Zadan ZarikReader, Writer, Reviewer

I first came across Dr. Zakir Naik through one of his fiery debates on television. I wasn’t really looking for someone to change my views, but something about his calm, methodical dismantling of arguments intrigued me. At first glance, he wasn’t just a scholar. He was someone who didn’t hesitate to challenge everything, whether it was religion, logic, or cultural assumptions. What hit me most was his way of seamlessly blending religious knowledge with science and philosophy. He had this rare ability to speak from multiple perspectives at once – a quality I found both startling and educational. There was no trace of ego, only a relentless pursuit of truth, and that was magnetic.

I began reading his books shortly after. The more I read, the clearer his philosophy became to me: knowledge was meant to be shared, not hoarded. What really struck me was the conviction with which he argued that there could be no clash between science and religion. Many intellectuals separate the two, but Dr. Naik, with his unshakeable confidence, blended them into something coherent, persuasive, and even poetic. He wasn’t just presenting facts – he was unveiling the world, not through the eyes of tradition, but through the lens of logic and reason. His books, for me, were like the kind of intellectual challenge you didn’t know you were ready for but, somehow, couldn’t ignore once you took the first step.

His lectures, though, they were something else. He had this knack for taking the most complex issues – the relationship between science and faith, the inconsistencies in religious interpretation, the big questions of existence – and breaking them down into something you could hold onto, even if just for a while. I’ve seen his talks where the crowd was simply stunned, as if they were all in one collective breath, waiting for his next word. He wasn’t just a speaker; he was a conductor of ideas. It wasn’t about just ‘listening’ to him; it was about being absorbed into a world where every word made you reconsider your previous convictions.

And I’ve met him, in a way. Through his work, his lectures, and those rare moments when he interacts directly with his audience. People see the charisma, the sharp intellect, but not many realize that he lives with a deep purpose that transcends the spotlight. There’s a quiet intensity behind his work, an almost obsessive attention to detail. He doesn’t just teach; he unearths truths. Even if the world turns its back on them, he’ll keep going, because that’s his path. And that’s the thing about Dr. Naik: it’s not just about learning; it’s about unlearning. You can’t follow his work and stay the same. It challenges everything. It makes you rethink your place in the world.

If there’s one thing I’ve taken away from his life and work, it’s that knowledge isn’t just about collecting facts. It’s about applying them to build something greater than ourselves. Dr. Naik’s life is a testament to the fact that true understanding comes when you push the boundaries of your own thinking. To not just accept things as they are, but to challenge them, explore them, and find your own truth. There’s a lesson in his tireless dedication to the pursuit of knowledge. To anyone trying to make sense of a world filled with contradictions, Dr. Naik offers a roadmap – not one of certainty, but of possibility. A path where knowledge never stops, and where questioning is as important as answering.

James Clear’s writing has a simplicity that’s almost deceptive. I first stumbled upon his work, and I was struck by how someone could take the complex dynamics of habits, growth, and human behavior, and make them feel so accessible, almost like a personal conversation. But what sets him apart is that this simplicity isn’t shallow—it’s strategic. His book Atomic Habits wasn’t just another self-help guide. It was a playbook. A blueprint. His approach made me rethink how small actions, when compounded, could lead to massive transformations, both on a personal and collective level.

Clear doesn’t drown you in theory. He doesn’t waste your time with fluff. His concepts are rooted in real-world application, and that’s what makes his work stand out. His ability to make the science behind habits digestible is a skill few possess. He doesn’t promise instant results, but he does offer a framework for consistent, incremental change. His insights into how environments shape behavior and how habits often form unconsciously were eye-opening. It felt like I was suddenly seeing the world through a clearer lens—a world where small tweaks could lead to lasting results.

What hit me most was his focus on systems over goals. Clear isn’t interested in the fleeting thrill of achieving a goal; he’s about the long-term process, the daily habits that build a foundation for something bigger. When I applied his system in my own life, it was like I was finally given permission to move away from unrealistic expectations and start building something sustainable. It wasn’t about perfection; it was about consistency. And it was freeing, in a way.

But perhaps what really makes Clear stand out is how grounded his work is. There’s no pretense, no exaggeration of his own success. He’s not just some guru lecturing from afar—he’s someone who’s figured out the power of small, consistent actions and decided to share it with the world. His personal story, his journey from injury to writing, gives weight to everything he teaches. He’s lived it, and that authenticity is evident in every word he writes.

James Clear is a reminder that the path to improvement doesn’t have to be a grand, complicated process. Sometimes, it’s the small, almost invisible habits that accumulate over time that lead to the biggest shifts. It’s not the flashy goal you’re chasing—it’s the system that gets you there.

Che Guevara wasn’t your average revolutionary hero. He wasn’t in it for the fame or the legend that would eventually be built around his image. No, Guevara had a fire in him, one that burned with the conviction that the world—especially the Latin American world—had to change. But unlike others who might’ve spent their lives talking about the need for change, Guevara went out and lived it. He didn’t just write about the peasants’ plight—he became one of them, fought alongside them, bled with them.

He wasn’t a man of polished speeches or well-curated ideals. His approach was messy, raw, and unapologetically real. He didn’t believe in idealism that was separated from the struggle—it was all tangled up together. Guevara didn’t just see oppression; he felt it in his bones, and he couldn’t just sit back and write about it. To him, the revolution was both an intellectual and physical act. He didn’t just strategize from the comfort of a desk—he lived in the trenches, in the jungle, in the heart of the revolution, experiencing it firsthand.

If you dug deeper into Guevara, you’d find that he wasn’t the “perfect” revolutionary either. He was contradictory, erratic, and sometimes ruthlessly idealistic to the point of making decisions that would later be debated and questioned. But that was Guevara: a man of action and imperfection. He wasn’t a saint; he was a human caught between the grind of revolutionary fervor and the brutal realities of war. His decisions—sometimes moral, sometimes harsh—were never about personal gain; they were always, at least in his eyes, about advancing a vision that seemed bigger than anything else.

Guevara didn’t care about being adored or mythologized; he was in it for the cause. The face on the t-shirt, the iconic image, wasn’t something he designed. It was the result of the legend that grew around his life after he gave it all up—his medical career, his wealth, his family. He was a man who traded comfort for struggle, who could’ve sat in the safety of his home but chose to put himself on the front lines of history. And even after his death, his legacy, misunderstood and romanticized, still endures—because Guevara, at his core, was a challenge to everything we accept about the world as it is.

At the end of the day, Guevara’s story is one of disillusionment and sacrifice. He started with high hopes of revolutionizing the world, of freeing the oppressed from imperialism and capitalist exploitation. But the truth is, the revolution didn’t look the way he imagined it would. In the end, Guevara was not just a hero but a symbol of the messiness of change. His life wasn’t a neatly wrapped story of success—it was a tumultuous, painful quest to bring his ideals into reality, and in that struggle, he found his place in history.

Molana Amin Ahsan Islaahi wasn’t just a scholar; he was a rare breed of intellect who somehow made the vast ocean of Islamic thought seem both simple and revolutionary at the same time. When you pick up his work, you don’t get the sense of a scholar preaching from a pedestal, but of someone walking alongside you, guiding you through the maze of history, faith, and modernity. He didn’t just interpret the Qur’an—he provoked you to rethink it. His Tafseer Islaahi isn’t some dry commentary; it’s a challenge to anyone who dares to question the relevance of Islam today.

The man wasn’t about grand speeches or loud declarations. He was a thinker, not a performer. His words were measured, precise, and often unsettling, making you question the things you thought were already settled in your mind. In a world full of parrots repeating the same tired ideologies, Molana Islaahi stood out as someone who wasn’t afraid to stand alone, to sift through centuries of tradition with the sharp eye of a critic. He didn’t idolize the past or reject it either—he simply demanded that we think, and think deeply.

If you had the privilege of sitting with him, you’d notice something strange: there was no rush in him, no impatience. He wasn’t trying to fill the air with his opinions, but rather, he created space for others to think. There was always a challenge embedded in his words, but it wasn’t a challenge to your beliefs—it was a challenge to your intellect. He wasn’t just pointing out what’s wrong; he was giving you the tools to fix it.

Molana Islaahi didn’t play to the crowds. His critiques of society weren’t polished, and his solutions weren’t neat. He didn’t offer easy answers because he knew life wasn’t simple. He called for a transformation, not of individual minds, but of a whole way of life. For him, Islam wasn’t a theory or a political tool—it was a blueprint for living, an evolving framework for personal and social progress. He wasn’t trying to create followers; he was trying to create thinkers.

And maybe that’s why his work resonates even now. It wasn’t just a reflection of his time—it’s a critique of all times, a call to wrestle with complexity rather than run from it. He wasn’t here to hand you a set of rules, but to force you to ask: What are we really doing here?