Tariq Saeedi
Imagine sitting down with a cup of chai on a crisp autumn evening in Ashgabat, the kind where the desert wind whispers secrets from a thousand years ago. You’re flipping through stories of three souls—Al-Ghazali, Rumi, and Iqbal—who never planted roots in Central Asia, never watched the sun dip behind the Kopet Dag mountains.
Yet their voices? They’re woven into the fabric of places like Turkmenistan, carrying a message that’s all fire and light: hope isn’t just a feeling; it’s a force that pulls you through the dust storms of life. It’s encouragement wrapped in poetry, optimism that says, “You’ve fallen? Good—now rise like the Karakum dawn.”
And the coolest part? Their ties to this land run deeper than borders, like hidden rivers feeding the earth.
Let’s start with Al-Ghazali, the eleventh-century powerhouse from Tus, who ended up shaping minds across the Islamic world. He was the second rector of the Nizamiyya University in Baghdad, that groundbreaking institution founded by the Seljuks—those Turkic warriors whose empire stretched like a lion’s roar from Anatolia to the edges of India.
The Nizamiyya wasn’t just a school; it was a revolution, the world’s first university with campuses sprouting in nine far-flung spots, from Nishapur to Isfahan. And here’s the thread to Turkmenistan: today’s Turkmen see themselves as spiritual heirs to the Seljuks, carrying that same fierce independence in their bones. Ghazali’s teachings on balancing fear and hope? They flowed through those halls, reaching students who’d one day carry the flame back to the steppes.
Ghazali didn’t sugarcoat the human mess—we sin, we stumble, we doubt. But his whole vibe in works like ‘The Book of Fear and Hope’ is this radical trust in divine mercy. He pulls from traditions where God Himself says, “Truly, My mercy dominates My anger.” Or take this gem he shares: a believer stands before the Divine on Judgment Day, trembling over past wrongs, and pleads, “O Lord, I hoped in You.” And the response? Forgiveness, pure and simple. It’s like Ghazali’s whispering to anyone grinding through tough times in Central Asia’s harsh winters or economic squeezes: Your hope isn’t naive; it’s your anchor. God wired the universe for second chances, and that mercy? It’s bigger than any empire’s fall.
Then there’s Rumi, the thirteenth-century mystic born in what’s now Afghanistan, but whose family caravan rolled right through the heart of present-day Turkmenistan on their way to Konya in Turkey.
Picture a young Jalaluddin, maybe a teenager, dust-caked and wide-eyed, trekking with his father, the scholar Bahauddin Walad. They pause in the Ahal province, and bam—fate drops them at the feet of Sheikh Abu Saeed Abul Khair, the sage folks call Mayhana Baba.
This wasn’t some roadside chat; it was a soul-shaking encounter that lit Rumi’s inner world on fire. Mayhana Baba’s mausoleum still stands there today, a quiet beacon drawing pilgrims who feel Rumi’s echo in every stone. He spent his golden years spinning verses in Konya, but that Turkmen stopover? It infused his poetry with a nomadic resilience, perfect for lands where survival means dancing with the wind.
Rumi’s words hit like a desert rain—refreshing, unexpected, alive. He gets the ruin we all face: lost loves, shattered dreams, the ache of exile. But then he flips it: “Where there is ruin, there is hope for a treasure.” Or this one that feels tailor-made for Central Asia’s resilient spirits: “The wound is the place where the Light enters you.”
It’s encouragement in motion, urging you to lean into the broken bits because that’s where the real magic brews. Rumi didn’t just preach optimism; he lived it, turning personal grief into universal anthems that still rally folks from the Caspian shores to the Fergana Valley. No wonder his Mathnavi whispers hope to Turkmen herders and urban dreamers alike—it’s poetry that says, “Keep moving; the universe is rooting for you.”
And rounding out this troika is Muhammad Iqbal, the twentieth-century philosopher-poet from Sialkot, Pakistan’s national bard who’s basically a rock star in Iran, Türkiye, Afghanistan, and yeah, deep into Central Asia.
Iqbal never set foot in Bukhara or Samarkand, but his verses? They surged there like the Amu Darya in flood season. He once lamented in a raw, heartfelt couplet: “I gave a fresh wave to the hearts from Lahore to Bukhara and Samarkand, but you gave me birth in that country whose people are willing to accept slavery.” Oof—that’s Iqbal firing up the soul, his message rippling across borders to ignite the very places that cradle ancient Silk Road lore. He saw Central Asia not as distant history, but as a living call to awaken.
Iqbal had a soft spot for the Turkmen, those “Turkman-e Sakht Kosh”—the hardy ones—who fought tooth and nail in battles like Geok Tepe against Czarist Russia in 1881. He mourned their defeat not with pity, but with fire, honoring their blood spilled for faith: “Khak-o-khoon mein mil raha hai Turkman-e Sakht Kosh” (mingling dust and blood, the hardy Turkmen).
And when he dreamed big for a people rising against odds? He invoked their glory: “Shikoh-e Turkmani” (the splendor of the Turkmen) paired with “Shaukat-e Sanjar” (the majesty of Sanjar, that last great Seljuk emperor whose empire once blanketed these lands). In poems like ‘Tulu-e-Islam,’ Iqbal paints the ideal believer as a fusion: Turkmen splendor in bearing, Indian depth in thought, Arab eloquence on the tongue. It’s his way of saying, “Central Asia, you’ve got this ancient blaze inside—fan it, and watch empires reborn.” For Turkmenistan, emerging into its own stride, Iqbal’s optimism is jet fuel: selfhood (khudi) isn’t handed to you; you forge it, one defiant verse at a time.
So here we are, these three—Ghazali’s merciful hope, Rumi’s luminous wounds, Iqbal’s unyielding khudi—forming a troika that’s timeless, borderless. None died under Central Asian skies, but their spirits caravan through, especially to Turkmenistan, that Seljuk echo chamber of endurance.
In a world that loves to knock you down, their chorus rings out: Hope isn’t passive; it’s the grit that turns steppes into gardens.
Grab it, Central Asia—your story’s just getting started. /// nCa, 25 September 2025