A Monologue : “In the Silence of the Dorm Room” by Professor Dr. Suhaimi Mhd. Sarif, Senior Murabbi Team

I sit here… not just as a professor, but as a parent… as a murabbi… as a human being who has spent decades nurturing minds and hearts.

And yet today, I find myself walking down the dim hallways of student dormitories—not to conduct research, not to supervise a thesis, not to write the next journal article on sustainability or Islamic management—but to ask a simple, perhaps painful, question: What has become of our young?

They are here, physically present in the same room, sometimes two or four of them… but emotionally oceans apart.

Some have never spoken to their roommates, though they share the same space, breathe the same air. They sit, curled on their beds, headphones in ears, lost in the worlds of Korean dramas, anime fantasies, gaming realms where victory is virtual and fleeting. Others are deeply entangled in “relationships” they call study groups, but what unfolds are late-night car rides, whispered secrets behind tinted windows, and gazes that linger far too long for something that’s just revision.

I ask—what is your ambition? What is your qiblah in life?
Silence.

I press further—what do you want to become?
“I don’t know… it’s none of your business,” they say, and my heart sinks.
Not because they reject me, but because they don’t even know themselves.

We see students who don’t care to shower for days, whose rooms reek not only of sweat and instant noodles, but of forgotten dignity. Trash piles up, but no one cares. Time becomes a blur—morning and night blend into a cycle of sloth and distraction. Nasi lemak and proper meals? Too much effort. A pack of Maggi will do.

And still, there are the “active” ones—those who seem outwardly vibrant but inwardly hollow. Social butterflies with no sense of limits, living in the moment, but forgetting the consequences. Free, they say. But at what cost?

So we, your professors—yes, those with decades of experience, with labs more advanced than your wildest dreams, with Q1 journals waiting for review, with books half-written and theses half-read—we descend from our towers, not to scold, but to understand.

Because this is not just a crisis of behavior. This is a crisis of purpose. A famine of meaning.

We ask ourselves, what went wrong?
Was it the broken homes? The endless screens? The absence of tarbiyyah that links knowledge to the soul?
We wonder if we gave too much freedom, but not enough hikmah.

You see, we are not here to police your lives. We are not your enemies. We are your witnesses. We saw you come in with hope. We read your aspirations on your application forms. We shook your hands during orientation. And now… we fear losing you.

We are not just correcting your path for your GPA or attendance. We are fighting for your akhirah. We are battling for your soul.

We are also parents. And our own sons and daughters are out there too. We know the pain of watching potential burn out like a cheap cigarette.

So tonight, I return to my room, heavy-hearted. I whisper in sujood, “Ya Allah, give us the strength to reach them. To lift them. To love them back to life.”

Because this isn’t just about you, Gen Z and Alpha.
This is about our amanah to ensure the next generation is not just successful in the dunya, but dignified in the eyes of Allah.

And we will not give up.
Not because it’s easy.
But because you matter.
And because we still believe… somewhere inside each of you, there is falah waiting to awaken.

Yes, we’ve spoken.
We’ve wept silently after witnessing this distance between hearts.
And now, after the comments, reflections, and raw honesty shared among fellow professors—who are also fathers, mothers, murabbi, and human beings—I sit again… not to question anymore, but to listen. To truly listen. And perhaps now… to change how we reach you.

Because maybe—just maybe—we’ve been speaking from above for too long.
With the best of intentions, yes. But still… from above.

From the lecture hall. From the authority of our titles.

From the timelines of our own youth, where hunger meant discipline, hardship meant growth, and friends were found in real conversations, not usernames.

But you—dear students—are born into a different world.

You are not just youth. You are adults in the making.
You are 20. 21. 22. You’re voting. Driving. Falling in and out of love.
You are struggling. Breaking. Healing.
You’re walking alone, smiling in crowds, while hiding wars in your soul.

And here we are, still calling you “anak-anak” in our minds—when perhaps what you need is not a parent’s command, but a friend’s presence.
Not a lecture, but a listener.
Not a professor’s wisdom, but a companion’s curiosity.

So now, we must re-learn how to walk beside you.
We must sit at your table, without agenda.
Ask about your anime not to mock, but to understand the world you escape into.
Ask about your playlists, not to judge, but to know what rhythm your heart beats to.
Ask about your dreams, not as an exam question, but as a sacred window to your purpose.

We must talk less about you and start talking with you.
Laugh with you. Eat with you. Lose a game of FIFA on purpose just to see you smile.
And yes—get used to awkward silence, to the shrug of “I don’t know,” to the defenses built after years of broken trust.

But trust… is earned.
And we must now earn it.

Not through titles, publications, or our years of service,
But by being human—with you.

So maybe I will not enter your world as your “Prof Dr. Suhaimi”—
But as someone who sees you, without pretending to fix you immediately.

And in that honesty, I pray, the wall begins to crumble.
And slowly, room by room, corridor by corridor,
We stop being strangers in the same campus…
And start becoming a community.

A real one.
Where respect is mutual, not enforced.
Where correction is gentle, not condescending.
Where guidance flows like rain—natural, needed, and life-giving.

Because this mission is no longer about just being educators.
It is about companionship in confusion,
trust in transition,
and hope in the heartache.

And when that trust is finally built—inch by inch—
perhaps then, your eyes will meet ours not with suspicion…
but with relief.
And you will say,
“Finally. Someone didn’t give up on me.”

And we will say,
“Never. We never planned to.”

Because your fall will never be too far for us.
And your future is never too dark for Allah.
And we—we are walking with you now.
Not ahead of you.
Not behind you.
But with you.
Until you walk on your own, with izzah and iman,
And then walk others home too