In a world restless with noise, the mountain had always stood as a reminder — silent, steadfast, immovable, yet full of presence. It did not rush to be seen, nor bend to be known. Its strength was never in boast, but in stillness.

That winter, Mastoor drew upon the majesty of the mountains. Noble. Grounded. Majestic. Like the believer whose dignity is not found in display, but in patience; whose strength is not in force, but in composure.

“And We placed therein lofty, firmly set mountains…”
(Surah Al-Mursalat 77:27)

To walk in dignity was to carry the weight of stillness, as mountains carry the weight of the sky. To be firm, yet gentle. To be silent, yet enduring. For even revelation, were it to descend upon the mountains, would have humbled them into dust.

“If We had sent down this Qur’an upon a mountain, you would have seen it humbled, split asunder out of awe of Allah.”
(Surah Al-Hashr 59:21)

Mountains of Dignity (Jibālun Waqār) embodied garments that reflected this quiet strength — textured, grounded, timeless in silhouette. They spoke not in excess, but in restraint. They moved not with haste, but with gravity.

For we were placed on this earth not to rise above it,
but to be of it — firm, patient, dignified.
That was the way of the mountain.
And that was the way of the believer.