Entering Ramadan 1447 H

 

Ramadan never truly arrives on the night the moon is sighted. By then, it has already been approaching us quietly for weeks—perhaps months—through a subtle unease in the conscience. There is a peculiar feeling that visits the believer before Ramadan: not excitement, not fear, but recognition. The recognition that time has not merely passed; it has been spent, and perhaps misspent.

Throughout the year, we live outwardly—working, speaking, reacting, consuming—yet rarely pausing long enough to examine the direction of the heart. Ramadan approaches precisely at the moment we begin to sense that our routines have become heavier than our intentions. The body has been active, but the soul has been waiting.

This is why many people instinctively begin to remember old prayers as Ramadan draws near. Forgotten supplications return to the tongue, unfinished repentance returns to the mind, and conversations with God that were postponed now quietly ask to be resumed. The month has not yet entered the calendar, yet it has already entered awareness.

There is also a gentle discomfort in this anticipation. One begins to wonder whether the previous Ramadan truly changed anything at all. Did patience remain after the hunger ended? Did restraint survive after the nights of prayer faded? The arrival of a new Ramadan carries with it an unspoken question: were we transformed, or merely occupied?

Therefore the days before Ramadan are not simply preparation; they are diagnosis. The believer does not merely prepare schedules of recitation but examines the condition of sincerity. For Ramadan does not come to add more actions into life, but to realign life itself. It interrupts before it instructs.

In this sense, Ramadan is less like a guest who visits us and more like a mirror that confronts us. And perhaps the unease we feel before it arrives is not anxiety about worship, but honesty about ourselves. The month is merciful—yet the clarity it brings can be unsettling.

Many people understand fasting as the discipline of the body, yet the Qur’anic language suggests something deeper—the discipline of perception. Hunger is not the destination of fasting but its instrument. The stomach is restrained so that the self may be revealed, for a person rarely meets their inner condition while constantly fulfilled.

When appetite is continuously satisfied, the self remains hidden behind comfort. But when the ordinary rhythm of consumption is interrupted, subtle truths surface: impatience in speech, irritation in tone, restlessness in thought. Fasting therefore exposes rather than suppresses. It does not create weakness; it uncovers it.

For this reason, the first fast is not of food but of reaction. A person may complete a day without eating and yet never have fasted from anger, pride, or needless argument. The body abstains by command, but the ego abstains only by awareness. Ramadan trains awareness before behaviour.

This explains why the tongue becomes central during the fast. Words travel faster than hunger, and harm reaches further than appetite. A restrained stomach without a restrained voice leaves the inner self untouched. Thus fasting is less about enduring emptiness and more about choosing gentleness.

Over the days, a subtle shift begins to occur. One no longer breaks the fast merely because sunset arrives, but because permission returns. The act of eating regains meaning; the act of speaking regains weight. Ordinary actions, temporarily suspended, return purified.

If fasting succeeds, the believer learns that self-control was never meant to exist only in Ramadan. The month does not manufacture virtues; it demonstrates that they were always possible. Hunger becomes the teacher that reveals how unnecessary excess had been all along.

The greatest loss in Ramadan is not hunger, nor fatigue, nor the shortening of sleep. The greatest loss is completing the month unchanged. For it is entirely possible to be busy in worship and yet absent from its meaning. Activity can increase while awareness remains still.

Ramadan fills the schedule easily. There are recitations to finish, gatherings to attend, charities to distribute, nights to occupy. Yet the heart can quietly remain outside all of it, performing devotion without entering devotion. The body stands in prayer while the self stands elsewhere.

In every age, believers have faced a subtle temptation—to measure faith by quantity rather than by transformation. Numbers are comforting because they are visible: pages completed, cycles prayed, days fasted. But the inward states that Ramadan seeks—patience, mercy, humility—cannot be counted so easily.

Modern life adds another layer to this risk. The month that was meant to conceal sincerity can become a stage upon which sincerity is displayed. Good actions, once private, begin to seek witnesses. The act remains, yet its direction shifts: from being offered to God to being presented to people.

Thus a person may protect their fast from food yet leave it unprotected from vanity. And vanity consumes faster than hunger ever could. What the stomach empties in hours, the ego can refill in moments.

The tragedy is not that worship was performed imperfectly—imperfection belongs to all human effort—but that the month passed without self-recognition. Ramadan is not a competition of endurance; it is an encounter with truth. To finish it unchanged is to have travelled without arriving.

Preparation for Ramadan is often imagined as organisation—arranging schedules, planning recitations, deciding charitable targets. Yet the earliest preparation begins where no timetable can reach: in reconciliation. Before increasing acts of worship, one must reduce the burdens the heart carries into them.

Repentance, in this sense, is not a dramatic declaration but a quiet clearing. The believer acknowledges unfinished conversations with God and resumes them without ceremony. One does not wait to become better before turning back; turning back is precisely how betterment begins.

Likewise, forgiveness becomes a form of readiness. Resentment occupies space that remembrance requires. A heart crowded with old grievances struggles to hold new sincerity. To release others is therefore not generosity toward them alone but mercy toward oneself.

Another preparation is the deliberate reduction of noise. Ramadan does not change the world around us; it changes how much of it we allow inside us. By loosening unnecessary engagements — arguments, excess entertainment, restless comparison — attention becomes available again. Worship rarely enters a life that is already full.

Finally, one chooses not many ambitions but one honest intention. A single sustained change survives longer than numerous brief enthusiasms. The aim of preparation is not to perform more, but to receive more. Ramadan benefits the heart that has made room for it.

Thus the days before the month are less about anticipation and more about alignment. The calendar will turn regardless; the question is whether the inner direction turns with it. A prepared heart recognises Ramadan not merely as a date, but as an opening. 

Every Ramadan presents itself publicly, yet it is lived privately. The crowds in prayer, the shared fast-breaking meals, the collective anticipation of Eid — all of these are visible expressions. But the most decisive conversations of the month occur where no one else can hear them. Thus a personal covenant becomes essential.

This covenant is not a dramatic pledge of perfection. It is a quiet agreement between the believer and their own conscience. One asks not, “How much will I accomplish?” but rather, “What must I finally confront?” The purpose is not spiritual display, but spiritual honesty.

For some, the covenant may involve guarding the tongue with greater vigilance. For others, it may mean repairing a neglected relationship, or establishing one consistent act of charity that continues beyond the month. The strength of a covenant lies not in its scale, but in its sincerity.

It is tempting in Ramadan to compare one’s devotion with that of others. Yet comparison subtly shifts worship from devotion to competition. The covenant therefore includes a refusal to measure oneself against another’s rhythm. Each soul has its own wounds to mend and its own path to walk.

Depth must take precedence over quantity. A single page read with reflection can outweigh many read in haste. A brief prayer offered with presence can exceed a long one offered with distraction. Ramadan does not reward speed; it nurtures awareness.

Above all, the covenant must extend beyond the thirtieth day. If a habit cannot survive Eid, it was perhaps enthusiasm rather than transformation. The truest sign of a fruitful Ramadan is continuity — a patience that lingers, a restraint that endures, a remembrance that persists when celebration ends.

Another preparation is the deliberate reduction of noise. Ramadan does not change the world around us; it changes how much of it we allow inside us. By loosening unnecessary engagements—arguments, excess entertainment, restless comparison—attention becomes available again. Worship rarely enters a life that is already full.

Finally, one chooses not many ambitions but one honest intention. A single sustained change survives longer than numerous brief enthusiasms. The aim of preparation is not to perform more, but to receive more. Ramadan benefits the heart that has made room for it.

Thus the days before the month are less about anticipation and more about alignment. The calendar will turn regardless; the question is whether the inner direction turns with it. A prepared heart recognises Ramadan not merely as a date, but as an opening.

Perhaps the success of Ramadan is not measured by how intensely we lived within it, but by how gently it continues to live within us afterwards. The month passes as all months pass, yet it leaves traces that ordinary time does not. If nothing of it remains once the celebrations fade, then we may have accompanied the days without ever accompanying their meaning.

Ramadan does not come to decorate our routines but to interrupt them. It pauses our habits long enough for us to notice that many of them were never necessary. We learn, briefly, that we can eat less, speak less, react less — and yet feel more. The reduction of excess becomes the discovery of sufficiency.

There is a mercy in the temporary nature of the month. Because it ends, it teaches us that transformation was never meant to depend on a season. The departure of Ramadan is not a withdrawal of guidance, but a test of whether guidance has been internalised. The calendar turns back to ordinary days; the believer is asked not to.

Thus the farewell to Ramadan should not resemble relief, but responsibility. One does not say goodbye to a guest, but carries forward a trust. What was practised for thirty days becomes proof of what is possible for the rest of the year.

In the end, Ramadan is not merely a period we enter; it is a truth we encounter. And the question it leaves behind is simple yet demanding: will we wait another year to return to ourselves, or begin from the morning after?

[Bahasa]

Conflict of Interest (9)

Sissela Bok’s seminal work, Lying: Moral Choice in Public and Private Life, remains an essential touchstone in moral philosophy, particularly for its rigorous examination of the ethical implications of deception within the public sphere. Central to her thesis is the "Principle of Veracity," which asserts that truthfulness must be the default position in human communication because lies, by their very nature, carry an inherent negative weight that demands substantial moral justification. Bok argues that even well-intentioned deceptions, often referred to as "white lies" or "noble lies" by those in positions of authority, are rarely as harmless as they appear, as they tend to erode the foundation of social trust and eventually undermine the legitimacy of the institutions that employ them.

Furthermore, Bok introduces a critical framework known as the "Test of Publicity," which serves as a benchmark for evaluating whether a particular lie or omission can be ethically defended. This test requires one to consider whether the reasons for a deception could be openly justified to a public of reasonable people; if a justification cannot survive the scrutiny of a transparent, public debate, then the act of deception is deemed morally deficient. When applied to contemporary political communication—such as the transition from high-status campaign promises to more modest policy realities—Bok’s analysis suggests that any perceived "bait and switch" can be viewed as a breach of this moral contract, as it fails to respect the autonomy of the public to make informed judgements based on the truth.

In Lying: Moral Choice in Public and Private Life (1978, Vintage Books), Sissela Bok approaches conflicts of interest not merely as procedural improprieties but as fundamentally moral situations closely tied to truthfulness, trust, and the legitimacy of institutions. She argues that when private interests intersect with public responsibilities, the temptation to mislead rarely appears in the form of an obvious lie; rather, it emerges through selective disclosure, omission, and rationalisation. A person in authority often convinces himself that withholding information is harmless or even beneficial, yet the moral danger lies precisely in this self-persuasion. For Bok, conflicts of interest become ethically serious because they generate conditions in which deception can occur while still appearing respectable.

Bok maintains that individuals entrusted with power possess both informational advantage and interpretive authority, which allows them to shape what others believe without overt falsehoods. In such circumstances, self-deception precedes deception of others: the agent reframes personal benefit as public good and gradually loses the ability to distinguish impartial judgement from motivated reasoning. This is why she does not treat conflicts of interest as secondary technical breaches but as environments in which dishonesty becomes structurally likely. The wrong, therefore, is not only that the official may gain privately, but that the decision-making process itself ceases to be trustworthy.

She further proposes what later commentators call a form of a publicity test: a decision that cannot be openly justified to those affected by it carries a presumption of moral defect. Conflicts of interest typically depend upon concealment, because transparency would immediately reveal the bias shaping the decision. Thus secrecy is not a neutral administrative matter but evidence that the justification cannot survive shared scrutiny. In Bok’s framework, moral permissibility requires reasons that remain defensible once the relevant relationships and incentives are known.

Bok concludes that the gravest harm caused by concealed conflicts of interest is the erosion of public trust. When people suspect that statements made in professional or governmental roles are influenced by undisclosed personal advantage, they cease to rely upon assurances altogether. This scepticism spreads beyond the individual case and weakens confidence in institutions themselves. A society accustomed to such conditions, she suggests, risks losing the practical possibility of honest cooperation, because trust — the background condition of civic life—has been quietly undermined.

Bok grounds public trust in a basic moral condition of social life: people can only cooperate rationally if they normally assume that others are telling the truth unless there is good reason to doubt them. Trust, in her view, is not naïve optimism but a practical necessity for communication, contracts, law, and shared knowledge. Without a general presumption of honesty, every statement would require constant verification and ordinary social interaction would become unworkable. Truthfulness therefore functions not merely as a personal virtue but as part of the moral infrastructure of society.

Bok explains that modern societies operate within what might be called an economy of trust. We rely on doctors for diagnoses, officials for public information, and professionals for expert judgement because individuals cannot independently check everything. For that reason, the moral burden on persons in positions of authority is heavier than on private individuals. They are not only forbidden from lying; they must also avoid misleading. Public trust is granted in advance, and its misuse is therefore morally more serious than deception in purely private relationships.

The connection with conflicts of interest is direct. A conflict of interest undermines the condition that makes trust rational, namely impartiality. When a speaker has an undisclosed stake in the outcome of the judgment he presents, his statement ceases to function purely as information and becomes covert advocacy. Even if the words are factually correct, the communicative situation has changed: the public believes it is receiving an objective assessment, while it is, in fact, receiving a claim shaped by personal motive. Thus a conflict of interest produces a form of deception without requiring a literal falsehood.

The moral damage, according to Bok, accumulates over time. Once people learn that hidden interests often influence official statements,, they do not merely distrust the individual speaker but begin to doubt the entire system of social testimony. Statements are treated as potential propaganda, the cost of verification rises, regulation expands, and cooperation weakens. A conflict of interest is therefore not simply a matter of improper private gain; it is a direct threat to the moral foundation of public trust, and without that trust a stable social order becomes difficult to sustain.

The central message of Sissela Bok in Lying: Moral Choice in Public and Private Life is that lying must never be treated as a minor matter merely because it appears useful or well-intentioned. Every form of deception—including concealment, half-truths, and undisclosed conflicts of interest—should stand under moral suspicion. The burden of justification does not fall upon those who demand honesty, but upon those who depart from it.

Bok rejects the idea that individuals can easily calculate the benefits and harms of deception objectively, because agents are almost always biased in their own favour. People tend to exaggerate the good they believe they produce and underestimate the damage done to others, particularly the indirect damage caused to trust. For this reason, appeals to acting “for the greater good” often function less as moral judgement and more as rationalisation.

At the heart of her argument lies the claim that trust is a precondition of social life. Without a general presumption that others usually speak truthfully, communication, law, contracts, and institutions cannot operate reliably. Each act of deception weakens that network of trust, not only between individuals but across society as a whole. Consequently, lying is rarely justifiable, and if it is even to be considered, it must withstand open justification to those affected by it.

Her moral conclusion is therefore clear: the chief problem with lying is not simply factual falsity but the damage it inflicts upon social relationships. Once a society becomes accustomed to treating deception as a normal instrument, people cease to rely on any assurances—even truthful ones—and collective life grows fragile as its foundation of trust erodes. 

In Lying: Moral Choice in Public and Private Life, Sissela Bok does not propose a single technical remedy for conflicts of interest, because she regards them as moral hazards rooted in human self-justification rather than merely administrative defects. Her central response is to shift the presumption: instead of assuming that officials may privately manage their competing loyalties unless proven harmful, society should presume such situations morally suspect unless they can be openly justified. The solution therefore begins with a reversal of burden — those holding power must demonstrate why their judgement remains trustworthy despite personal stakes.

A key element of her approach is publicity. Bok argues that decisions affected by potential bias must be capable of being explained openly to those influenced by them. If the decision cannot survive transparent scrutiny once the relevant relationships are known, then it ought not to be taken. Disclosure, in her framework, is not simply informational but moral: it forces the decision-maker to confront whether he is relying on reasons that others could reasonably accept rather than private advantage disguised as judgement.

She also stresses institutional restraint. Because individuals are prone to self-deception, she maintains that personal integrity alone cannot reliably control conflicts of interest. Instead, procedures must reduce reliance on private discretion—recusal, shared deliberation, and independent review serve not as signs of mistrust but as protections against predictable bias. The aim is not to accuse the official of dishonesty but to acknowledge the limits of human impartiality.

Bok’s remedy is cultural as much as procedural. Public roles should cultivate habits of justification oriented towards those affected, not towards personal intention. A decision is morally acceptable only when its reasons remain defensible once interests are revealed. By requiring openness, shared scrutiny, and humility about one’s own objectivity, she seeks to prevent conflicts of interest from silently transforming honest speech into misleading authority.

In Lying: Moral Choice in Public and Private Life, Sissela Bok does not propose a single technical remedy for conflicts of interest, because she regards them as moral hazards rooted in human self-justification rather than merely administrative defects. Her central response is to shift the presumption: instead of assuming that officials may privately manage their competing loyalties unless proven harmful, society should presume such situations morally suspect unless they can be openly justified. The solution therefore begins with a reversal of burden—those holding power must demonstrate why their judgement remains trustworthy despite personal stakes.

A key element of her approach is publicity. Bok argues that decisions affected by potential bias must be capable of being explained openly to those influenced by them. If the decision cannot survive transparent scrutiny once the relevant relationships are known, then it ought not to be taken. Disclosure, in her framework, is not simply informational but moral: it forces the decision-maker to confront whether he is relying on reasons that others could reasonably accept rather than private advantage disguised as judgement.

She also stresses institutional restraint. Because individuals are prone to self-deception, she maintains that personal integrity alone cannot reliably control conflicts of interest. Instead, procedures must reduce reliance on private discretion—recusal, shared deliberation, and independent review serve not as signs of mistrust but as protections against predictable bias. The aim is not to accuse the official of dishonesty but to acknowledge the limits of human impartiality.

Ultimately, Bok’s remedy is cultural as much as procedural. Public roles should cultivate habits of justification oriented towards those affected, not towards personal intention. A decision is morally acceptable only when its reasons remain defensible once interests are revealed. By requiring openness, shared scrutiny, and humility about one’s own objectivity, she seeks to prevent conflicts of interest from silently transforming honest speech into misleading authority.

Whereas Sissela Bok offers a primarily moral analysis, several other works propose concrete institutional solutions to conflicts of interest.

In Private Gain and Public Office, Dennis F. Thompson argues that conflicts of interest cannot be solved by relying on personal virtue alone. They must instead be managed structurally. His approach recommends formal separation between private advantage and public decision-making through asset disclosure, limits on gifts, restrictions on holding multiple roles, and mandatory recusal from decisions where impartiality is compromised. The aim is not to find perfectly virtuous officials but to design institutions that do not depend upon personal purity.

A more administrative framework appears in Managing Conflict of Interest in the Public Service issued in 2004 by the Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development. Here conflicts of interest are treated as governance risks rather than exceptional moral failings. The proposed remedies include transparency registers, independent oversight bodies, periodic audits, and graduated sanctions. The emphasis lies on making conflicts visible and controllable, recognising that they cannot always be entirely eliminated.

Meanwhile, The Responsible Administrator (1998, John Wiley & Sons Inc.) by Terry L. Cooper stresses professional ethics. He recommends reflective judgement training, collegial consultation, and organisational cultures that encourage officials to identify their own potential bias before acting. In this view, prevention depends not only upon rules and monitoring but also upon cultivated moral awareness.

Taken together, these works suggest that addressing conflicts of interest requires several layers at once: ethical reflection, institutional design, transparency mechanisms, and professional culture.

Conflicts of interest rarely begin with corruption; they begin with convenience. A small exception granted for efficiency gradually reshapes judgement, until preference is mistaken for reason and familiarity replaces fairness. What makes them dangerous is not always the presence of falsehood but the quiet erosion of impartiality, where decisions remain articulate yet no longer fully trustworthy.

For this reason, the solution is not merely stricter rules nor simply better intentions, but a shared expectation of openness. When interests are declared, questioned, and occasionally set aside, authority regains credibility because it accepts scrutiny rather than avoiding it. Transparency does not humiliate public office; it dignifies it by aligning power with accountability.

In the end, institutions survive not because they are flawless but because they are trusted. Trust grows where explanations remain defensible once all relationships are known, and it fades where justification depends upon concealment. A society attentive to conflicts of interest therefore protects not only fairness in decisions but confidence in living together under them.

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[Part 8]

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