Equality and Respect in Human Dignity
From earliest childhood we kept hearing that “the five fingers are not equal.” The proverb was for us a self-evident truth; to doubt it was like denying the presence of the sun at noon. We had seen it with our eyes, heard it with our ears, read it in the words of elders, and our teachers repeated it time and again, until the saying became fixed in our minds like molten lead in the foundations of an ancient building or like fanaticism in a hereditary creed. We were convinced that if all the wisdom of the world were placed in one pan of the scales and this proverb in the other, the balance of truth would incline towards the side where the five unequal fingers were displayed.
When I first heard the saying in my village, I immediately looked at my own hand, spread out the five fingers, examined each one, and stared in astonishment. Indeed! One was long, another short; one thick, another thin; one straight, another curved. It was as though the Creator had gathered an entire cosmos of difference in a single hand. Inwardly I applauded this artistry and sealed the proverb with a stamp of certification.
Our certainty in the proverb became as firm as that of the theologians in matters transmitted by tawātur or established by qaṭʿiyyāt. Whoever denies what is mutawātir or qaṭʿī is, in their view, an unbeliever. Likewise, we held that if anyone claimed the five fingers were equal, he was blind, faithless, expelled not merely from the dāʾirat al-Islām but from the circle of humanity itself. How could it be otherwise, when the five fingers, each proclaiming its own stature, stood before our very eyes and someone still dared to assert their equality? Such a claim, to our minds, was as absurd as lighting a lamp in broad daylight or trying to fill a sieve with water.
Wherever we went, whichever madrasah we attended, in every teacher’s gathering we received the same lesson: the five fingers are not equal. No one ever pointed out that the difference in length and the difference in worth are two separate matters. No one asked whether, if one finger is short, its significance is likewise diminished. Why would we pose such questions? Since the proverb existed, why trouble the intellect? In our culture the function of the mind is often not to judge but to furnish testimonies in favour of decisions already made.
Then one day destiny turned, and I was admitted to Nadwat al-ʿUlamāʾ.
Arriving at Nadwa I witnessed a remarkable scene: the senior teachers were respected, and the novice lecturers were also honoured; the clerical staff were treated as human beings, and the cooks and porters were not regarded merely as moving cogs of the institution. When someone passed away, flowers of devotion were scattered in such abundance that it became clear a person’s worth here was measured not by the height of his chair but by the sanctity of his existence. Whenever any member of Nadwa was mentioned, regardless of his official rank, his service was recalled. The classrooms, the hostels, even the very walls of Nadwa were loved, as an old tree is loved not only for its shade but for the entirety of its life.
For me this scene was nothing short of an intellectual earthquake. All my life I had learnt that the five fingers are not equal, yet here the reality was the reverse. One bore the crown of knowledge, another held the lamp of service; one sat in the lecture hall, another stood in the kitchen; but the atmosphere of respect withheld no air from one and bestowed no excess upon another. I felt as though I had entered a world where people had ceased measuring the length of fingers and had begun to comprehend the usefulness of the hand.
My mind at once rang an alarm bell: what is this remedy called equality? Have these people never heard the famed proverb which our society has enthroned as wisdom? Do they not know that one finger is short and another long? Or is it that, on entering Nadwa, the structure of people’s fingers is somehow altered? I conjectured that the institution must teach a secret curriculum in which declaring the five fingers equal is a compulsory subject, and whoever fails it is denied the certificate of respect for humanity.
Eventually I confided my unease to an old Nadwī. I said, “Sir, one matter baffles me. Why do the people of Nadwa honour everyone alike? Whether a venerable professor or a new lecturer, an employee or a cook, a porter or anyone else, all are treated the same. Do they not know that the five fingers are not equal?”
He listened quietly, then burst into laughter—an unrestrained joy like a long-shut window suddenly flung open, setting the settled dust dancing in the air.
He said, “Dear fellow, do you still recite that antiquated proverb in Nadwa? Do you not realise that some sayings blind the intellect instead of opening its eyes?”
I replied, bewildered, “But, sir, it is self-evident. I have seen with my own eyes that the five fingers are not equal!”
He said, “Very well, cut one of your fingers and then tell me: will it hurt?”
I answered, “Yes, of course, it will hurt.”
He asked, “Will the pain be less if the little finger is cut and greater if the long finger is cut? Will the body calculate the rank of the injured finger?”
I fell silent. For the first time I realised that, while we remembered well the disparity of our fingers, their common pain had never entered our minds.
He continued, “Son, the fingers are unequal in size, but they are equal in belonging to the hand. Each has its own form, its own task, its own importance. To recognise difference is wisdom, but to despise someone on the basis of that difference is ignorance. You have issued a verdict on worth from a difference in stature; therein lies the fallacy!”
At his words it was as though someone had opened locked shutters in my mind. I felt that for years I had been led by the proverb’s hand, yet it had never brought me to the doorway of reality. What I had taken for wisdom had become a measuring rod by which I assessed human beings, fixed their ranks, and clothed my likes and dislikes in the garb of principle.
Scenes from society now came to mind: in some offices the director’s chair is so high that the subordinate’s stature automatically shrinks; in certain institutions a superior’s single smile becomes news, yet the entire life of a junior employee fails to move a single pen. On someone’s death pages upon pages are blackened, while for another even a line of condolence is dispensed as though a loan from a treasury. Some people’s services are set as a jewel on the brow of history, while others’ labour is buried under the dust of daily routine until not even their names remain.
At such moments our society naively repeats the same proverb: “Well, the five fingers are not equal!” It is as though, to diminish someone’s honour, no argument is needed beyond the example of fingers. The saying becomes in some hands a legal writ by which they declare their contempt for others to be nature’s decree and their own superiority a divine grant. To them, a great man is not the one who makes others great, but the one before whom others appear small.
And if ever anyone questions this division, he is promptly taught the reality of the world: every person cannot be equal, every one cannot be given the same importance, every finger cannot be made a thumb. No one troubles to ask when equality of respect became conditional upon being a thumb. Is the door of human dignity opened only with the key of high office, famous name, or influential connection? Is the worth of the serving hand reduced because no ring of knowledge or rank sparkles upon it?
At Nadwa we learnt that equality does not mean casting everyone into a single mould; rather, it is to honour each person according to his human station. To acknowledge the scholarly superiority of a teacher does not require denying the humanity of a cook. To respect the responsibility of an administrator does not oblige us to degrade the porter. There can be differences in the tasks themselves, but to introduce disparity into the basic sanctity of the people who perform them is a peculiar mental disease, the cure for which lies not in repeating proverbs but in reforming our conduct.
Nor do I claim that every individual at Nadwa possesses this quality in perfect measure or that injustice never occurs there. Institutions are, after all, made of human beings, and man carries his weaknesses wherever he goes. Yet the true identity of an institution is not in the loftiness of its claims but in the refinement of its behaviour; its greatness lies not in the absence of difference but in using difference as a means of mutual completion rather than a weapon of contempt.
