I often sit in the quiet of my home, or walk through one of Cairo’s neighborhoods, when my ears collide with overlapping sounds coming from nearby mosques—each competing to raise its volume until the words become indistinguishable, let alone meaningful or capable of inspiring reverence.
And I wonder:
When did the call of faith turn into a contest of loudness?
Has delivering the message become dependent on noise?
This simple, everyday observation led me to a deeper reflection on the relationship between sound and truth, and on our culture that often chooses shouting over dialogue, and imposing opinions instead of presenting them.
Across Egypt—old and new neighborhoods, rich and poor alike—voices blare from mosque loudspeakers. Friday sermons overlap, and the call to prayer from one mosque collides with another at the very same moment. Instead of inviting tranquility and spiritual focus, the loudness becomes a source of tension and discomfort.
This is not just a religious phenomenon, but a cultural one.
In public discussions, in arguments among friends or politicians, and even in films and series, the one who raises his voice is often believed to have won the argument.
But… why do we shout when we differ?
And does loudness have anything to do with strength or persuasion?
When Loudness Becomes a Weapon
Social psychology shows that raising one’s voice does not indicate the strength of an argument; it often reveals its weakness. Shouting becomes a compensatory tool when a person fails to convince through logic and reason—as if saying:
“I can’t persuade you with my mind, so let me impose my voice on you.”
Stranger still, some people link religiosity to the ability to make others hear them—by force—not through wisdom, but through sheer loudness. As if the divine message, whose essence is mercy, requires echoes that wake the sleeping and exhaust the sick!
Shouting is not evidence of correctness.
It is sometimes a mask hiding the fragility of an argument, or a tool for asserting oneself when thought fails to reach the other.
In our culture, the one who shouts believes he is the strongest; the one with the loudspeaker believes he is the most entitled.
But the truth is that the loud voice intimidates—it does not convince. It exhausts—it does not enlighten.
Have We Lost the Culture of Whisper and Reflection?
The divine messages, in their essence, came gentle, contemplative, humble.
The Prophet Muhammad did not raise his voice in his speech; he was heard from afar because of the wisdom of his words, not the loudness of his tone.
The voice is not merely a carrier of meaning—it carries emotion.
When it becomes shouting, emotion vanishes, and meaning slips away.
Between Religious Speech and Human Dialogue
Islamic teachings direct us clearly:
“And lower your voice, for the harshest of sounds is the voice of donkeys.”
And the confirmed prophetic tradition commands complete silence during the Friday sermon—no returning greetings, not even verbally telling your neighbor “be quiet”; you may only signal silently.
This is the opposite of what we see and hear today from mosque loudspeakers and in our daily conversations.
A loud Friday sermon may cause listeners to shut their windows in annoyance.
A calm, thoughtful delivery opens hearts even before minds.
Likewise, in everyday life, the one who shouts in someone’s face does not convince him—he frightens him, or causes him to shut his ears.
True dialogue requires an open mind, a present heart, and a confident voice—not a loud one.
The strength of a word lies not in its volume, but in its sincerity, balance, and timing.
A Call to Reconsider
Perhaps it is time to re-evaluate our relationship with sound in our public space—to restore reverence to our mosques, respect to our conversations, and depth to our meanings, away from noise that neither convinces nor refines.
A loud voice does not elevate truth; it often buries it beneath rubble of noise.
The issue is not the strength of vocal cords, but the clarity of vision.
Not volume, but wisdom.
Shouting does not reach the heart; sincerity, balance, and deep listening do.
In societies where voices have risen and the ability to listen has fallen, the need becomes urgent to restore the art of speaking, the art of silence, and the art of reaching the other without frightening him with our noise.
The voice does not belong to the one who possesses it, but to the one who knows when to use it.
My call is not for silence, but for serenity—not to mute the voice, but to give it meaning.
Perhaps we need a revolution in auditory awareness—one where we replace the disturbing loudspeaker with the conscious voice, shouting with clarity, and noise with understanding.
A loud voice does not elevate truth; it hides it beneath the ruins of clamor.
A thoughtful voice, on the other hand, has a magical ability to reach—not by force, but through honesty, balance, evidence, and reason.
