By Javed Bolah
The cold wind will not greet you on the bridge of Sirat. Heat will.
I write this scared. Not of you. Not of your power, your prisons, your drones, your influence, your money. I write this scared of what waits for all of us—including me. Because the Sirat is real, and I am not ready. Neither are you.
In Islamic tradition, the Sirat (As-Sirāt) is the bridge stretching over Hell, that every person must cross on the Day of Judgment. Sharper than a sword, thinner than a hair. Slick with tears of the oppressed, studded with iron hooks, with speed of passage based solely on one’s earthly deeds. Below waits fire that has burned since creation for this moment. Every cry you silenced fuels that flame.
A charming metaphor, you might think. You would be wrong. On that day, a thing is what it is. No AI or fake profile to reframe the narrative. This is the final audit. The one you cannot rig.
I often lie awake some nights thinking about it. My own deeds. My own failures. My own silent mistakes. If I am scared—knowing I have never held your power, never signed a bombing order, never crushed a weak, never protected drug money—how much more should you tremble?
Some will say: « But I built schools. Hospitals. I gave charity. So, I should be OK. »
Perhaps you funded a school while bombing a town. Smiled with orphans while creating them. Spoke of peace while trading in death. Your good deeds will be there— light as feathers, while injustice weighs like mountains. Charity does not balance killings. A hospital does not outweigh a massacre. A school does not excuse a single child buried under rubble you helped pave.
Think back. Remember the lust that drove you? You called it ambition. Destiny. The burden of leadership. But it was power you wanted. Pure, naked power. The kind that makes the weak bend knee, that turns nations into playgrounds and human beings into chess pieces.
Remember the lies that justified massacres? « Spreading democracy. » « Self-defense. » « National security. » Beautiful words, polished like marble, covering mass graves. You stood at podiums with flags behind you and spoke of peace while your hands dripped with the blood of children.
And behind you, those who never speak but whose will is done. They profit from every bomb, every blockade, every weakling crushed. Defense contracts. Oil concessions. You dance for their funding. You are the visible face of their invisible greed.
They will be there too. The Sirat Bridge does not discriminate. The banker who financed genocide finds his path no wider. The media owner who suppressed truth finds every silenced journalist blocking his way.
And you, here in Mauritius. You fuel division—whispering in mosques and temples, telling Hindus Muslims threaten them, Muslims Hindus despise them. You profit from fractured people.
Those who protect drug money—accepting envelopes while our children are killed by overdose. Every gram of synthetic drug sold is a family destroyed. The Amsterdam Boys scandal taught nothing. The Rault and Lam Shang Leen reports changed nothing. The bodies keep piling.
Peace is not written on tombstones. Peace is written in lives.
Peace is the business owner allowed to operate in a free and fair environment.
Peace is the addict given treatment instead of prison.
Peace is the child and professional who sees meritocracy and justice exist.
Peace is the Muslim, Catholic and Hindu walking together because no one told them they shouldn’t.
Peace is the pedestrian and motorist exchanging a nod of gratitude instead of a glare of frustration.
What are you doing?
On that bridge of Sirat, the lies and hypocrisy will have faces.
You will begin crossing, trembling, hoping good outweighs bad. Then you will see them. The people you have wronged. Not shadows. Faces.
You will beg them to remember you were only playing the game. They will say nothing. All there. Waiting.
There is a Hadith (a record of the sayings, actions of the Prophet Muhammad – peace be upon him): « Beware the supplication of the oppressed, for there is no barrier between it and Allah. » [Sahih Bukhari 2442]
No barrier. No spin doctor. No media blackout. No Security Council veto. No socio-cultural lobbyist. No offshore account. No bought judge. It goes straight to the Throne.
Those cries you silenced or ignored fuel the fire beneath. Their curses, their tears, the silent disappointment of those who trusted you—they are the hooks. The heat on your face is their prayers, finally answered.
I am scared of that bridge. Scared because I know my own moments I’m not too proud of. If I am scared with my small sins, how are you sleeping with mountains on your back?
Reflect.
The bridge of Sirat is waiting. Inevitable. As sharp, as hot, as you made it.
