Begin With Yourself

       بِسْمِ اللّهِ الرَّحْمـَنِ الرَّحِيمِ

لَا تَنْهَ عَنْ خُلُقٍ وَتَأْتِيَ مِثْلَهُ

عَارٌ عَلَيْكَ إِذَا فَعَلْتَ عَظِيمُ 

اِبْدَأْ بِنَفْسِكَ فَٱنْهَهَا عَنْ غَيِّهَا 

فَإِذَا ٱنْتَهَتْ عَنْهُ فَأَنْتَ حَكِيمُ 

فَهُنَاكَ يُقْبَلُ مَا وَعَظْتَ وَيُقْتَدَى 

بِٱلْعِلْمِ مِنْكَ وَيَنْفَعُ ٱلتَّعْلِيمُ

Meaning: 

Do not forbid a trait while committing its like;

great shame is upon you if you do so.

Begin with yourself and restrain it from its error;

when it ceases, then you are wise.

Then your counsel will be accepted, your knowledge followed,

and your teaching will be of benefit.

Language:

Arabic

Transliteration:

Lā tanha ʿan khuluqin wa-taʾtiya mithlahu

ʿĀrun ʿalayka idhā faʿalta ʿaẓīmu

Ibdaʾ bi-nafsika fa-nhahā ʿan ghayyi-hā

Fa-idhā intahat ʿanhu fa-anta ḥakīmu

Fa-hunāka yuqbal mā waʿaẓta wa-yuqtadā

Bi-l-ʿilmi minka wa-yanfaʿu t-taʿlīmu

Origins:

These lines are commonly attributed to Abū al-Aswad al-Duʾalī. Ibn Ḥazm quotes them in Mudāwāt al-Nufūs wa-Tahdhīb al-Akhlāq, introducing them with “Abū al-Aswad al-Duʾalī said,” and the text there reads: لَا تَنْهَ عَنْ خُلُقٍ وَتَأْتِيَ مِثْلَهُ through بِٱلْعِلْمِ مِنْكَ وَيَنْفَعُ ٱلتَّعْلِيمُ. (Shamela) Ibn ʿAbd al-Barr also cites the poem in Jāmiʿ Bayān al-ʿIlm wa-Faḍlih, while noting that it is also narrated for al-ʿArzamī; his version has slight wording differences, including بِٱلْقَوْلِ مِنْكَ instead of بِٱلْعِلْمِ مِنْكَ. (Islam Web)

The meaning also stands close to the Qur’ānic rebuke: أَتَأْمُرُونَ ٱلنَّاسَ بِٱلْبِرِّ وَتَنسَوْنَ أَنفُسَكُمْ — “Do you preach righteousness and fail to practice it yourselves?” (Quran.com)

Brief Explanation:

This poem is important because it does not attack teaching. It attacks false teaching.

It does not say: do not correct others. It says: do not correct others while you are comfortably living inside the very thing you forbid. Do not make your tongue strict while your own soul remains undisciplined. Do not demand from another person what you have not even begun to demand from yourself.

The first wrong in the poem is not simply the bad trait. It is the contradiction.

Do not forbid a trait while committing its like.

That line should make every parent, teacher, elder, speaker, and leader pause. A child hears our instruction, but he also studies our life. He watches the way we handle anger after telling him to be calm. He watches the way we speak of others after telling him not to gossip. He watches whether we apologize after demanding apology from him. He watches whether truth is a rule for everyone, or only a rule for the young.

Children have a very sharp sense for this. They may not always have the language for it, but they feel it. When the adult’s words and conduct separate, the child may obey outwardly, but inwardly something weakens. Respect becomes fear. Guidance becomes pressure. Moral language begins to sound like control.

That is why Abū al-Aswad calls it عَارٌ — shame.

Not a small mistake. Not merely poor presentation. Shame.

Because the one who teaches without self-accounting damages more than his own character. He damages the dignity of the teaching itself. He makes truth look unfair. He makes discipline look like power. He makes goodness look like something imposed by the strong upon the weak.

The second couplet gives the cure:

Begin with yourself and restrain it from its error;
when it ceases, then you are wise.

The order matters. Begin with yourself.

Not end with yourself after everyone else has been corrected. Not remember yourself only when someone exposes your inconsistency. Begin there.

This is not a call to wait until one is perfect before speaking. That would be another deception. If only the faultless could advise, no one would advise. The issue is not imperfection. The issue is comfort with contradiction. The issue is correcting others while refusing correction oneself.

There is a difference between a struggling person who says, “I too am trying,” and a careless person who says, “You must change,” while making peace with his own wrong.

The first person may still guide. The second person has lost the moral weight of his words.

To my ear, the heart of the poem is in the word حَكِيمُ — wise. Wisdom is not merely knowing what others should do. Many people have that kind of knowledge. Wisdom begins when the self becomes the first student.

The wise teacher is not the one with the sharpest criticism. The wise teacher is the one whose own life has been brought under some discipline. His words carry weight because they have passed through his own struggle. He is not speaking from above the wound. He is speaking from within the work.

That is why the last couplet is so important:

Then your counsel will be accepted, your knowledge followed,
and your teaching will be of benefit.

Teaching becomes useful when the life behind it supports it.

A word may be true and still fail to enter the heart because the speaker has made it heavy with hypocrisy. But when the speaker has done the work inwardly, even a simple sentence can reach deeply. The child senses sincerity. The student senses fairness. The listener senses that the one correcting is not merely using truth as a tool against him.

This belongs very much in homes and classrooms.

A school cannot be built on adult contradiction and still expect children to love truth. If adults demand respect while speaking disrespectfully, demand calm while living in irritation, demand honesty while hiding behind excuses, demand responsibility while blaming everyone else, then the children are not confused. They are learning exactly what we are teaching.

They are learning that words are for the weak and power is for the strong.

So the adult must become careful.

Before I correct, I have to ask: have I begun with myself?

If I am asking a child to speak gently, is there gentleness in my correction?

If I am asking for truthfulness, am I truthful about my own mistake?

If I am asking for self-control, am I controlling the tone, face, and force with which I speak?

If I am asking for humility, can I apologize when I am wrong?

This does not weaken authority. It purifies it.

There is a kind of authority that depends on position. The adult speaks, so the child must listen. The teacher commands, so the student must comply. That has its place, but it is not enough. The deeper authority is moral authority. It is the authority of a person who has not exempted himself from the rule.

That kind of authority is quieter, but stronger.

A note on the text:

I have vocalized the second couplet as فَٱنْهَهَا — “then restrain it,” following the common transmitted wording found in Ibn Ḥazm and Ibn ʿAbd al-Barr. The version with وَٱنْهَهَا — “and restrain it” — carries the same basic meaning, but فَٱنْهَهَا gives the line a clear movement: begin with yourself, then restrain it.

Moral Use:

These lines are useful before any correction.

Before advising a child.

Before speaking to a student.

Before correcting a spouse, colleague, friend, or community member.

Before posting a criticism.

Before giving a lesson on character.

They ask one clean question:

Have I begun with myself?

Not, “Am I perfect?”

No.

Have I begun?

That is the door of wisdom.