When a community loses its Book, collective memory is the first casualty. The writing vanishes, but the words linger briefly. Eventually, even these words are depleted; lips move, yet meaning is absent. This marks the initial death of humanity: the disconnection between speech and understanding. The name Uzayr emerges from the silence that follows this rupture. In this silence, while all have grown quiet, there remains one who still hears. This individual does not attend to external voices, but to the forgotten voice within. In such a state, revelation is unnecessary, as for one who remembers, revelation is already an act of remembrance arising from the depths of the self.
It is said that Uzayr slept for a hundred years, though such a sleep cannot be measured by conventional calendars. This sleep represents a consciousness that has withdrawn from time and listens to its own depths. When the connection between humanity and meaning is broken, people remain in a state of sleep. True awakening is not simply opening one's eyes, but relearning how to hear. Uzayr signifies the moment when the one who has forgotten begins to remember. His narrative is not about the revival of a body, but the restoration of consciousness. When a town falls into ruin, it is not merely the stones that collapse, but the words. Observing the ruins, one may ask, "Will this place speak again?" Eventually, within silence, a word emerges. This word, once only memorized, now becomes a realization.
A single sentence can, at times, transform an individual entirely. The question, "How will God bring this town back to life after its death?" refers not to the external city, but to the inner city of the self. This internal city has been devastated and left in silence. Such a question is among the most ancient: "How will I be revived?" The answer does not arise from external sources; if it did, all would perceive it. Instead, this voice addresses a single individual, for when one person attains silence, it can restore the capacity for hearing within an entire community. Uzayr embodies this individual. His silence enables others to listen anew.
Some described him as "the son of God." When confronted with the incomprehensible, individuals often sanctify it. Unable to sustain wonder, they convert admiration into worship. Yet admiration is the most fragile form of love and ultimately leads to idolatry. With the onset of worship, meaning becomes obscured once more. Such a claim constitutes a deviation. To deify a human being is to sever him from the truth he represents. Uzayr indicated the way, but was not the destination. The true referent was God. However, people focused on the one who pointed, rather than on what was indicated. In doing so, they heard the words but lost their meaning.
Societal forgetting frequently begins with the loss of meaning in a single word, while remembrance commences with the restoration of that meaning. Although it is said that Uzayr rediscovered the Scripture, in truth, he did not find it anew. The writing persisted; only perception had become clouded. Uzayr regained his vision. Those who perceive often struggle to coexist with those who remain unaware. When an individual recalls a truth forgotten by others, he is frequently punished, as his remembrance disrupts collective slumber. As a result, some admired Uzayr, while others despised him. He was neither a hero nor an adversary, but simply one who remembered.
Remembrance differs fundamentally from knowledge. Knowledge is accumulated, while remembrance is invoked. Knowledge is possessed, but remembrance overtakes the individual. Uzayr's remembrance exemplified this quality; it was not external information, but knowledge drawn from within. It was not the rewriting of a book, but the rewriting of a human being. On that day, the world witnessed the return of meaning, yet it went unnoticed. While people seek miracles, they overlook silence. The true miracle is not bodily resurrection, but the restoration of the capacity to hear. Uzayr's miracle was the breaking of the internal barrier within the human being.
Human beings tend to forget because they cannot bear the full weight of meaning. Memory serves as both a gift and a burden. Truths that cannot be carried are buried in the unconscious. This place is not dark; rather, it is intensely luminous, though the eye is unaccustomed to such brightness. As a result, people mistake their inner light for darkness and avoid it. In every era, one individual turns back toward this perceived darkness, not only to recall what was forgotten but also to awaken others who have forgotten. Uzayr's journey exemplifies this process. He was not sent to revive the past, but to reopen the sealed door within the human being. When people lose the truth, they do not distance themselves from the divine, but from their own selves.
What is often called sleep is, in fact, a disconnection from meaning. An individual may walk, speak, and work, yet remain internally unmoved. Life becomes comparable to that of a silent stone. The collective sleep of society is deeper than that of individuals; when a community chooses to forget, history itself becomes stagnant. Uzayr's hundred-year sleep symbolizes this frozen history. Each act of forgetting functions as self-protection. When people remember, they are unsettled, as remembrance dismantles protective barriers. Without these barriers, individuals find it difficult to navigate life. As a result, those who remember are frequently regarded as culpable.
Human beings adapt to life through forgetting and approach death through remembrance. Remembrance thus becomes a form of death, marking the end of the former self and the emergence of new awareness. Uzayr's revival signifies, in essence, the death of a people's previous state. From that moment, beliefs must be reconsidered, and every prayer must be spoken anew. This process brings upheaval rather than comfort. The one who remembers appears alien within society's reflection. While others repeat familiar words, he perceives them differently. Uzayr's solitude results from this separation of meaning. People observe him, yet fail to truly see him, as he now exists at the threshold of a silent yet vibrant consciousness.
Every act of remembrance generates loneliness. When an individual perceives the truth, it cannot be fully conveyed to others. Thus, the destiny of prophets is solitude, as exemplified by Uzayr. In solitude, writing reemerges. Writing is fundamentally the pursuit of the solitary, not the collective. The crowd may hear the writing, but cannot bear its weight. Writing is granted to the individual, not the multitude. At this juncture, the process of forgetting culminates. When one person remembers, collective forgetting ceases. However, this transition brings pain rather than joy, as remembrance often feels punitive. The more one knows, the less comfort one experiences.
Every human being harbors a hidden desire: to sanctify what is touched, to magnify what is understood, and to deify what is loved. This constitutes the oldest error of consciousness. Individuals project the inner light outward and then revere it. The eye that perceives the light forgets its source. Consequently, sacredness arises not from truth, but from admiration. Those around Uzayr repeated this error. When someone restores a lost book, people cease to regard him as merely human. Yet the book did not return from God, but from a forgotten memory. Few are willing to acknowledge this, as belief in miracles relieves individuals of responsibility.
Sacredness emerges when one individual attains true understanding, and others, unable to comprehend, deify that person. Yet the individual has merely remembered. The voice of the one who remembers is burdensome for those who have forgotten. Rather than embracing this voice, they seek to suppress it. To claim, "He belonged to God," is to assert, "He is not like me." This assertion serves as self-protection. If he is also human, then others, too, could remember, which is an overwhelming responsibility. The statement "Uzayr is the son of God" was made for this reason. It is a defensive response from those unable to bear the meaning embodied by another human being.
This dynamic explains why people often misunderstand sacredness. The divine is not remote from humanity, yet individuals fear confronting their own depths. This inner depth is intensely powerful, and remaining there demands courage. As a result, people opt for the simpler path: they separate the light from themselves, place it before them, and worship it. Uzayr exemplifies this error. He demonstrated; they exaggerated. He spoke; they embellished. He remembered; they transformed it into legend. People prefer to narrate the truth rather than embody it. Narrating a story is easy---it can be told, forgotten, and retold. Living the truth, however, is far more demanding.
People today are no different from those of Uzayr; only the tools have changed. Then, they lost the Book; we have lost meaning. Then the letters were scattered; we multiplied them but lost their voice. Now everyone writes, but no one remembers. Knowledge has increased; wisdom has diminished. Modern humanity has turned forgetting into a system. It forgets at night what it learns by day, then mistakes this cycle for sacred progress. In this speed where everything is replaced by what comes next, no word can take root.
Today, society exists in a new form of the 'hundred-year sleep.' People are neither fully asleep nor truly awake. Screens remain open while hearts are closed. Everything is visible, yet nothing genuinely affects us. Individuals are now defined by data rather than feeling. Words are quantified, sentences evaluated, and meaning reduced to statistics. Writing no longer revitalizes; it consumes. Although repetition can deepen meaning, forgetting is effortless, while remembering demands effort. However, contemporary culture favors what is rapid, dazzling, and immediate over sustained effort.
For modern individuals, remembrance has been reduced to the 'restore' function of a device. However, genuine remembering is not simply the retrieval of information, but a return to oneself. This process is often painful. Uzayr's awakening was characterized by such pain, as it entailed the abrupt confrontation of an individual accustomed to forgetting with the entirety of his past. Currently, society faces a similar situation; only the sleep is more subdued and the dreams more alluring.
Every act of resurrection stems from remembrance, and every remembrance originates in silence. Truth does not emerge amid noise, which is why significant awakenings always commence in silence. The most profound knowledge is the capacity to listen to silence, for in silence, meaning rather than words is communicated. Once a person acquires this understanding, there is no need to offer proof. Uzayr's resurrection was not a public display, but the restoration of a silent awareness.
When an individual is revived, everything is transformed. One may return to the same environment, but perceives it with new understanding. Stone is no longer just stone; water is no longer just water. Even words acquire new significance. A word may be written with the same letters, yet spoken with a different meaning. This transformation defines resurrection. The writing Uzayr recalled was the writing present within all, though seldom read. Upon reading it anew, the world itself did not change; rather, it gained meaning. When a person discovers meaning, it appears as if the world itself has changed.
Uzayr's act of remembrance serves as a warning for the present: do not search far for what is lost, as what is lost is the self. Humanity's alienation from itself constitutes the greatest exile throughout history. Yet every exile holds the potential for remembrance. Certain things, once recalled, are never forgotten. Uzayr's voice continues to resonate within every living person, though few perceive it. This voice originates not externally, but internally. To hear the inner voice, one must embrace silence.
If humanity eventually relearns the value of silence, writing will naturally reemerge. Writing originates not from the pen, but from silence. Every word is born from a moment of silence. Those who lose this silence also lose the essence of words. This explains why contemporary words are often loud, yet lack depth. Uzayr's legacy is not a physical book, but a particular stance: kneeling before the truth, feeling neither inadequate nor excessive. The true human boundary is found in recognizing both what one is and what one is not.
The meaning of resurrection is not found in solving the secret of existence, but in bowing before that secret. Some things do not require understanding; they are simply carried. What Uzayr carried was precisely this: a meaning that seemed a burden, yet was in fact a light. Ultimately, the only thing left in a person's hand is silence. All words, writings, and searches conclude there. Every act of remembrance ultimately requires silence. Words fulfill their purpose, then withdraw. What remains is clarity.
It is conceivable that the language of God consists not of words, but of clarity. In that realm, there are neither questions nor answers, only a state of knowing, intuition, and peace. Uzayr attained this state. For this reason, his name endures like a memory: a silent remembrance among those who forget. Eventually, another will arise and perceive the same silence. Uzayr will be reborn, as each person who remembers follows his path anew. This cycle is perpetual: forgetting, silence, and then remembrance. The writing is never entirely lost. When an individual recognizes their own silence, that is the moment of revival.