How do we face uncertainty without allowing it to overwhelm us? This Islamic teaching shows us the way

I once asked an elderly naan seller on the streets of Kabul how he was managing to make a living. It was almost midday and he had not sold a single naan. What would he take home, I asked. “Tawakkul ba Khuda,” he replied.

He had a long silver beard, deep brown eyes and a beautiful smile. As a frontline journalist covering the Afghan war, I had heard those words many times before. From a young woman trying to establish a clothing business in the middle of the conflict, to a military commander confronting a deadly insurgency, to a school student preparing for the long and uncertain journey towards a university degree, the expression seemed to surface wherever hope and hardship met.

But that day, looking at the elderly vendor, I struggled to understand what his trust in God meant when he had not even sold enough bread to feed himself. I could not bring myself to ask another question.

Tawakkul is an Arabic word meaning reliance or placing one’s trust. Ba Khuda, from Persian, translates roughly as “in God”. Together, the words express something more than religious reassurance. They describe a way of facing uncertainty without allowing it to overwhelm you.

It is an idea I have found myself returning to, particularly since making a home in Australia. Livelihoods are uncertain, careers rarely follow predictable paths and family responsibilities often stretch across borders. Perhaps this centuries-old Islamic teaching has something to offer well beyond the Muslim community.

One common misunderstanding is that tawakkul means passive surrender: fold your arms, say “God willing” and wait for things to happen. Islamic teaching offers a rather different understanding of the relationship between faith and effort.

The Qur’an repeatedly encourages believers to place their trust in God but it does not ask them to abandon their responsibilities. Prophet Muhammad is instructed to consult others, make a decision and then put his trust in God. The sequence matters: deliberate, decide, act and trust.

A well-known teaching recorded in the hadith collection of the ninth-century scholar al-Tirmidhi makes the point more simply. A man asks the prophet whether he should tie up his camel and trust in God, or leave it untied and trust in God. The answer is: “Tie it and trust in God.”

The teaching is often reduced to those five words but the message is straightforward. Faith is not an excuse for avoiding the work in front of us. It is about accepting that, however carefully we prepare, we cannot always determine what happens next. For generations of Muslims, tawakkul has been an essential part of faith: making a sincere effort while recognising the limits of human control.

I find it helpful to think of it as a division of responsibility. The effort is mine: the preparation, the diligence and the honest attempt. The outcome is not. Tawakkul is about knowing the difference and not burdening ourselves with responsibility for things beyond our control.

This distinction has become particularly relevant to my own professional life.

Journalism, like many other professions, has become increasingly precarious. Contracts end, newsrooms shrink and algorithms influence which stories find an audience. For journalists who have migrated, there are additional hurdles. Qualifications and experience may need to be explained all over again, professional networks must be rebuilt and the question “What do you do?” can sometimes feel like an immediate assessment of your worth.

Career anxiety is rarely a sign that someone has not tried hard enough. Often it is quite the opposite. People send applications, prepare for interviews, pursue opportunities, make connections and work longer hours than they should. Yet much of what determines the outcome rests with someone else: the hiring manager, the funding committee, the editor or the person making the final decision.

Tawakkul offers a way of stepping back from that cycle without giving up on the work itself. Send the application, improve the pitch, make the call and prepare as well as you can. Then put it down.

This is not indifference. A closed door is not necessarily a verdict on your abilities or your worth. Sometimes it simply means that things have not worked out, for reasons you may never know.

Family responsibilities test this understanding more deeply because the stakes involve people we love. Many migrants and refugees carry the emotional weight of two households: the one under their own roof and the one they left behind. We send money, make late-night calls and wait for news from places where we may no longer be able to offer much practical help. Parents grow older on the other side of the world. Children grow up between languages and cultures. Guilt can become another burden in an already crowded life.

Here, tawakkul does not mean caring less. It means doing what we can: sending the remittance, making the call, being patient around the dinner table and setting an example for our children. It also means accepting that the things beyond our reach are not necessarily neglected simply because we cannot control them.

Tawakkul offers a reminder that it is easy to lose sight of in the demands of everyday life. Our efforts matter but they cannot determine everything. Do what you can. Tie your camel. And then trust.