The fairy tales we listened to as children always whispered that a savior would come from the outside. A prince on a white horse, a magic wand, or a sublime sultan beyond the mountain... As we grew up, we learned the hard way that there was no savior waiting for us behind that mountain, nor any magical formula to unlock the doors of life.
The legend of Simurg, immortalized centuries ago by Feriduddin Attar in his work The Conference of the Birds (Mantıku't-Tayr), is the harshest adult fairy tale that rubs this illusion right in our faces.
The story begins in a chaos where all the birds in the world are drifting with a deep sense of despair and leaderlessness. Seeking a haven, this crowd awakens under the guidance of the wise Hoopoe: “Beyond Mount Qaf, sitting at the peak of the Tree of Knowledge, we have a sultan named Simurg. He will save us.”
Modern man's greatest tragedy buds precisely at this point. At some point in our lives, we all look for a "Simurg" on the outside. A figure to save us, a system to make our lives meaningful, a miraculous relationship, or a title... When we lack an authority or a ready-made prescription at hand, we panic; because we are afraid to shoulder the heavy responsibility of our own lives, mistakes, and choices entirely on our own.
The birds set out with hope, but to reach Mount Qaf, there lie seven grueling valleys ahead that test the human spirit down to the finest detail. This is the truly ruthless and transformative part of the tale. As the valleys deepen, millions of birds drop out one by one. The enthusiastic tire out in the Valleys of Quest and Love; those who lose their minds fall behind in the Valleys of Gnosis and Awe. Yet the sharpest turn is the Valley of Fana, meaning "Annihilation". This is the gateway of purging oneself from the ego, titles, protective shields, and that inflated arrogance.
While searching for meaning in life, we cannot advance an inch without leaving behind those heavy comfort zones and fake identities we call "self." As the journey progresses, crowds dwindle; because truth is found not in the noise of crowds, but in the silent weight of solitude and reduction.
Out of millions of birds that crossed deserts, oceans, and struggled with hunger and fear, only thirty birds remain when they reach the peak of Mount Qaf. While their hearts hammer at the doors of that legendary palace, they expect to gaze upon a mighty sultan who will take them under his wing. Yet when they arrive before the throne, there is neither a king nor a giant savior.
There stands only a massive, flawless mirror. And the terrifying truth they see when they look into that mirror is this: Simurg is not the sublime savior they sought on the outside; Simurg is the very thirty birds themselves who melted away on the road and emerged filtered through the hell of those seven valleys. In Persian, Sî means thirty, and Murg means bird.
The tale of Simurg offers no childish consolation. On the contrary, it drops a truth like a slap onto the table: The savior you seek does not exist on the outside.
The person you transform into while passing through life's arduous valleys is the exact embodiment of the peak you wish to reach. If you want to be reborn from your own ashes, you must stop waiting for a hand to reach out from the outside. There is no one else to sit on that throne except you. To become your own Simurg, you must first dare to let go of that old "self" along the way.
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