Faith Driven or Power Driven

There’s a powerful sense of pride within many Muslim communities when they speak of past empires, accomplishments, and dominions. The echoes of “Muslims once ruled Spain” resound as a testament to a golden era, conjuring images of splendor and power, of minarets piercing the Andalusian skies, of scholars and poets flourishing in opulent courts. But as we unfurl this story, we are drawn to a deeper, often overlooked reality: it was not “Islam” that marched through Spain’s gates, nor was it an almighty directive from the divine that stirred these empires into being. They were led not by saints appointed by divine mandate but by ambitious men who happened, for the most part, to be Muslim. They were driven by the age-old ambitions of conquerors, earthly motives as much as spiritual ones. 

How curious, then, that we should call these individuals “Muslim rulers,” or declare that those distant lands once lived under the “banner of Islam.” Were they Muslim? Certainly, by faith and practice, yes. But were they emissaries of Islam, conquerors on a holy mission ordained to expand its territories? Then, we must pause to ponder. In truth, the relentless drive that fueled the conquests across North Africa, the Mediterranean, and into Europe was not altogether different from the impulses that propelled other great empires, Rome, Persia, and Greece. Just as the waves seek new shores, so too did these empires, driven by worldly visions of expansion and influence. They were, simply put, leaders, warriors, and sovereigns, whose faith informed their personal lives but whose goals were steeped in the universal desires of all rulers. 

And yet, when Muslim societies look back, we often enshroud these historical figures in a holy aura, a shroud of religiosity that may not reflect their truest nature. To what end? Is it nostalgia, or perhaps an urge to reclaim that lost grandeur by transforming historical figures into paragons of religious virtue? Perhaps. But is this narrative truly faithful to the facts, or does it blur the line between spiritual aspiration and political reality? 

In speaking of history, there is a great temptation to turn men into saints and military conquests into moral crusades. We summon the term “Muslim leader” with reverence, ignoring that these leaders were often involved in power struggles, alliances, and political maneuvers not unlike those of any other ruling elite. History is ripe with irony, yet we sometimes choose to disregard it in favor of neat labels, eager to frame these achievements as evidence of Islamic supremacy rather than as the complex legacies of individuals.

And this yearning does not remain confined to history. In the modern lexicon, terms like Muslim country and 57 Muslim states persist as though these nations form an undivided brotherhood, as though the mere presence of a Muslim majority makes them homogenous, allies in faith and governance. I myself have used the phrase 57 Muslim countries in one of my previous blogs, yet looking back, I see how such terms can simplify and even distort the true diversity within these nations. Consider the Christian-majority nations of Europe or South America, the Buddhist-majority states in East Asia. Do they claim a uniform political or ideological identity based on their predominant faith? Rarely, if ever. One does not hear of “Christian rulers” in South America, nor of “Buddhist leaders” across East Asia. Their leaders, while possibly devout, do not carry their faith as a banner of their governance; they lead as individuals, representing their nations, not their religions.

So why, we must ask, do Muslim communities and leaders so often identify their governance by religious affiliation? Is it a search for unity in an often-fragmented world, a desire to create bonds where there may be few? Or could it be that faith in the Muslim world is woven more tightly into the fabric of national and personal identity, perhaps because, unlike other religions, Islam often places a higher emphasis on both personal piety and societal structure? We have grown accustomed to labeling any leader of a Muslim-majority country as a “Muslim ruler” as though faith were their primary political mandate, despite the fact that their politics, like those of other leaders, are deeply enmeshed in secular concerns. 

In doing so, we may impose an undue burden upon these leaders. We project onto them an expectation to govern in strict accordance with religious tenets, yet such a role is neither mandated nor viable in the modern world. Politics is a human endeavor, filled with the compromises, struggles, and imperfections of earthly existence. When we demand of these leaders an idealized “Islamic” governance, we place upon them the weight of both history and faith, a burden that cannot be borne lightly, nor perhaps at all. Each Muslim-majority country has its own unique culture, its own political tapestry woven from both ancient traditions and modern aspirations. To expect them all to hew to a singular standard of “Islamic” governance is to ignore their diversity and complexity. 

In the end, the concept of a “Muslim ruler” or “Muslim country” may be more an echo of nostalgia than a reflection of present reality. It is a yearning for a unity that exists in spirit but falters in practice, a testament to the lingering power of a collective history. But history, like the changing tides, is ever-moving, refusing to be bound by labels and ideals. To define today’s leaders by their religion alone is to reduce them to shadows, to ignore the full spectrum of their humanity and their unique challenges. Let us remember, then, that while faith can and should inspire, it is not the sole determinant of a leader’s vision, nor the definitive mark of a nation’s identity.

In recognizing this, we find a more nuanced respect for both the past and the present, one that honors the richness of the Muslim world without imposing on it a narrative that may no longer serve its best interests. We can celebrate the achievements of Muslims in history without ascribing to them motives that were likely not there, without confusing the legacy of faith with the ambitions of individuals. The beauty of Islam lies not in the conquests or dominions of history, but in its capacity to inspire, to bring together a diversity of souls in shared reverence. And so, in today’s complex, interwoven world, perhaps the truest honor we can pay to that legacy is to allow each leader and each nation the freedom to define themselves, faithful, yes, but unbound by the weight of historical labels that may obscure more than they reveal. 

Let us see leaders as people, not simply as symbols, acknowledging both their faith and the broader, intricate mosaic of their existence. In this view, there is room for both pride and humility, for reverence and realism. By embracing this balance, we give ourselves and our history the grace to breathe, to evolve, and to be celebrated in all its beautiful complexity.

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