The Qur’an and Arabic: Between Translation and Essence

In the beginning, there was sound. Not the sound of man, but an eternal echo piercing the darkness of non-existence: “Read.” This was not the command to read a printed book or a written page, but a cosmic proclamation of the birth of meaning from the womb of language. A language that was not merely sounds climbing the cords of the throat, but a tongue created to carry the Revelation, to be its vessel and the revealer of its secrets.

Picture this scene: a young non-Arab, eyes shining with passion, hands trembling with longing, holding a Qur’an translated into his mother tongue. He thinks he is reading the Word of God, while every letter passes through the filter of translation, clothed in the interpreter’s perception, stripped of its original shadows, devoid of its ascending eloquence. He stands at the gate of Revelation, but the key is not in his hand: he does not possess Arabic.

In an age of globalisation, where doctrines are taught through smartphone apps and divine messages are reduced to translated posts, a quiet yet momentous question grows louder: Can the Message be understood without understanding its tongue? Can a religion be built on translation, not on the text?

Arabic is not mere ornamentation for meaning; it is the meaning when that meaning is Revelation. God Almighty did not choose it arbitrarily. He said: Indeed, We have made it an Arabic Qur’an so that you may understand. He did not say: “so that you may worship,” but: “so that you may understand.” Thus, if the mind is veiled from the language, the heart is distanced from full comprehension.

What we witness today—this reduction of religion to prayer instruction, the five pillars, and a few moral tales—is a simplification that breeds a fragile Islam, incapable of withstanding deep questioning or confronting the intellectual and existential challenges of our age. And often, this reduction is built on a premise: “Teach them the religion first; Arabic can come later, God willing.”

But Arabic is not an accessory to be added later—it is the gate. It is the bridge which, if not built first, leaves the traveller lost. And this is no abstract notion. We see it when non-Arab religiosity becomes a series of sound rituals, or when beliefs are based on distorted literal translations, or when one follows a translating sheikh rather than returning to the original text.

One of the greatest ironies is that many dawah institutions in the West focus on teaching a translated Qur’an before any linguistic foundation, planting a love for the Book in hearts, but depriving them of access to it. Like hanging a lamp above the heads of the thirsty without giving them a sip from the spring.

Then we ask: why, after years of being Muslim, do some converts still ask about the most basic theological matters? Why are some easily swayed by deviant or extreme interpretations? Why are verses understood out of context, and the Sunnah divorced from its environment? The bitter answer: because they approached the Qur’an before they approached Arabic.

This is not a call to alienate, but to re-order. The Qur’an is not to be withheld, but to be prepared for. It may be translated for initial clarity, but that cannot be the endpoint. Alongside it must come a lifelong project: learn the language in which it was revealed. Not merely the Arabs’ historic tongue, but the living language that breathes in its verses, whispers its mysteries, and opens the gates of reflection.

One of the gravest outcomes of postponing Arabic is that religion becomes a cultural metaphor, not a spiritual life. Islam becomes a patchwork of Eastern habits mixed with local imitations, rather than a soul flowing from a singular Revelation. A dangerous phenomenon emerges: the “Islamisation of translation” instead of the “Arabisation of faith”—giving translation the authority of the original text, while the text itself remains untouched.

In a world wide open, the non-Arab’s crisis is no longer access to the Qur’an, but access to a worthy understanding of it. And any understanding not rooted in Arabic will remain deficient, wingless.

Hence, the real equation is not: Arabic or the Qur’an? But: Arabic with the Qur’an—but beginning with it. For the Qur’an was revealed in Arabic, not any other tongue. Whoever wishes to receive the Word of God as it descended, not as it was translated, has no choice but to commit to Arabic as one commits to a sanctuary.

Arabic, then, is not a pedagogical prelude, but a religious imperative. It is not a supplementary tool, but a foundational condition. For the outsider, it is a lifeline from a deeper estrangement: to think oneself close to Revelation while still standing outside it.

Perhaps it is time to reorder our priorities—not to obstruct the Qur’an, but to protect it from oversimplification. To teach the new Muslim that the first steps in Islam are not only to utter the two testimonies, but to learn the keys to the tongue through which this faith descended.

Just as the Qur’an begins with the Basmala, so too must the journey of faith begin with Arabic.

And in the end, a question remains suspended in the conscience of every believer who sees guidance as a responsibility, not a privilege: How many souls clung to the Qur’an but never found a path into it? How many minds were closed off from deep reflection because the key was delayed under the guise of ease?

Behind this paradox lies a wisdom perceived only by those who ponder:

Verily this is a Revelation From the Lord of the Worlds ۝ With it came down The Spirit of Faith and Truth ۝ To thy heart and mind, That thou mayest admonish ۝ In the perspicuous Arabic tongue. (Sūra 26: Shu’arāa,192 : 195)

A tongue not understood from behind a veil—but grasped with insight. And whoever does not seek it, misses the light that resides not in the sound of the word, but in its essence.