My Sheikh told me to recite this:
Allahumma salli ala Sayyidina Muhammadin tibbi l-qulubi wa dawa iha,
wa afiyati l-abdani wa shifa iha,
wa nuri l-abdari wa diya iha,
Wa ala alihi wa sahbihi wa sallim.
O Allah, bless our liegelord Muhammad the remedy of hearts and their medicine,
the health of bodies and their cure,
the light of eyes and their effulgence,
And his Folk and Companions and give them peace
Salawat upon the Prophet (upon be blessings and peace) brings people from the darkness into the light, saves them the oppression of wrong actions and heedlessness, and brings balance and healing back to the heart. Alhamdulilah.
Monday, May 31, 2004
Wednesday, May 26, 2004
Sunday, May 09, 2004
Chapter Three
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
I watched the water fall, rhythmically regular, from the ceiling of our cell, my back stiff from laying for too long on the cold, stone slab that passed for a bed. Watery moonlight squeezed through a narrow slit on one wall, casting dancing patterns onto the floor. Musa sat, crosslegged and eyes closed, near the corroded steel bars that hemmed us in. His chest rose and fell as his lips moved, and I heard the word 'Allaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah' ejected in such a fashion that I almost believed that it came to him as regularly as speech and breath came to me.
The stench was horrendous. Urine, filth and the reek of unwashed bodies hung in the air, making the prison a claustrophobic tomb. I could make out movements from adjacent cells, dark blurs, hunched low, their necks bent in defeat. Here was where the lowest of the low resided, those who has forsaken Allah and so He had forsaken them. How had I ended up in a place such as this?
My forehead still throbbed from a fresh scar, the skin splitting from the myriad blows that had rained down upon me as I assaulted the young thief. Of course, to all observers, it seemed that a fully grown man was brutally attacking a small boy, so their horror and reaction was justified. Mine, especially when Musa had tracked me down and had tried to intervene, was not. Blinded by rage, a red haze coating my vision, I had lunged at my old friend, too. He had tried to defend himself and, in the resultant melee, both of us were taken away by the authorities. The muqaddam had tried to explain to them that we were actually friends, though they hadn't seem convinced, especially as he had been trying to speak through swollen lips. Still. They had left us both in the same cell.
An anguished guilt coated my heart, bitterness still burning within. I wished to apologise to my old friend, but I couldn't force my lips to form the words. It was just unfair. Everything was so unfair. Why was this happening to me?
My eyes flicked over to Musa, and I noticed that the moonlight had sprinkled silver nur over his face. I almost gasped, so much did it appear to my eyes that he was surrounded by a cloak of light. I dismissed it as a trick of my mind.
His eyes opened. "It's no illusion, I assure you," he said softly. "And why shouldn't it happen to you?"
I blinked, momentarily confused, until I realised he had joined my last two thoughts together. I was too fatigued to wonder at this, too irritated to even chide him for intruding in on my mind. I opened my mouth to speak, but he cut me off: "The world owes you nothing, my boy." I was unnerved at the deathly calm in his voice. His tone was so soft that I had to strain to hear it. "Haven't you listened to anything I have said? Everyday you choose between your nafs and Allah; that you chose your nafs leads to your misfortunes. That your nafs protests against the Decrees of Allah shows that you still take your ego as a guide over Allah." His eyes widened, a fire burning within. "Slay your nafs. And then call yourself a 'Muslim.'"
I winced, the force of his words striking hard. My confusion grew, too....hadn't it been my dream vision, and not Musa, who had given me the nasiha? Before I could ask, Musa continued: "Whenever something befalls you, your nafs says 'no,' while for a Muslim, he always says 'yes', regardless of whatever happens." He paused, his deep, brown eyes fixing me with a disconcerting stare. "Don't you agree?"
I turned away, not wishing to be drawn into a discussion. There were more important things preying on my mind than abstract philosophy. Let the old man drown in his delusions. What right did he have to chide me? I was appalled at the ugliness of my thoughts, but felt smug satisfaction that it was the truth.
Musa's chuckled floated through the air towards with me. With a jolt, I realised that I had just fallen into the same trap that he'd criticised me for. By turning away, I had obeyed my nafs, though subtle as its prompting was, I wasn't even aware I was doing so.
"Clever, isn't it?" Musa said, smiling. He cocked his head towards the bars, listening. Gesturing with his hand, he said, "Someone approaches."
I peered through the gloom, my eyes squinting. At first, I thought he had been mistaken, but then I saw the woman approach, dust collecting on the hem of her swishing skirts. Slowly I stood, then moved to greet her, my hands curling around the cold steel of the bars.
Joy blossomed in my heart as I replied to Aisha's salaams. A sense of relief washed over me, almost draining me of my fatigue.
She glanced around the cell, her eyes momentarily resting on Musa, before returning to me, her nose wrinkled in disgust. "How are you?" she whispered.
"Alhamdulilah!" I gasped, genuine sincerity thickening in my voice. "Now that you're here, everything is khayr." I smiled, but she didn't return it. A felt a cold spike of ice lurch in my heart, as an uneasy doubt lurked at the back of my mind. "It's not too bad here. A little like living in my hut. Only bigger, I think." My voice wavered. "The food is actually quite agreeable. They cook better than me. Maybe you could stay and try some...?"
She blinked at me, her face still, as though bemused at my attempts at humour.
"Erm..." I stumbled. "How was your journey? How did you get in?"
"I brought you some food." I frowned, noticing the tremble in her voice. She reached under her cloak, and handed over some fruit, the scent of which feeling like a gasp of fresh air. Her movements were too mechanical, though. There was steel in her eyes, and it unsettled me. Something was wrong.
Her eyes dropped to the floor. "I do not wish to see you again," she began, but her voice cracked. A hiss left her lips, as though she were annoyed with herself, but then I saw her shoulders straighten, and she lifted her eyes to mine. "I do not wish to see you again. This whole...matter...was a mistake." She glanced at Musa, then back to me. "I think I've disappointed my Lord, and He's now shown me why. Tawba is what I need. I suggest the same for you. Please forgive me for everything."
My heart thumped in my chest, my mind not believing what I was hearing. So used to I was to hearing that voice delivered in a soft and sweet tone, that I almost imagined that it was someone else, someone whose voice was hard and devoid of emotion, that was delivering these words.
"But....why?" I choked.
Her eyes widened, incredulous that I would even dare to ask. "You attacked a small boy!" Shaking her head, she went on: "I know he stole from you...but, still...that doesn't...." She was having trouble focusing on her words. Clearly whatever speech she had rehearsed was unravelling now that she was faced with reality. "....And the fact that you wish to benefit from me without the responsibility...that your idea of marriage was based on the drunken love sonnets of the poets and not based on....I know I was at fault, too....but...." Seemingly at a loss for words, she spun on her heels, signifying an end to the conversation. I almost reached out to stop her, but held back, as she fixed me with one last look and said: "You're weak in your deen. Like me. But I am going to do something about it." She paused, then strode off, saying one last time: "You're weak in your deen."
I recoiled, the words feeling like a physical slap, so much had they stung me. My heart sank, like a block of lead plunged into the ocean. I turned to Musa, my mouth agape, my mind whirling, hoping for something - anything- from him that would stay the crumbling of my soul that I felt within. The muqaddam watched me calmly, offering neither words of comfort, nor, as I later realised, words of reproach. He had, of course, every right to offer the latter, after I had ignored everything that he'd taught and warned me over the years.
It was then, at that most surreal of moments, covered by human filth and surrounded by human failure, that something sparked deep within me. My heart was split in two, a reaction to having had everything most dear to me torn away in an instant, but, despite that, a seed had been planted inside; a seed that, had I been more of an insightful person, I would have known had been waiting to sprout for many a year. A seed that I had ignored willfully as I had pursued the lower promptings of my nafs. The notion churned inside, then solidified, then became a resolution, then sprang from my heart and to my lips. A decision had been made. "Sidi Musa...." I said. "I wish to join the tariq-"
Before I could finish, something struck against the steel bars, and we both spun around, noticing for the first time a guard watching us with his baton. The ringing metallic echo faded into silence as we both watched, waiting. I felt my breath catch in my throat, though why I was feeling so nervous, I could not quite tell. It was not as though we had committed a capital offence. Still, I could not shake of this feeling of deep disquiet. Suddenly, everything was too loud, my breathing, the beating of my heart, the uneasy shuffling of my feet against the grime stained floor.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
"Come with me," the guard said. "The Governor wishes to speak to both of you."
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
I watched the water fall, rhythmically regular, from the ceiling of our cell, my back stiff from laying for too long on the cold, stone slab that passed for a bed. Watery moonlight squeezed through a narrow slit on one wall, casting dancing patterns onto the floor. Musa sat, crosslegged and eyes closed, near the corroded steel bars that hemmed us in. His chest rose and fell as his lips moved, and I heard the word 'Allaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah' ejected in such a fashion that I almost believed that it came to him as regularly as speech and breath came to me.
The stench was horrendous. Urine, filth and the reek of unwashed bodies hung in the air, making the prison a claustrophobic tomb. I could make out movements from adjacent cells, dark blurs, hunched low, their necks bent in defeat. Here was where the lowest of the low resided, those who has forsaken Allah and so He had forsaken them. How had I ended up in a place such as this?
My forehead still throbbed from a fresh scar, the skin splitting from the myriad blows that had rained down upon me as I assaulted the young thief. Of course, to all observers, it seemed that a fully grown man was brutally attacking a small boy, so their horror and reaction was justified. Mine, especially when Musa had tracked me down and had tried to intervene, was not. Blinded by rage, a red haze coating my vision, I had lunged at my old friend, too. He had tried to defend himself and, in the resultant melee, both of us were taken away by the authorities. The muqaddam had tried to explain to them that we were actually friends, though they hadn't seem convinced, especially as he had been trying to speak through swollen lips. Still. They had left us both in the same cell.
An anguished guilt coated my heart, bitterness still burning within. I wished to apologise to my old friend, but I couldn't force my lips to form the words. It was just unfair. Everything was so unfair. Why was this happening to me?
My eyes flicked over to Musa, and I noticed that the moonlight had sprinkled silver nur over his face. I almost gasped, so much did it appear to my eyes that he was surrounded by a cloak of light. I dismissed it as a trick of my mind.
His eyes opened. "It's no illusion, I assure you," he said softly. "And why shouldn't it happen to you?"
I blinked, momentarily confused, until I realised he had joined my last two thoughts together. I was too fatigued to wonder at this, too irritated to even chide him for intruding in on my mind. I opened my mouth to speak, but he cut me off: "The world owes you nothing, my boy." I was unnerved at the deathly calm in his voice. His tone was so soft that I had to strain to hear it. "Haven't you listened to anything I have said? Everyday you choose between your nafs and Allah; that you chose your nafs leads to your misfortunes. That your nafs protests against the Decrees of Allah shows that you still take your ego as a guide over Allah." His eyes widened, a fire burning within. "Slay your nafs. And then call yourself a 'Muslim.'"
I winced, the force of his words striking hard. My confusion grew, too....hadn't it been my dream vision, and not Musa, who had given me the nasiha? Before I could ask, Musa continued: "Whenever something befalls you, your nafs says 'no,' while for a Muslim, he always says 'yes', regardless of whatever happens." He paused, his deep, brown eyes fixing me with a disconcerting stare. "Don't you agree?"
I turned away, not wishing to be drawn into a discussion. There were more important things preying on my mind than abstract philosophy. Let the old man drown in his delusions. What right did he have to chide me? I was appalled at the ugliness of my thoughts, but felt smug satisfaction that it was the truth.
Musa's chuckled floated through the air towards with me. With a jolt, I realised that I had just fallen into the same trap that he'd criticised me for. By turning away, I had obeyed my nafs, though subtle as its prompting was, I wasn't even aware I was doing so.
"Clever, isn't it?" Musa said, smiling. He cocked his head towards the bars, listening. Gesturing with his hand, he said, "Someone approaches."
I peered through the gloom, my eyes squinting. At first, I thought he had been mistaken, but then I saw the woman approach, dust collecting on the hem of her swishing skirts. Slowly I stood, then moved to greet her, my hands curling around the cold steel of the bars.
Joy blossomed in my heart as I replied to Aisha's salaams. A sense of relief washed over me, almost draining me of my fatigue.
She glanced around the cell, her eyes momentarily resting on Musa, before returning to me, her nose wrinkled in disgust. "How are you?" she whispered.
"Alhamdulilah!" I gasped, genuine sincerity thickening in my voice. "Now that you're here, everything is khayr." I smiled, but she didn't return it. A felt a cold spike of ice lurch in my heart, as an uneasy doubt lurked at the back of my mind. "It's not too bad here. A little like living in my hut. Only bigger, I think." My voice wavered. "The food is actually quite agreeable. They cook better than me. Maybe you could stay and try some...?"
She blinked at me, her face still, as though bemused at my attempts at humour.
"Erm..." I stumbled. "How was your journey? How did you get in?"
"I brought you some food." I frowned, noticing the tremble in her voice. She reached under her cloak, and handed over some fruit, the scent of which feeling like a gasp of fresh air. Her movements were too mechanical, though. There was steel in her eyes, and it unsettled me. Something was wrong.
Her eyes dropped to the floor. "I do not wish to see you again," she began, but her voice cracked. A hiss left her lips, as though she were annoyed with herself, but then I saw her shoulders straighten, and she lifted her eyes to mine. "I do not wish to see you again. This whole...matter...was a mistake." She glanced at Musa, then back to me. "I think I've disappointed my Lord, and He's now shown me why. Tawba is what I need. I suggest the same for you. Please forgive me for everything."
My heart thumped in my chest, my mind not believing what I was hearing. So used to I was to hearing that voice delivered in a soft and sweet tone, that I almost imagined that it was someone else, someone whose voice was hard and devoid of emotion, that was delivering these words.
"But....why?" I choked.
Her eyes widened, incredulous that I would even dare to ask. "You attacked a small boy!" Shaking her head, she went on: "I know he stole from you...but, still...that doesn't...." She was having trouble focusing on her words. Clearly whatever speech she had rehearsed was unravelling now that she was faced with reality. "....And the fact that you wish to benefit from me without the responsibility...that your idea of marriage was based on the drunken love sonnets of the poets and not based on....I know I was at fault, too....but...." Seemingly at a loss for words, she spun on her heels, signifying an end to the conversation. I almost reached out to stop her, but held back, as she fixed me with one last look and said: "You're weak in your deen. Like me. But I am going to do something about it." She paused, then strode off, saying one last time: "You're weak in your deen."
I recoiled, the words feeling like a physical slap, so much had they stung me. My heart sank, like a block of lead plunged into the ocean. I turned to Musa, my mouth agape, my mind whirling, hoping for something - anything- from him that would stay the crumbling of my soul that I felt within. The muqaddam watched me calmly, offering neither words of comfort, nor, as I later realised, words of reproach. He had, of course, every right to offer the latter, after I had ignored everything that he'd taught and warned me over the years.
It was then, at that most surreal of moments, covered by human filth and surrounded by human failure, that something sparked deep within me. My heart was split in two, a reaction to having had everything most dear to me torn away in an instant, but, despite that, a seed had been planted inside; a seed that, had I been more of an insightful person, I would have known had been waiting to sprout for many a year. A seed that I had ignored willfully as I had pursued the lower promptings of my nafs. The notion churned inside, then solidified, then became a resolution, then sprang from my heart and to my lips. A decision had been made. "Sidi Musa...." I said. "I wish to join the tariq-"
Before I could finish, something struck against the steel bars, and we both spun around, noticing for the first time a guard watching us with his baton. The ringing metallic echo faded into silence as we both watched, waiting. I felt my breath catch in my throat, though why I was feeling so nervous, I could not quite tell. It was not as though we had committed a capital offence. Still, I could not shake of this feeling of deep disquiet. Suddenly, everything was too loud, my breathing, the beating of my heart, the uneasy shuffling of my feet against the grime stained floor.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
"Come with me," the guard said. "The Governor wishes to speak to both of you."
