I’ve been reflecting on this discussion, and I think it may help to put something into clearer context. In previous generations, scholars avoided open public discussion because access to knowledge was limited. Important works, the deeper areas of kalām, the intricate points of fiqh, even basic texts—these things weren’t available to the average person. So “protecting” certain discussions, or limiting who could enter a conversation, made some sense. It was a way of keeping the dīn safe from half-understandings and premature debates. But we’re not living in that world anymore. Nearly every classical text—fiqh, kalām, tafsīr, logic, spiritual works—is already online. Debates, refutations, shurūḥ, fatāwā… all of it is accessible to anyone who searches for a minute or two. So avoiding platforms like this doesn’t actually protect anything now. Nothing is behind closed doors. The only difference is whether discussions happen in a guided, responsible setting or whether people go off interpreting things on their own. That’s why I keep thinking that if more Sunni ʿulamā’ and madrasah graduates engaged here, it would raise the level of understanding across the entire community. A forum like this could clarify so many areas that people often get stuck on—whether it’s issues in ʿaqīdah, finer points in kalām, questions about methodology, or even distinguishing what is qatʿī from what is ẓannī. These things become much easier when explained interactively rather than through one-way communication. And there is another benefit: when several knowledgeable voices participate in the same space, a natural kind of balance forms. Strong arguments become clearer, weaker ones fall away, and a sort of informal “jumhūr” emerges—not from authority being imposed, but simply from multiple sound minds engaging openly. In a time where everyone is exposed to so many competing ideas, that kind of clarity is invaluable. Given that teaching, clarifying, correcting misunderstandings, and guiding the public are already core responsibilities of the ʿulamā’, a forum like this seems almost ideal. It allows real discussion, follow-up questions, nuance, and depth—things you can’t always get in short lectures or scattered social media posts. It would strengthen their position, not weaken it. Which makes me genuinely wonder: why don’t more Sunni ʿulamā’ take part? It’s clearly not about secrecy anymore. And it’s not that people lack the ability or interest—if anything, people today read more and ask deeper questions than before. And this forum is one of the few places that actively tries to preserve a Sunni identity without descending into slogans. So what exactly creates the hesitation? Is it discomfort with being questioned? Unfamiliarity with open dialogue? A fear of being misunderstood? Or something else entirely? If any scholars or graduates are reading this, I would honestly like to hear your perspective. Understanding why there is such reluctance might help all of us move toward a healthier dynamic.
relevant: https://sunniport.com/index.php?posts/66427 https://sunniport.com/index.php?posts/15485 https://sunniport.com/index.php?posts/20102 https://sunniport.com/index.php?posts/68235 https://sunniport.com/index.php?posts/77612 https://sunniport.com/index.php?posts/66396 https://sunniport.com/index.php?posts/45134
we originally thought of sunniport as one such "townhall". except that ulama (except some like allamah noori) routinely steer clear of SP.
unless of course you're some uber rich businessman, in which case you can bankroll them. then everything will play to your agenda; being the owner of the exclusive club and the inner circle, your minimum perks are you're entitled to fatawa of maximum rukhas from across the 4 schools, while the path of taqwa and 3zeemah is left for the lesser mortals who will be made to stand in the corner for even deviating from the mufta bihi qaul! in many cases even aberrant aqidah statements can be favorably tawil'ed. some common issues where some ulama despite lack of duniyawi knowledge, treat the laypeople as dunces - western finance and financial instruments are products - even the simple "alcohol" issue - the non-muskir "alcohol" used in perfumes, baby wipes, medical wipes, etc. - how about delta-8 or THC-infused drinks (a lot of westerners use them as pain killers and relaxants, that supposedly don't get you high) other times, there can be religious topics that you as a common man could have mastered, and they wouldn't know, but they like to act like they know everything about everything - so you're not an aalim, but you've read extensively on let's say the fiqh of Islamic finance, both classical imams, as well as contemporary authors, speakers, etc. - let me know if you're ever heard! --- this may be another thread, but in the recent past, i've long thought about town halls for Sunnis where the awam present their needs to the ulama and ulama present their pursuits for community upliftment to awam, both sides accountability and/or suggesting ways to improve existing activities this is in the context of western Muslim desis - - adults / first gen imports town hall - Q&A on - dear ulama, we need this this and this spiritual, knowledge need fulfilled. you do this this and this activity, here's how we can do it better or cater it to our specific circumstances. you don't cater to this, this and this spiritual/knowledge need - let's start on it. let's hear your constraints too so that we can help you (other than the obvious money) - youf town hall - the faaren born english speaking brown skinned kids (13-30) should be given the microphone to raise their concerns with the ulama on their spiritual and learning needs and the social and political issues they face, and the issues the ulama face in their own various pursuits. and please don't preach on how Urdu is a sign of good parenting, and it's the parents mistake for the kids not knowing Urdu. (it's not. period. yes, we acknowledge the vast treasures of deeni knowledge in Urdu and realize their worth too being Muslim desis, but life will happen, you're living in fool's paradise if you think you will make kharadar out of queens; plus you lost your moral high ground when you too moved to the west instead of sticking it out with meager means back home!) - youf town hall - only gender specific topics - separate for boys and girls - marriage counseling, expectations, lgbt, dating, fornication, etc. this issue is bigger than it seems and most Muslims (desi or not) have a habit of brushing it under the rug
I’ve been thinking a lot about a problem that keeps repeating itself in our communities, and I want to spell it out clearly so there’s no confusion about what I mean. It’s not really about one individual, even if personal experiences helped me see it more clearly. It’s about a mentality: the way some barely graduated “ʿulama” carry themselves, the way serious laypeople are dismissed, and how this culture is holding Ahl al‑Sunnah back while others move ahead. Over time, I’ve had interactions with young graduates fresh out of madrasah. In more than one case, I shared important works of senior scholars with them – texts they hadn’t previously come across – and tried to assist them in making that material more accessible, sometimes even supporting their projects financially by purchasing and distributing what they produced. At that stage, they were very receptive and responsive, happy to engage, quick to ask for help or input, and on some occasions even reached out when they were in personal need, and I tried to help within my capacity. Mentioning this is not about wanting a “thank you” or feeling entitled to a jazākAllāh. That’s not the point. The point is the irony that emerges later: the same people who were comfortable benefiting from others’ research, time, and even money can, once they feel established, adopt a condescending tone towards those very helpers. Suddenly the language becomes “leave it to the ʿulamā’,” as if the person they were benefitting from has now become an ignorant bystander who should stay out of sight. In some situations, when a controversial public figure from outside our circle was involved, my own intention was not to jump into polemics or become a frontline debater. I know my own limits. My thought process in those cases was often to connect such issues to more qualified people – for example, scholars fluent in the relevant language or more suited to that particular kind of engagement – especially when the other side was trying to frame matters as “these people believe such‑and‑such” in order to make it look like a niche, sectarian oddity. The idea was to show that certain positions are not the eccentric views of one group, but have broader scholarly backing. Yet, when these attempts at facilitating or networking are misunderstood, some of these young graduates don’t respond by seeking clarity. Instead, they speak down as if addressing a naive child who has meddled in affairs beyond his station. They reprimand, they say “you shouldn’t have engaged,” they insist that such matters must be left “to the ʿulamā’,” without even taking the time to understand what actually occurred or what the intention behind it was. And when one tries to explain, messages go unanswered, calls aren’t returned, and everything is brushed aside with a casual “I’m busy.” At the same time, one notices that in their own public work – whether it’s teaching, writing, or participating in discussions and debates – they continue to rely on the very kinds of resources that others initially brought to their attention. Sometimes those resources form the backbone of their arguments or presentations. Sometimes the quality of their own output – be it translation, structuring of arguments, or even basic language – leaves a lot of room for improvement. Yet, despite struggling in areas like coherent English, accurate translation, or strategic debate, they still speak from a position of superiority towards laypeople who may actually surpass them in specific skills. This reveals a deeper mindset. One of the most misused phrases today is “stay in your lane” or “stay in your field.” At a basic level, there is truth in it: a layperson should not act as a mufti, should not issue legal rulings, should not pretend to have ijāzah they don’t have. That principle protects the integrity of the dīn. But the way this phrase is thrown around now is often lazy and harmful. It’s used as a blanket way to shut down anyone who doesn’t have a formal ʿālim certificate, as if all laypeople are identical and on the same level. The reality is that laypeople also have levels. There are laymen who have spent years studying, reading, researching. Some of them can read Arabic texts more smoothly than certain fresh graduates. Some have gone very deep into particular topics that most students only touched briefly as part of a syllabus. Some have a stronger grasp of debate structure, logical fallacies, and how arguments actually work. Yes, they are not “ʿulamā’” in the formal, traditional sense – but in specific subjects and in practical argumentative skill, they can surpass beginner‑level graduates. A simple example makes this clear. It may well be that a recent graduate knows the detailed furūʿ of ghusl better than me. I have no issue accepting that; they have studied years of fiqh in a structured way, sat through examinations, memorised rulings. But is it really so hard to imagine that someone like myself, or another studied layperson who is passionate and has put in focused effort, might be more well‑equipped in another area – for example, in debate strategy, in spotting contradictions, in reading certain texts in Arabic, or in understanding how to handle a specific modern argument? Why is it impossible in some minds that a layman could be ahead of them in one field while they are ahead in another? Why does a certificate automatically translate into assumed superiority across the board? To treat such people as if they are ignorant children purely because they don’t have a certificate is unreasonable. And it becomes even more unreasonable when this dismissal comes from people who themselves struggle with properly reading Arabic, who cannot hold a basic conversation in Arabic, and whose English translations or public presentations are substandard. For such people to then say, “Leave it to the ʿulamā’,” as if they are the guardians of knowledge, is not piety. It is irony. This is the culture I’m talking about: barely graduated “ʿulama” placed on a pedestal, treated as if the moment they receive a sanad they automatically become authorities in everything – debate, refutation, public leadership – while serious, studied laypeople are talked down to, used when convenient, and then discarded or disrespected. Help is welcomed when it benefits them – books, ideas, networking, even money – but the moment someone might appear as a potential equal or someone who could outshine them in certain areas, the tone flips to condescension. They do not want partners; they want an audience. And it’s not confined to one interaction or one personality. The same mindset has led some to go after researchers who have actually put in serious work and have a substantial body of contribution, instead of engaging their research on its merits. That signals a warped sense of proportion and a lack of adab. There is very little recognition of who has truly laboured over texts and issues, and a lot of emphasis on who has the louder platform or the more visible title. What makes this all worse is that our ʿulamā’ should be the ones uplifting others. If someone untrained is making mistakes, the solution is to correct gently, to teach, to improve. If someone is sincere but rough, you polish them. If you see someone with potential, you guide them: “Here’s how you can do this better; here’s where you should be careful; here’s how to channel your efforts.” That is what actual leadership looks like. It doesn’t look like telling everyone, “Leave it to us,” shutting doors, and treating helpers like threats. Instead, in some corners, we see people acting like minor celebrities guarding their personal brand. They stand on pedestals created by a certificate rather than by deep ability and real humility. They envy those who might be able to out‑argue them, out‑research them, or simply out‑perform them in certain settings. Rather than thinking, “Alḥamdulillāh, here is someone I can work with and support,” they think, “This person needs to be kept in their place.” That kind of reaction comes less from strength and more from insecurity. Meanwhile, if you look at some other groups, one reason they are ahead in terms of organisation and influence – despite being wrong on many issues – is that they uplift their own. They build each other up. They look for talent in both ʿulamā’ and laymen and put that talent to work. They invest in training speakers, debaters, organisers, and writers. They understand team dynamics. We, on the other hand, often waste our own people. We make it hard for helpers. We exhaust and alienate those who want to serve, especially if we sense they might someday be more effective than us in certain domains. The result is a contradiction: we have the truth but they have the machinery. We have the heritage but they have the discipline and the strategy. We are surrounded by treasures in our books, yet we don’t use them properly, while they use what they have to maximum effect. And in the middle of all this, we have young men with certificates, weak basic skills, and large egos, telling genuinely studied laypeople, “Stay in your lane,” while stepping into fields themselves that they haven’t mastered. I’m not writing this because I want recognition for having shared a text or helped a project. My contribution is small. What troubles me is the pattern: people who are still near the start of the road behave as if they have reached the summit. They use others when it suits them and then look down upon those same people. They tell us to “leave it to the ʿulamā’,” while their own performance shows they themselves are in need of training and oversight. They are arrogant towards the very people who are trying to help them and who, in some areas, might even be capable of outdoing them. If Ahl al‑Sunnah is going to move forward, this mentality has to change. Respect for genuine scholarship must be there, but so must respect for serious, studied laypeople. Certificates have their place, but they are not the ultimate measure of reality. What matters in the end is real ability, sincerity, humility, and character. Our ʿulamā’ should not be dismissive by default. They should uplift, correct gently, and show people how to grow. When they see someone with ability, even if rough, their first thought should be, “How can I shape this for the benefit of the dīn?” not “How can I shut this down so it doesn’t overshadow me?” Until we fix this culture of pedestal attitudes, arrogance, and condescension towards those actually helping, we will keep tripping over our own feet while others, with less truth but more unity and strategy, march ahead.
