Every Child Needs a Mission

I used to run a tutoring centre. Every week, hundreds of students would walk through our doors, hoping to improve their marks and achieve goals that they had set – or more often, goals that had been set for them. I would always ask our high school students a simple question: “What do you want to do with your life?”

The vast majority shared the same answer: “I don’t know.”

These were bright young people with every opportunity in front of them. They lived in a safe country, had access to excellent schools, unlimited educational resources, supportive families and every opportunity to succeed. Yet many struggled to articulate any real sense of direction. They were studying because they were expected to study. They were aiming for good marks because good marks were expected of them. Beyond that, there was often very little vision.

Not long ago, I was speaking to a friend in Gaza. He was telling me about the students there who had just received their final high school examination results. Of course, they had completed the last three years of their education in the middle of a genocide. Schools had been destroyed. Families had been torn apart and displaced. Many had revised for exams inside tents while living with bombs constantly dropping around them.

He excitedly told me about the results: “My uncle’s daughter got a 96.5.” “My cousin’s son got a 99.6.” “My friend’s son got a 98.3.”

It seemed everyone in Gaza was getting marks in the high nineties. He told me every student he spoke to also shared a common answer to that same question I was asking to our students here:

“I want to study medicine.”

The contrast could not have been more striking. On one side of the world were young people surrounded by comfort, stability and opportunity, yet many lacked a compelling sense of purpose. On the other side were young people living through unimaginable hardship, yet studying with extraordinary determination because they believed their education served something greater than themselves.

I don’t need to explain why so many young people in Gaza dream of becoming doctors. Every day, as the bombs drop, they witness overwhelmed hospitals, exhausted medical staff and people dying because help cannot arrive quickly enough. Their circumstances have given them a profound awareness that their lives can be spent serving something larger than their own comfort. They do not simply ask, “What career do I want?” They ask, “What do my people need from me?”

They carry a cause, a struggle – a qadiyah – that they live for and die for every single day. They see the struggle in front of them. Beyond that, they see their role within that struggle. They see their role in resistance. They resist by simply remaining on their land. They resist when they wake up alive every morning and refuse to give in. They resist when they continue to attend school, continue to study and continue to hope despite everything around them. They resist with every breath.

Whether or not our children ever experience such circumstances – may Allah protect us all – there is an important lesson here. People flourish when they believe their lives matter. They work harder when they know what they are working towards, and they sacrifice more willingly when they believe they are part of something greater than themselves. Purpose gives suffering meaning, transforms sacrifice into devotion, and turns ordinary people into extraordinary ones.

Around the world, we have celebrated the resilience and resistance of the people of Gaza for the last three years – but do we see our own role in their struggle?

I think of the people of Bani Isra’eel, who were commanded by Musa عليه السلام to enter the blessed land that Allah had promised them. They refused, saying that within it was “an oppressive people.” Fearing for their lives, they instead replied: “Go, you and your Lord, and fight. As for us, we are sitting right here.”

They wanted the blessings of victory without carrying any of its burden. They saw Musa عليه السلام as the one who had been given the mission, while they remained spectators. Their tragedy was not simply that they were afraid – it was that they no longer saw themselves as participants in Allah’s command. They preferred to sit exactly where they were.

How about our youth today? How many of them genuinely see their role in the struggles of the Ummah, in its revival, or in the liberation of Filisteen? How many grow up believing that these are not merely historical events unfolding around them, but responsibilities that they too will one day have to shoulder?

That is the mindset purposeful tarbiyah seeks to cultivate.

Instead, we have far too many of our young men and women lost to the dunya, drowning in individualism and consumerism. Boys in their twenties spend countless evenings gaming or wandering from cafe to food truck. Girls waste hours scrolling endlessly through social media or streaming one show after another. Parents often complain about this generation, but the truth is that most of these young people have never had someone intentionally pull them out of their ghaflah and help them realise that their role is not simply to observe the revival of this Ummah, but to become part of it.

When we study the Seerah, one reality becomes impossible to ignore. The Messenger of Allah ﷺ did not raise spectators. He raised contributors. He raised a generation who were taught their role in the growth of the Ummah, and he paved the way for them to do so.

He nurtured a generation who believed, from a remarkably young age, that they had a role to play in carrying this religion forward. They were not waiting until they became older, more experienced or more qualified before serving Islam. They understood that they were already part of the mission.

Purpose Produces Sacrifice

Perhaps no example captures this better than Mus’ab bin Umayr رضي الله عنه.

Mus’ab was born into one of the wealthiest families in Makkah. Before embracing Islam, he was known for his fine clothes, expensive perfume and privileged upbringing. Accepting Islam cost him all of it. His family cut him off financially, and the young man who had once enjoyed every luxury became one of the poorest among the Muslims.

After the First Pledge of Aqabah, the Prophet ﷺ chose Mus’ab to travel alone to Yathrib – soon to become Madinah – and teach its people Islam. Mus’ab accepted that responsibility with remarkable maturity. House by house, family by family, he taught the Qur’an, answered questions and invited people to Islam. Through his efforts, influential leaders such as Sa’d bin Mu’adh and Usayd bin Hudayr embraced Islam, and before long, scarcely a household in Madinah remained untouched by the message.

Pause for a moment and consider the responsibility he was being given. The Prophet ﷺ did not send him to observe someone else’s work. He did not tell him to spend a few years assisting an older Companion until he gained enough experience. He entrusted him with preparing an entire city for the Hijrah. Imagine if the Prophet ﷺ had looked at Mus’ab and thought, “He’s still too young.” History might have unfolded very differently.

The Prophet ﷺ saw something else. He saw a young man whose heart had already been shaped by Islam, whose attachment to the cause was greater than his attachment to comfort, and who was ready to dedicate his life to serving the Deen. Rather than keeping him on the sidelines until he was older, the Prophet ﷺ entrusted him with a mission worthy of that conviction. Mus’ab did not become a contributor by accident; he became one because the Messenger of Allah ﷺ gave him a cause worth living – and sacrificing – for.

Purpose Produces Courage

We find the same spirit in Abdullah bin Mas’ud رضي الله عنه.

Unlike Mus’ab, Ibn Mas’ud did not come from a wealthy or influential family. He was a shepherd, and was not from the tribes of Quraysh. Physically slight and without tribal protection, he would hardly have been the obvious choice for a public confrontation with Quraysh.

Yet when the Prophet ﷺ asked who would publicly recite the Qur’an before the leaders of Makkah, Ibn Mas’ud volunteered. The Companions tried to discourage him. They feared for his safety and suggested that someone with stronger tribal backing should go instead. Ibn Mas’ud insisted.

He stood before Quraysh and recited Surah ar-Rahman loudly until they beat him so severely that his face was covered in blood. When he returned, the Companions said, “This is exactly what we feared would happen.”

His response is extraordinary. “They are more insignificant in my eyes than before. If you wish, I will go back tomorrow.”

That is not the mindset of someone watching the da’wah from the sidelines. It is the mindset of a young man who believed that carrying Islam was his personal responsibility. He did not wait for someone older, stronger, or more influential to step forward first. He saw the cause as his own – and he was willing to step forward as a contributor, even when he may not have had the physical tools required.

Consumers or Contributors?

When we compare that Prophetic model with much of our own community today, the contrast is difficult to ignore. Many of our young people have become consumers rather than contributors. Those who have passion for the deen simply attend conferences, listen to lectures, watch Islamic videos and benefit enormously from the efforts of others, yet few grow up believing that they themselves are responsible for carrying this religion forward. Serving Islam becomes something that scholars, imams, da’ees and community leaders do, while everyone else watches from the sidelines, applauds their efforts and hopes that someone else will solve the problems facing the Ummah.

This mindset does not emerge overnight. It begins much earlier, often in the expectations we set for our children. We ask them what university they hope to attend, what career they would like to pursue and how much money they hope to earn, but we rarely ask what role they hope to play in serving Allah’s religion. We encourage them to achieve personal success, but not always to see that success as a means of benefiting the Ummah. Gradually, they begin to see Islam as something that serves them rather than something they are honoured to serve.

The Prophet ﷺ nurtured a very different outlook. Every young Companion understood that he had a place within the mission of Islam, even if that contribution looked different from everyone else’s. Mus’ab taught. Ibn Mas’ud proclaimed the Qur’an publicly despite the danger. Usamah led an army. Others served quietly in ways that history barely records. The point was never that every young Muslim should become a military commander, a scholar or a famous leader. Rather, every one of them understood that Allah had created them to contribute something, and that they were expected to discover what that contribution would be.

This principle is just as relevant today. Not every child will become an imam or a da’ee, nor should they. One may become a doctor who serves vulnerable communities, another a teacher who shapes young minds, another a lawyer who defends the oppressed, another a graphic designer who contributes to beneficial online projects, another an entrepreneur who funds worthy initiatives, and another a parent who raises the next generation with excellence. The specific contribution will differ from child to child, but the mindset should be the same: Allah has given me abilities, opportunities and resources that are meant to be used in His service.

We Need to Stop Looking for the Next Salahuddin

Whenever the Ummah finds itself in difficulty, people inevitably ask, “Where is the next Salahuddin?” It is an understandable question, but I sometimes wonder whether we are looking in the wrong place.

Before he became Salahuddin, he was just an ordinary young man – Yusuf ibn Ayyub – entering his adulthood in a Damascus that was beginning to thrive under the rule of the great Nur al-Din Zengi. In fact, some narrations even report that young Yusuf was barely practising, had not formally studied the Deen, and had even indulged in sins such as drinking. Can you imagine?

But rather than being written off, young Yusuf was nurtured by his uncle, Asad al-Din Shirkuh, a fierce commander who was well trusted by Zengi. When Shirkuh was sent to Fatimid Egypt to attempt to win it over, he dragged his young nephew with him. Shirkuh saw that Yusuf had potential, and that it needed to be nurtured in a more suitable environment.

It was only after many years in Egypt that Yusuf ibn Ayyub developed into the Salahuddin that we know. His character was built, his knowledge developed, his leadership blossomed, and he began to understand the political realities facing the Ummah. Later, he would become governor of Alexandria, then governor of Egypt, before eventually taking leadership of both Egypt and al-Sham.

So before he was Salahuddin, Yusuf ibn Ayyub – like every young person – needed to be guided, challenged and developed. His uncle recognised something in him that others may not yet have seen. He brought him into meaningful work, exposed him to leadership, entrusted him with responsibility and patiently nurtured him over many years. The world remembers Salahuddin because of what he eventually achieved, but history may have been very different had someone not first invested in Yusuf.

Perhaps, then, the question is not simply, “Where is the next Salahuddin?” A better question might be, “Where are the Shirkuhs?” Where are the parents, teachers, mentors and community leaders who recognise potential in the next generation, draw young people into meaningful service, and patiently prepare them to carry the responsibilities that the Ummah will one day place upon their shoulders?

That responsibility begins with us. If we want our children to grow into adults who serve Allah and strengthen this Ummah, we cannot raise them merely to observe the work of others. We must raise them with the conviction that they, too, have a role to play. The Prophet ﷺ did not raise spectators. He raised contributors – young men and women who understood that Allah had honoured them with a mission larger than themselves.

Perhaps the greatest gift we can give our children is to help them discover why Allah created them, before the world convinces them that life is nothing more than pursuing comfort, success and consumption. Children who know their purpose naturally become contributors. They do not wait for someone else to solve the problems of the Ummah because they already see those problems as their own. 

That was the generation the Prophet ﷺ raised, and if we truly aspire to revive this Ummah, it is the generation we must strive to raise once again.