Time does not end—it is to be traversed.

When one year ends and another is about to begin, we return to talking about time.

We speak of it as if it were an absolute force, an invisible law governing every step, every choice, every breath. Yet the Qur’an insists: time is not the ultimate reality, but a tool or measure granted to humans to orient themselves on Earth, not to define what truly is.

Reality is something else, and it is who we are when we no longer feel the body.

The moment God takes the soul (ruh) through the appointed angel, time ceases to hold sway. That moment cannot be decided by humans, anticipated, or postponed, for it belongs solely to the Creator. From there begins the Barzakh, a state of transition, a threshold between earthly life and what comes after.

“Behind them is a barrier (Barzakh) until the day they are resurrected” (23:100).

The Barzakh is not nothingness. It is not darkness. It is not an end. It is a conscious waiting.

In an almost paradoxical way, even science has approached this insight through near-death experiences: accounts of those who crossed a threshold and then returned. What many interpret as the “end” is, in fact, intermediate. Science can recognize signs, processes, functions, but it cannot decide the essence of death.

A body may continue to function thanks to artificial support, while the soul may have already left that temporary dwelling. In this light, brain death takes on a profound significance even from a Qur’anic perspective: the platform has been abandoned; what remains is no longer the person.

Thus, even the beginning of a new year takes on a new meaning, offering us the possibility to experience a threshold—there is no reason to fear tomorrow, nor death. Everything is already inscribed in a larger order.

“Indeed, to God we belong and to Him we shall return” (2:156).

In the Qur’an, death is not a loss, but a return.

The concept of “nothingness,” so central to Western anxiety, simply does not exist. Islam does not conceive of absolute void; death is liberation from fatigue, injustice, and suffering.

“They will have no fear, nor shall they grieve” (10:62).

The soul does not dissolve but remains unique, no longer carrying burdens that do not belong to it.

“No soul shall bear the burden of another” (6:164).

Justice is personal, but responsibility is also collective. The Ummah is not an abstract idea, but a living body. If one part suffers, the others respond. Distinguishing right from wrong, caring for the most fragile, sharing joy and sorrow: this is the bond that remains.

If humans broadened their view—if they understood that the body is only on loan and time only a convention—many wars would lose their meaning. Time is not a cage, but a numerical map that supports us in an ocean of abysses, without defining who we are.

Life then becomes an ascent, a ladder of awareness toward peace.

Reaching that peace requires transcending a rigid idea of the Self—a Self that often clings, that does not let go. Not everyone is ready, and sometimes it is necessary to move forward without hate, without blame.

Entering the new year with intention means this:

Do not fear the end, do not chase time, but cross it.

For we are not going toward nothingness.

We are coming home.