The Revenant Soul

The Revenant Soul

By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

I know I have died. Not just once, not metaphorically, but fully murdered by the hands, mouths, and actions of many. Betrayed in silence, slandered in whispers, torn down by the very ones I once prayed for. I, Kateb, am a revenant. I am one who has returned left for dead in nature’s fiercest trials. I’ve laid in the freezing cold of betrayal, burned beneath the scorching sun of abandonment, and been thrashed about in the hurricanes of heartache. Yet, somehow, I still rise.

Somehow, breath finds its way back into lungs that once gave up the will to breathe.

Let me tell you something that no smooth preacher in silk robes dares to say aloud: death doesn’t always look like a coffin or a tomb. Sometimes, it’s being overlooked, dismissed, or cast aside by people you gave everything to.

Sometimes, it’s the ache of loneliness in a crowded room, the silence of friends when your name is on trial, or the sting of watching others walk freely while you carry the weight of wounds they inflicted. But the strange mercy in all this is that resurrection is never quiet. No. The spirit doesn’t tiptoe its way back into the broken; it kicks the door in and sets fire to what tried to bury it.

You see, there’s a kind of aliveness that only the revenant knows. A kind of fire that doesn’t come from comfort, but from the furnace of affliction. And we who have walked through that fire who’ve been scorched by life and chilled by the freeze of betrayal we carry a knowing. We carry scars that speak in silence, and wisdom that doesn’t always find words.

There’s a parable I carry in my bones: A man once fell into a deep pit. People walked by some curious, some callous. One threw a rope, but only halfway. Another shouted advice from the top. Only one climbed down, dirtied his own hands, and said, “Let’s climb out together.” That man? That’s the spirit of the Creator.

Not distant. Not judging from afar. But present. In the pit. In the pain. With you. With me.

But how often do we shut that presence out, convinced we are self-made, self-sufficient, sovereign over our own small kingdoms? How many times have we traded the healing balm of grace for the bitter wine of revenge?

Some of us drink pettiness like morning coffee black, hot, and daily. We sharpen our tongues like swords, forgetting that even a word can cut deeper than a blade. And yet, the Creator still waits. Still whispers. Still holds out a hand.

Here’s a hard truth wrapped in an old proverb: “He who seeks vengeance must dig two graves one for his enemy, and one for himself.” Because revenge does not satisfy. It devours. And while it may give the illusion of power, it leaves the soul empty, parched, wandering. What good is it to win the war and lose your spirit? What worth is there in being right, if your heart has turned to stone?

I’ve learned that survival isn’t just about outlasting the storm. It’s about what grows in its aftermath. It’s about choosing softness after life has hardened you. About choosing love even when hate seems easier. It’s about being the hand that reaches down into someone else’s pit, not the mouth that condemns from above.

We were not made to be judges. We were made to be mirrors reflecting the Creator’s light in every direction, especially in the dark. That means we forgive even when the wound still stings. We show compassion even when our fists are clenched. And yes, we admit when we are broken, so that grace can flow into the cracks.

I know what it is to be a ghost in your own life. To walk around with breath in your lungs but death in your eyes. I know what it feels like to bury dreams, to mourn who you used to be, to carry grief like an invisible twin. But I also know what it is to resurrect.

To reclaim your voice. To let the ashes fall and still dance barefoot in the ruins.

We cannot come from death just to instantly die again. There is a responsibility in resurrection. A duty to the spirit that woke us.

We must mature not just in our minds, but in our hearts, our actions, our silence, our speech. We must stop performing righteousness and start embodying it. It’s not about perfect prayers or spotless records. It’s about integrity in private, gentleness in public, and consistency in both.

The winds of life will come. Some will chill you to the bone, others will burn you down to your core. But remember this: trees that grow in the storm send their roots deeper. So dig in. Reach out.

Be still. Listen.

For the voice of the Creator is not always thunder. Sometimes, it’s a whisper in the wreckage, a soft wind after the fire, a hand on your shoulder when you thought you were utterly alone.

And in that holy hush, may you hear it too the truth that never dies: You are not finished. You are not forgotten. You are not forsaken.

You are a revenant.

And you are rising.

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We cannot be resuscitated by grace, only to be strangled again by ego, anxiety, or rage. If we rise from the grave, let it be with new breath, not old wounds.

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 Why be reborn by the Spirit, only to die again at the hands of our own bitterness, fear, and pride? Resurrection is not a second chance it is a sacred awakening.

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We you and I have already come through death. So why let low vibrations like pettiness and pain bury us again? Rebirth means refusing to dig our own graves with ego and despair.

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How can we rise from the ashes, only to be consumed again by the same fire? To be reborn is to refuse death by ego, anxiety, and anger to breathe with divine intention.

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We didn’t survive the storm, the tomb, the silence just to let stress and smallness undo our resurrection. Spiritual maturity means choosing life on every level, again and again

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