on their sides. Their roots were wrapped tightly in burlap, waiting to be lowered into these cavities—each one man-made and unnatural.
Something inside me stirred as I stood there. A sense of loss settled over me, though I couldn’t quite put it into words at first. It was like stumbling upon a scene that shouldn’t be—trees, once deeply rooted in the nourishing embrace of their native soil, now lined up like inventory, ready to be transplanted into a place that seemed indifferent to their origins. They were still and silent, and yet, in my mind, they spoke volumes.
I remembered my nature professor’s voice, lamenting the ways in which we, the inhabitants of modern cities, have distanced ourselves from the natural world. In this moment, the trees were no longer just trees; they were symbols of all of us—urban dwellers separated from the very earth that sustains us. Our roots, too, had been severed. We had exchanged the wildness and wisdom of nature for patches of convenience—a park here, a potted plant there, as if that could somehow make up for what was lost.
The more I looked, the more I saw. Each tree had its own confined space, carved out amidst a landscape of concrete. I crouched down near one of the holes, where I could see the gravel and hardened soil beneath. How, I wondered, would these trees grow here? How would their roots reach out, stretch into the earth, seek nourishment, or even touch one another? The trees were boxed in—isolated from one another, with no room to share life or intertwine. It reminded me of how city life divides us. We live in apartments, each one a compartment within a building, each building a silo within a city. We keep to our own spaces, rarely venturing beyond the walls that define our “homes.”
Our elders, once pillars of wisdom in extended families, now live separately. Our children are often absorbed in digital worlds, their attention drifting away from the soil under their feet. I thought of my own family and how, even when we come together, there are moments when the distances between us feel as real as the concrete beneath these trees.
And just as the trees struggle to find solid ground, I reflected on how we, too, often seek knowledge in an ungrounded way. We grasp at ideas and information, but our understanding seldom reaches the depth of divine wisdom. Without grounding ourselves in the rich soil of the Qur’an, how can our thoughts, like the branches of a tree, grow strong enough to withstand life’s storms?
The term Apologism came to mind, with its implications of bending Islamic teachings to fit foreign frameworks. It is as if some scholars, in their pursuit of acceptance, reshape the essence of our tradition. But there is a price to pay for distorting sacred knowledge—it is like forcing a tree to grow in shallow soil, stunting its potential. True growth comes when our roots penetrate deep, reaching into the timeless wisdom that has sustained our faith for centuries.
Standing there, I felt a quiet resolve build within me. I reached out and touched the coarse surface of a tree’s bound roots. This wasn’t just about trees and cities; it was about all of us reclaiming our place within the natural world. The call wasn’t just to plant trees in barren spaces but to restore our own connection with the earth, with each other, and with the divine teachings that anchor us.
I walked away with a renewed appreciation for the subtle, living connections that lie hidden beneath the surface. Perhaps these trees would find a way to thrive in this urban landscape, just as we must learn to find our roots amidst the noise of city life. We need to break through the barriers, find ways for our roots to touch again, and remember that we are all part of a creation far greater than our individual selves.
The wisdom of nature is a reflection of the divine, and it is waiting for us to recognize its signs. We are not separate from it; we are deeply intertwined, whether we choose to see it or not. It is time to reclaim our roots.
