What is our criterion for greatness?

Sometimes history is written neither by the conquerors nor the defeated, but is simply swallowed by oblivion.

In between, there are people who neither fit into the ranks of power nor into our collective memory; people who spend their entire lives in the silence of learning and teaching, without ever receiving even a share of respect. Ayatollah Fayyaz was one of this kind—someone who did not live for power or wealth, but for knowledge. And it is strange that such a life, in a land like ours, is not only not celebrated but sometimes not even noticed.

He went hundreds and thousands of kilometers away from his home, not to escape responsibility, but to get closer to the light of knowledge. Exile was not a choice for him; it was a necessity. In a world where the doors of education are closed to many, he was forced to separate from his homeland in order to breathe, learn, and then teach. What a bitter paradox it is that someone who spent his entire life building minds has no place in the hearts of a society suffering from intellectual ruin.

We live in a time where our standards have been painfully distorted. Being good is no longer enough; being useful is not enough either. One must be loud, be seen, and revolve within the orbit of power or wealth to be recognized. Naturally, in such a system, someone like Fayyaz has no place. When our mental heroes become figures who represent power more than morality, what else can we expect?

Within this context, even the “wisest Afghan man” is defined differently. Wisdom no longer means understanding, insight, or intellect; it means the ability to accumulate wealth, build networks of power, and survive in corruption. If someone can endure in this complex game, if they can profit from every opportunity—even tainted ones—they are called wise. This is perhaps the most bitter part of the story.

When a person who has wealth, trade, and at the same time is involved in cruelty and corruption is introduced as a successful model, then the definition of success has completely changed. In such an environment, ethics become a luxury choice, not a principle. Those who still remain committed to principles appear more like losers than role models.

Perhaps this is where phrases like “everything is normal in Afghanistan” come from. For someone whose family lives in safety and comfort outside the country, and for someone whose business profits from crisis, yes, everything may seem normal. But this normality does not come from reality—it comes from distance; a distance that makes pain invisible and suffering silent.

The truth is that our society is trapped in a deep duality. On one side are people who build, teach, and live without claim; on the other are those who shine, not necessarily because of light, but because of the reflection of power and wealth. Yet as a collective, we often choose the latter.

This choice is not accidental. It is rooted in history, in wounds, in deprivation, and in long-held generational regrets. When people have repeatedly lost their opportunities and have seen injustice more than justice, it is natural that they gravitate toward anything that signals success—even if that success comes at a heavy cost.

But the question is: can this cycle be broken? Can the definition of success be rewritten again? Can we reach a point where someone like Fayyaz is recognized as a role model not because of power or wealth, but because of honesty, knowledge, and commitment?

Perhaps the answer is not simple. But every change begins with a small reconsideration, an inner question, and a doubt about what we have taken for granted. Perhaps it is time to ask ourselves whom we respect and why.

If our answer is limited only to power and wealth, then we must accept that part of this crisis lies within ourselves. But if we can slightly shift our perspective and begin to see value in the silence.