I used to believe in him.
Not as my Imam—
not in the way I once was taught—
but as a man who stood for something.
The Aga Khan.
A symbol of intellect.
Of modernity.
Of quiet dignity.
Even after I walked away from Ismailism,
I held on to him.
I thought, if nothing else,
he is principled.
A leader who builds schools,
who speaks in full sentences,
who doesn’t salivate over power like the rest.
I told myself:
Even if I don’t bow to him,
at least I can respect him.
But lately, that belief feels paper-thin.
Because how principled can a leader be,
if his people are like this?
How noble can the message be,
if it breeds only silence in the face of injustice?
How good is the soil,
if the only thing that grows from it
is fear?
I’ve watched Ismailis—
friends, elders, family—
go limp at the moment of truth.
I’ve watched them whisper in private
but vanish when asked to write.
Speak.
Stand.
Risk.
And that silence didn’t appear out of nowhere.
It was shaped.
Cultivated.
Sanctioned.
Not by speeches.
But by culture.
By expectation.
By omission.
So maybe it’s not enough to build hospitals.
Maybe it’s not enough to speak of ethics
while your people are afraid of their own voices.
Do I think he is a bad man?
I don’t know.
Do I think he is a good man?
I don’t know.
But I do know that silence like this
doesn’t grow on its own.
It is watered.
It is pruned.
It is passed down.
And I think I’m finally letting go of him, too.
Not with hatred.
Not with fire.
But with eyes wide open.
Because even if I can’t say what he is,
I know what he’s not:
Mine.
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