The Forgotten Garden

Remembrance

Human beings have forgotten where they come from, and they no longer know where they are going.

In the Qur’anic account of Adam, there is a verse that has always struck me for its simplicity:

“We had already made a covenant with Adam before, but he forgot, and We found in him no firmness.”

Qur’an, 20:115

The Qur’an could have described humanity’s first error in many ways: rebellion, desire, or arrogance. And yet here it uses something far closer to our everyday experience: forgetfulness.

Adam forgot.

And perhaps, in a sense, we are still doing the same.

A Civilisation That Has Forgotten Its Purpose

The ancient Greeks used the word telos to describe the end towards which something tends—the purpose for which it exists.

It was not enough to ask what something was. One also had to ask what it was for.

The Greek word telos (τέλος) means “end,” “purpose,” or “fulfilment”: that towards which something is directed. In Aristotle’s philosophy, understanding something does not mean merely asking what it is made of or how it works, but also what end it is oriented towards. A seed, for example, contains within itself the potential to become a plant: its telos is the fulfilment of that potential.

Put simply, we might say that telos answers the question “towards what end?”, while technē answers the question “by what means? How is it done?” This distinction raises a question that remains fundamental today: does truly understanding something mean knowing only how it works, or does it also require us to ask what it means and where it is leading?

Applied to the human being, the question inevitably becomes existential:

What am I here for?

We can study the human body down to its cells, observe the brain, reconstruct our evolution, describe societies, and analyse human behaviour. We can understand more and more about the how of our existence.

But the how does not necessarily answer the why.

Modernity has given us extraordinary tools for understanding how the world works, yet the question of what it all means remains.

We can live longer without knowing what we are living for. We can be surrounded by possibilities and still feel directionless.

We can build an identity, a career, a reputation, an entire social existence, and yet, in certain moments of silence, find ourselves confronted by the same returning question:

What is all of this for?

Perhaps the problem is not that we do not have an answer, but that we have forgotten it.

The Qur’an and the Purpose of Existence

On this point, the Qur’an leaves little room for ambiguity:

“I did not create jinn and humans except to worship Me.”

Qur’an, 51:56

At first glance, such a statement might seem to reduce human existence to a series of religious obligations.

But the very next verse radically changes the perspective:

“I seek no provision from them, nor do I need them to feed Me.”

Qur’an, 51:57

God does not need our worship.

He does not become greater because we praise Him, nor does He become lesser when we forget Him.

If God is self-sufficient, then worship cannot exist to fulfil some need in Him.

We are the ones who need it.

Worship, then, becomes not merely an act directed towards God, but a process through which the human being is continually brought back to their centre. A kind of spiritual mindfulness.

To pray, to remember God, to act justly, to give, to forgive, to resist the ego, to care for others: these are different ways through which we learn not to lose ourselves.

To Worship Also Means to Act

There is, however, a danger: reducing worship to something that concerns only the private relationship between the individual and God.

The Qur’an repeatedly seems to resist this separation.

Faith is continually accompanied by righteous deeds.

The vertical relationship with God must produce something on the horizontal plane of our relationship with the world.

There would be little meaning in bowing before God only to become arrogant before other human beings, or in giving thanks for what we possess while ignoring those who have nothing.

This is why I find the Qur’anic image of the “goodly loan” particularly beautiful:

“Who is it that will lend Allah a goodly loan so He may multiply it for them many times over?”

Qur’an, 2:245

Of course, God has no need of our money—and therein lies the paradox.

When we give something for the sake of good, it appears that we are losing something. A portion of our wealth leaves our hands.

And yet, from the Qur’anic perspective, what we have given away may be precisely what we have not lost.

What Remains

Much of life is spent accumulating. We accumulate possessions, titles, knowledge, experiences, recognition, and images of ourselves.

Slowly, we construct something we call “I.”

Then the Qur’an introduces a profoundly unsettling perspective:

“You have certainly come to Us alone, as We created you the first time, leaving behind everything We had granted you.”

Qur’an, 6:94

Alone.

It is a word that puts into perspective so much of what appears absolute while we are alive.

What we possess remains here.

Even many of the names and labels through which we have learned to define ourselves remain here.

What crosses the threshold is what we have become through our choices.

And this is why the Qur’an gives significance even to the smallest action:

“Whoever does an atom’s weight of good will see it. And whoever does an atom’s weight of evil will see it.”

Qur’an, 99:7–8

Nothing is insignificant. A kindness no one witnessed, an injustice avoided.

Something given without seeking recognition.

A word withheld because it would have caused pain.

An act carried out with no audience at all.

Perhaps these small things are what ultimately form the truest biography of a human being.

The Way of Balance

Living a life oriented towards God, however, does not mean abandoning the world.

The Qur’an says:

“Seek, through what Allah has granted you, the Home of the Hereafter, without forgetting your share of this world.”

Qur’an, 28:77

I find those words—“without forgetting”—fundamental.

Once again, we return to memory.

We are not asked to despise this life, but to understand its proper place.

To study, to love, to work, to create, to travel, to contemplate nature, to build something, to care for our bodies and for the people we love—none of these things are necessarily distractions from God. They can become part of the journey towards Him when they are given their rightful measure.

Perhaps this is where mīzān enters: balance.

Mercy without naïveté, justice without cruelty, generosity without irresponsibility, discipline without harshness. Love for the world without turning it into our god and detachment without contempt for life.

Perhaps spiritual maturity consists precisely in learning this sense of proportion.

Remembering

In the end, I return to Adam.

He forgot.

Perhaps this detail in the story reveals something profound about the human condition.

We are not creatures who simply need to accumulate ever more information.

We are also creatures who must continually remember.

It is no coincidence that one of the central words of Islamic spirituality is dhikr: remembrance.

To remember God is, in some sense, to remember ourselves as well.

To remember that we are not what we possess, not merely our social roles, not our titles, our image, or the way others see us.

That this life is not without value, but neither is it final.

Perhaps the crisis of meaning experienced by modern humanity begins precisely here: we have learned an extraordinary amount about the world, yet we have gradually forgotten why we are in the world.

And so returning does not necessarily require us to travel farther.

Sometimes it simply requires us to remember what the noise had drowned out: that the world is a field, not the final destination.

And above all, to remember that perhaps the most important question of our existence is not:

“What can I get from life?”

but:

“What am I becoming through the life I have been given?”