Maydan Sayyida ‘Aisha
We jumped out of a microbus and into a frenzy of people and traffic. This was Maydan Sayyida ‘Aisha, or Sayyida ‘Aisha Square. It lies partially under a bridge and is basically a hub from which you can find a bus to just about any part of Cairo. It’s located in front of the historic masjid in which a descendant of Imam ‘Ali, Sayyida ‘Aisha, is buried, which is where it gets its name.
As we got off our bus we found ourselves immediately caught in the hustle of traffic moving in seemingly every direction. Microbuses cruised by with drivers hanging out their windows shouting out destinations for potential customers – “Abbasiya! Abbasiya!” – as people of all sorts navigated through the crowds, or sat or stood behind tables selling their wares. Businessmen walked by with briefcases, and young men with slicked back hair and narrow jeans waited around for someone or something. An old woman in dusty clothing balanced a large plastic package on her head as she walked, her eyes barely visible in her sun-weathered face. A well-dressed man effortlessly carried a toddler in one arm as he talked on his cell phone and walked rapidly away, with the little boy trying to look everywhere at once. A teenage girl in a glitter-bedecked jilbab tottered by in clunky heels, her nails painted a cherry-red to match her lipstick. I spotted a young boy weaving his way through the crowd, his hands full of a silver tray with small glasses of hot tea with the steam still pouring out.
Crowded, noisy and dusty, tables are set up along the curb with all kinds of things for sale. I saw fruits in neat piles, the bruises carefully turned away from buyers’ eyes, with little wooden signs poking out listing the price. An old man sold men’s shoes, each pair perfectly aligned in his little space of street, with one shoe angled over the other. He adjusted one just so as the young man at the table alongside him smoked with bored eyes and an attitude of wanting to be somewhere else. The cheap cotton shirts the young man sold were stylish in that British punk way, but with indecipherable English phrases on them. They were proudly displayed on two mannequins set up wearing jeans and with bandannas wrapped around the bottom half of their faces, like they just walked away from protests at the G8 Summit.
One family sat on flipped over crates next to their humble table of wares, eating something out of unfolded aluminum foil, taking turns drinking from a water bottle with the label long-since worn off. They were in their own world, in comfortable conversation, and didn’t even blink at the chaos and noise around them.
Its memories like this that I think I will take back with me to the U.S., that some years from now I’m sure will shake loose, like a long forgotten quarter at the bottom of a coat pocket. While waiting sedately at a traffic light in suburbia or inspecting another perfect apple at a soulless grocery store I’ll remember the microbus driver who snarled at one passenger to get off, and then kindly told an old woman, ‘Take your time momma’ as she got on; the man with his sibha selling fruit, in his own world as traffic sped crazily by him, or the horse that I stared at wide-eyed, kept behind a little fence inches away from busy traffic, looking back at me just as perplexed with me as I was with him. Over well tended pavement I will remember the dust and the dirt of this square and this bit of Cairo life, and in the quiet I’m sure I’ll recall the crazy Arab pop music ringing in my ears as I got on the next bus, zoomed through traffic, and prayed for a safe arrival home.
Passion vs. Emotion
In following the recent events in Libya I found myself thinking about what dramatic and strange times we live in. A dictator who lived his entire life beyond the reach of law or morality – who was possibly the richest person on earth – was killed in the most humiliating of manners for the world to see. Even with the innumerable resources and wealth he possessed he was unable to elude death and his ultimate, inescapable accountability before God. This is certainly a sign and a lesson for those who reflect.
Another, just as critical lesson can be learned from the actions of those who captured him. While it may be true that the Arab Spring cannot truly blossom until the choking weeds of oppression and corruption are removed, the deeds that were done to this man in the last moments of his life, and to his body after he died, cannot be justified.
It is understandable that emotions are running high – but to be frank, that is too often our defense and our excuse, one we fall into as individuals and as a worldwide community. From an over-zealous correction of a new Muslim’s mistake to the burning down of buildings over offensive cartoons – running on emotion, desiring immediate change, and hastily acting without consideration of consequence or even religious sanction is a deep and serious spiritual problem from which we are clearly suffering, and that is manifest in myriad ways.
Yes, emotions run high – but this world is filled with things that evoke emotion, and our lifetime from birth to death is a collection of emotional moments of good and bad, victory and loss, successes and disappointments. Our goal as Muslims is to make all things within ourselves, including our emotions, subject to an ubudiyyah – a loving surrender and submission to God Most High. Our hearts are susceptible to being moved and to change and flip flop with the currents that such feelings bring (The word for heart in Arabic, qalb, is even derived from the act of turning and constantly changing) – but we ask God to give us thabaat, steadfastness on the truth and on His deen and to make that our steady and constant guide through the sometimes murky currents and overwhelming waves of this life.
We saw in Libya – as we do in many other places in the world today – the power of emotions, and the real need each and every one of us has to beseech God for His constant help and guidance in dealing with them.
Those who engage in contrived plans to target airports and the like in the West also do so out of a deep sense of emotion: when our brothers and sisters are suffering, they argue, we too suffer. When we see them in various places across the world impoverished, under occupation, facing military aggression or under the stifling yokes of other forms of oppression, some deep part of them is touched, they argue, and is moved to act.
However what must be understood is that the heat of such emotions must be tempered by the teachings of our faith, by calm deliberation, and by a mind and heart cognizant of Allah and His All-Seeing, All-Knowing nature. There is a desperation that colors these acts of vigilante ‘justice’ – a grasping at vengeance that belies a faith in a higher power, and knowledge that there are things that are beyond us and our abilities. To think that one must take justice into one’s own hands no matter what the cost is arrogating to oneself more than what God asks of us. It also fails to take into consideration that everything that happens does so within God’s knowledge and will, that there is wisdom in everything He decrees, and His final judgment in the Hereafter will set aright any wrong, however small, that was committed in this life.
Would that the Libyan fighters had taken the example of Ali, who, when an adversary in battle spit in his face, stepped away from killing him out of fear for his intentions and said, “My struggle is for God and not for any personal sense of vengeance.”
Would that those vulnerable youth whose hearts burn for the oppressed shun the video-game like rhetoric of forces of good and evil, and instead roll up their sleeves to work on a long-term, strategic course of positive action, in complete accord with the teachings of our deen, that would bring real and lasting change to the local and then the world scene.
How easy to get tripped up in emotion and fall into the moment, and how much harder to sublimate that emotion or efface it entirely for a greater good, a higher calling, and a God-conscious sense of accountability. This is certainly not as exciting a battle, but this quieter, and at times more bitter struggle for the sake of God is what is real, true, and noble. This is the good fight, and not lashing out of emotion with the gilded coating of doing something ‘for the Muslims’ or ‘fisabilillah’ (in the way of God). This is what is meant in the text that is attributed to the Prophet (salAllahu alayhi wa salam), that on returning from battle he said, ‘we are going from the lesser jihad to a greater one’ – referring to the everyday battle with one’s lower self, and its emotions, desires, drives and clawing needs.
We can and should be passionate people – who believe strongly in the truth and work diligently for good. But as the luminary Imam al-Ghazali said: be sure you are riding the horse and not that the horse is riding you. Meaning, make sure that you are harnessing your feelings and passions, and using them as motivation in your positive efforts, and not that your lower self is blindly leading you to the broken path of His disobedience and ultimately, His displeasure. Let us be passionate, but not emotional – galvanized by our feelings but not blinded and misled by them.
May He, the Most High, bless us with maturity, calmness, wisdom, and strength and courage to work for good, for His sake alone. May He grant us the cool breeze of thabaat, firmness on truth and justice, even in the heat of anger or emotion. May He keep our hearts firmly on His faith. Ameen.
From Damascus to Cairo
It has been close to four years since the first time I stepped foot in Egypt. I remember the culture shock I experienced when first encountering Cairo after our relatively simple, traditional lifestyle in our little corner of Damascus. Here was an urban explosion of people, pollution and noise, modernity and history, poverty and wealth, all layered one on top of the other, sandwiched between a scorching sun and desert dust. Women in the most colorful hijab ensembles I have ever seen, some elegant and some outrageous; donkey carts and Mercedes benzes equally vying for space in the insane bumper to bumper traffic; masjids, maqams, and remarkable sites of history scattered in the rough of urban sprawl and twenty million people living out their lives.
In Damascus, it was unseemly for women to be brash and loud in public. Here, women fought toe to toe with men for space on the microbus or service at the local store. Here, you put on a tough, no-nonsense skin to make sure you got where you wanted to go with your personal rights and money in tact; there, an innate sense of courtesy had not given way to the pressures of congested urban living, and a grinding poverty that made people feel that there was never enough to go around.
In Egypt, men wore beards, thaubs and showed other overt signs of religiosity on their person, things that were for the most part subdued among Syrian men (We used to joke that you could ironically tell the foreign brothers by their traditional Arab clothes.) While we saw poverty in Damascus it was not in the overwhelming numbers one sees here, with countless people living in abject destitution or close to it. And somehow the contrast between the rich and the poor here is all the more striking, with the doorman’s shack-like home just one floor below a wealthy family’s sumptuous home, the luxury car cruising right by the man in his donkey cart asking for biqya (garbage that can be reused or remade into something else), and the little boys begging at the doors of fancy Western restaurants.
In Cairo some buy groceries from the souqs as we did in Damascus, but many buy them from 24-hour grocery stores, stocked not only with local produce but expensive imported goods that I remember longing for in Syria, which we had to specially request for someone to bring from trips back home or to neighboring Lebanon. Instead of saying eh (which means ‘yes’ or ‘yeah’ in the Syrian dialect) Egyptians say ah, and eh actually means ‘what?’ – which can lead to some confusing conversations in the first few weeks and months, when you think you are answering in the affirmative when asked something but are actually just replying with another question.
In many ways Cairo is an amplified, intensified version of every other city I’ve seen. It is a universe all its own – an urban jungle with character and history, a city that is capricious and passionate. While I would personify Damascus as an elegant woman, dignified in her old age, Cairo is a rough and ready brawler with a heart of gold, an intriguing past and a sharp and appealing personality. Damascus has a sweetness; Cairo, a spice.
People often ask me if I prefer Damascus to Cairo. It is a difficult question to answer. There are times when a memory will come to me, clear and sharp, that will make me long for my time in Syria – walking through the courtyard of the Ummayad Mosque, shoes in hand, in the soft glow of twilight; connecting deeply with one of the sisters in my class with no shared language between us but our struggling Arabic; walking gleefully home from my Quran teacher’s house in Rukn ad-Deen, happy and relieved that I did well in my lesson. Sweets in a small bowl on a shopkeeper’s counter with a little sign that says ‘Sweeten your mouth with prayers on the Prophet’ (salAllahu alayhi wa salam). And even silly things like the exact ridiculous tune of the Suzuki trucks when they used to back up. I miss these things, and I miss that special time when one first embarks on an adventure, a new chapter in life, and aspires to be more than what one already is. The first steps one takes on a path towards enlightenment and knowledge are fragile and precious, like the first time a small bird spreads its wings towards the heavens, seeking to take its first flight.
But Cairo also has a uniqueness, a specialness, that can be found — it can be found in the dignified comportment of the Azhari scholar, wearing his red cap and white turban and the long raiment of scholars; in the recitation of the local qari who, in classical mujawwad style, makes you feel the words of the Quran until your heart shivers with it; in the maqams of scholars of old, and those who visit them with a yearning to walk in their footsteps; and in the shared conversations of students over mint tea, with more books than furniture in the simple rooms in which they live.
Every place has the potential for beautiful memories, and to be the background scene set for the defining moments of one’s life. I feel blessed for experiencing Shaam, and further for living in Umm al-Dunya for these last few years – I just pray that when I return home, the experiences and memories I have gathered will not just be interesting tidbits for conversation, but have helped shape me for the better, and for the betterment of those around me.
N.B.: I’ve discussed Damascus through the lens of memory, and did not mention anything about the current situation there. Please keep the people of Syria in your prayers, as well as the oppressed everywhere.
The Hardest Company to Keep
Dearest Heart,
You are closer to me than my own two sides, a Divinely apportioned piece of my very existence, sometimes dark and sometimes alight. You’re with me everywhere I go, a fixed companion, running so deep sometimes that I don’t know where you end and I begin. You can be a seat of spiritual happiness for the one who possesses you; brimming with a light no other vessel can contain, seeing beyond seeing. And at other times – and in truth, that’s most of the time with me, dear Heart – you can be the very opposite. At those times, you are the hardest company for me to keep.
Bit by bit it started, all by my own doing: weaknesses and heedlessness, blind indulgence and conscious ignorance, brazenly sinning while turning a blind eye to the spiritual illnesses developing within. One sin after another I committed, until you became almost unrecognizable beneath the layers of darkness building up inside. And I kept committing sins even when the pleasure was gone, just because the habit was so deeply fixed. Even when the sweetness became bitter, and the initial charm of the deeds I was committing became stale and repugnant, I continued, seeking to dull the ever-growing pain inside without too much introspection. “A cup I drank to taste its pleasure, and then another to chase its pain.”
I filled you with all manners of worldly things, but the aching and emptiness would not abate. Somehow, I deluded myself into thinking that the wounds would heal by these methods, and that the inner damage – self-inflicted – would somehow come to be repaired on its own. And I forced myself not to care. I lost something so precious when I lost you, dear Heart, beneath the darkness of sins and the choking hold of worldly attachments. I was a tightly closed shell whose pearl had somehow slipped away.
I found myself with pain running so deep, habits so ingrained, a path so steep before me… and heart-less, in the truest meaning of that word. It was hard for me to see a way to turn back. But it’s there: I’ve found it, and it’s time.
—
Dearest Heart,
I’ve come to realize my absolute need for Allah, down to my very core, and to see where I’ve gone wrong. How foolish to think that a spiritual vessel like you would be satisfied with less than His remembrance. You have taught me the truth of my existence: that without connection to Him, without the happiness of knowing Him and being true to Him, one will feel a painful emptiness, a sorrow, that cannot be filled with anything else.
I’m ready to strip away empty promises and convoluted excuses. I want to walk on this path upright, penitent, aware of my faults but constantly seeking a way back to Him. I need you with me dear Heart, and I pray it’s not too late. I’ll try my best to heal your wounds, and scrub away to your polished core, by His permission, through worship, His remembrance and His aid. The path ahead is not an easy one, and I know I’ll make mistakes, but I hope you’ll keep my company as we travel this road, the road of repentance, together. I will do right by you, God-willing, and you in turn, I pray, will help me reach His nearness.
Sincerely,
Me
Words of Advice for the World’s Leaders
لا تظلمن إذا ما كنت مقتدرا
فالظلم يرجع عقباه إلى الندمِ
تنـام عيناك والمظلــوم منتبـه
يدعو عليك وعين الله لم تنمِ
(My quick translation:)
“Do not oppress, if you are granted its means
For oppression comes back to its doer as horrible regret.
Your eyes may sleep, but the oppressed are vigilant;
They pray against you, and God’s eyes never sleep.”
“Beware of the prayer of the oppressed, for there is no barrier between it and God.” - The Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him)
The Dress of Queens
“Something of old forgotten queens
Lurks in the lithe abandon of your walk…”
-
We have discursively brought ourselves to the same place others have tried to take us. But this is a message to the world that I pray to God I will wear this emblem of my faith until my dying breath. Others have died for it, raised single fists for it, stayed barred at home for it, wept for it when masters stripped it from their heads. I can’t say I’ve done the same, but the least I will do is pin it under my chin and flip one side to the back before I take to my morning.
No matter what people say, it’s not about them. It’s not a judgment on others, a vehicle for political agency, or an expression of internalized oppression. These are words people use when they are on the outside of something looking in. In truth, it has nothing to do with you, for you or about you, and everything to do with a much more Sacred Relationship. You think you know its secret, but that is only whispered to the one who wears it with a sincere heart and an eye towards Unseen things.
Gangsters tattoo teardrops on their faces for every person they’ve killed. Some wear a band of metal around their finger to symbolize constancy and fidelity. Mourning their loved ones, some wear black or white, respectively. Yellow for cheer, black for sobriety, earth tones for calm and pastels for femininity. LV on your bag for success and red on the bottom of your shoes for style. Black is the new black. And so on, a million ways. Every culture has its formulations. Symbols, colors and clothing are means people use to manifest their internal state. Who they are, or who they are trying to be. We manifest every feeling, relationship, status, dimension of our lives on our bodies, consciously or unconsciously.
I wear this not as a claim to any religious rank or spiritual state, but as one seeking and desiring upliftment. I want the mantle of those women who walked this Path before me, with hearts drawn heavenwards and eyes Seeing beyond seeing. Hagar, Asiya, Mary, Khadija, A’isha, Rabia… and many more unknown to history, secret to the world, but recognized in God’s sight.
I wear this for God Alone, in solidarity with my sisters who I am unworthy of, hoping I can be part of their journey and taste a little… just a little of what they’ve tasted.
May God grant us courage and bravery in our spiritual struggles, Ameen.
Spiritual Pitfalls for the Muslim Blogger
This is an article I wrote recently for a series on Islam & the Internet at SuhaibWebb.com. May Allah help us to write and blog in a way that is spiritually elevating for us and for those who read our words.
Spiritual Pitfalls for the Muslim Blogger
Blogs are gateways, that grant us access into the interior worlds of other people. They offer us glimpses into people’s experiences, thoughts and feelings, revealing their strongly held opinions and their innermost dreams. The relative ease of blogging, especially with free hosting and user-friendly services, has made it an extremely popular way for many of us to share pieces of our lives and personalities with others on a global scale. Blogs have given a voice to many whose realities would otherwise be unknown to the general public, and we now find an ocean of Muslim writers contributing to the online blogosphere.
While there are many beautiful, beneficial, and positive things we can share with others through our blogs, which can make blogging a spiritually uplifting experience, there are also certain types of writing that can actually be harmful to our spiritual state. Here are six blogging tendencies that may be spiritually detrimental for us, and that we should seek to avoid when we write and post.
Cathartic Sharing
We should be wary of using our blogs as outlets for venting negative feelings and frustrations in our lives. Instead of channeling such feelings into positive avenues, that would bring about benefit for ourselves and others, we may instead feel a false sense of relief or satisfaction in simply ‘letting it all out’. It would be far better for us to make constructive changes in our lives and seek out the proper support, guidance, and advice needed to help address the difficulties we may be experiencing.
Another harm of this type of blogging – especially when writing about situations in which we feels that we have been wronged – is the ease of falling into certain prohibited types of speech, such as speaking ill of others, making accusations, and exposing people’s faults to others’ scrutiny. One may feel that they are simply telling their side or letting the truth be known, however, when one is emotional and feels that they have been oppressed it is difficult to be cautious in one’s speech and it is easy to trample on others’ rights.
Lastly, in lamenting on the personal difficulties we may be going though via blog post, we may be missing out on the opportunity to show a beautiful level of etiquette with Allah, in not complaining about the Creator to others in creation. Instead of openly venting our negative feelings to others, we can instead turn to Allah and beseech Him for His help, showing a level of patience, composure and dignity in the face of tribulation, and withholding ourselves from emotional rants or complaints.
Arm-Chair Critiquing
Blogs are a means by which we can openly share our opinions on an array of issues, and it is common to find Muslim bloggers discussing their communities, masjids, Islamic organizations and institutions, and other Islamic projects they come into contact with. While it is easy to complain about the wrongs and negatives that one may see in different settings, it is much harder to actually become involved and invested, and work to make things better. We should be cautious of letting our blogs make us into arm-chair critics, who, while other are rolling up their sleeves and doing actual work, sit back as spectators, concerned more with commenting than constructing. We should be wary of becoming isolated from the community, relegating ourselves to the role of observer and pundit rather than actual participant.
Using Words as Weapons
We should also be wary of attacking others, individually or as groups, and using words as a way to humiliate and punish. There is nothing wrong with feeling passionate about an issue, and respectfully disagreeing with others; however a passionate expression of ideas is very different from simple emotional ranting. We can find many examples of blog posts in which entire groups of people are targeted and charged with the actions of a few – “Muslim men these days are all irresponsible and immature” – or where complex ideas of Islamic law are emotionally debated and labels are tossed down on whoever disagrees – “That idea/scholar/group is Wahabi/Sufi/etc.” We should use our words to inspire, enlighten and educate, and not to insult or denigrate. In engaging in this type of rhetoric, we may feel a sense of satisfaction in one-upping the other party. However, the evident harms of such speech – in hurting and discouraging others, and engendering resentment and hatred between people’s hearts – makes it something extremely dangerous. Passion and strong feelings can exist, but must be reigned in by composure, level-headedness, and fear of Allah in the words we write and share.
Loving One’s Own Opinion
Another issue we should be cognizant of is a feeling of self-importance that may come from constantly sharing our opinions with others, and latent feelings of arrogance, over-confidence and condescension that may arise from this. One may begin to write desiring or expecting the admiration of others, seeking to gain their approval, or to be talked about and discussed. This is very harmful to the sincerity of one’s intention, and leads one to a disproportionate perception of the importance of one’s opinions and writings.
In addition, we may begin to feel that we should have a fixed and strong opinion on everything, even those matters about which we are ill informed or unqualified to discuss. The grave seriousness of discussing religious issues may be disregarded in our constant desire to philosophize, debate, and have our opinions be heard. This is in complete contradiction to the tradition of our scholars, who were extremely hesitant to state their opinions on religious issues unless they were confident about their understanding of them. The great 14th century scholar Ibn Rajab al Hanbali describes them in the following way:
“The early imams were cautious about speaking about [the lawful and unlawful] because one who speaks about such matters is relating information from Allah, enunciating His commandments and prohibitions, and passing on His sacred law.
It was said about Ibn Sirin, ‘If he was asked about something regarding the lawful or the unlawful, his color would change. He would be transformed until he no longer seemed the same person.’
Ata’ ibn al-Saib said, ‘I met people who, when asked for a religious verdict, would tremble as they spoke.’
It is related that when Imam Malik was asked about a legal matter, it was as if he were suspended between Heaven and Hell.
Imam Ahmad was extremely hesitant to speak on the lawful and unlawful, to claim that something was abrogated, or related matters which others would too readily expound. He frequently prefaced his answers with phrases such as, ‘I hope that…’ ‘I fear…’, or ‘It is more beloved to me…’
Imam Malik and others would frequently say, ‘I do not know.’ Imam Ahmad would often say on an issue with which righteous forbears had various opinions, ‘The most likely answer is, ‘I do not know.’’”1
Excessiveness in Speech
A wise person once said that the more one speaks, the more one is likely to fall into mistakes. Bloggers are often prolific writers, sharing their thoughts on a daily or weekly basis and producing volumes worth of material for others to read. We should make sure that we are not writing simply to fill the page, but with the intention of bringing about some type of benefit. This is a very practical manifestation of the Prophetic tradition which says, “Speak khayr – that which is good and beneficial, or remain silent.”2 In the same vein, we should blog well, or instead keep our thoughts and writings to ourselves.
Another point to consider is that in constantly sharing and writing about religious experiences and knowledge, we may not be giving ourselves enough time to sufficiently absorb and digest what we have learned. While it is commendable to share beneficial knowledge with others, our first consideration when learning should be to understand and implement that knowledge in ourselves and our own lives. We may need time to reflect deeply, ruminate and ‘feel’ what we have learned, moving it from intellectual data to something felt and understood with the heart, and acted upon with our limbs. This is not something that can be easily done if we are constantly in the mode of ‘transferring’ knowledge to others.
Sharing that which has No Benefit
The Prophet (peace be upon him) would pray for Allah’s refuge from “knowledge that does not benefit.” There are many types of knowledge that exist, the most noble being knowledge of God Most High. There are also types of knowledge or information that bring about harm, or are meaningless and actually do nothing but waste one’s time. Becoming immersed in discussions about these types of knowledge is spiritually harmful, distracting one from more important matters and taking up important spiritual and psychological ‘space’ that should be filled with other, better things. We should avoid trivial or meaningless discussions and debates. We should also be wary of sharing personal matters, that should be kept within the sanctity of one’s family and loved ones, or in some cases, solely between a person and their Lord.
Conclusion
An Arabic expression states that there are three things that cannot return; a spent arrow, a missed opportunity, and a spoken word. May Allah Most High make us conscious of every word we speak, write, or blog. May He make our words something that we are rewarded for, that draw us closer to Paradise and to His pleasure, and that once expressed, do not become a source of regret. I ask Allah Most High to make our writing and blogging a means of elevating our spiritual state, and to protect us from falling into the prohibited, disliked and detrimental. Ameen.
Conclusion to the Islam & the Internet Series
This series was not intended to be comprehensive, but to explore and highlight some of the major trends and issues related to Muslims and their use of the internet. We pray that it has been a means of encouraging deep-thinking and discussion on these issues, and the start of a higher level discourse about ways we can use the internet in positive ways. May Allah bless you for reading and contributing, and our authors and editors for their contributions. We would like to give special thanks to our guest writers in the series, Sr. Jannah (Da’wah in the Age of iPhones) and Ustadh Sohaib Saeed (The Fiqh of Facebook).
- The Heirs of the Prophet by Ibn Rajab al Hanbali, translated by Imam Zaid Shakir
- In Riyad as Saliheen and Agreed upon
On Love for One’s Teachers
From the many blessings we are graced with in this life, one of the most profound is the blessing of inspiring, beautiful teachers. They are people who enlighten, awaken, advise, and nurture, in ways that open up worlds to us that are otherwise unseen. They are people who, in their speech, or their deeds, we catch a glimpse of something of the Prophet (salAllahu alayhi wa salam), something of the fortitude of warriors, or the gnosis of saints. Their words meet us at some critical point in our life, and guide us from a cold and lonely place to the warmth of divine remembrance and spiritual awakening. They mark our path forward, and more powerful yet, made us aspire to reach our destination.
This love that one has, for the one who brings you close to Allah and reminds you of Him, is pure and powerful. It is something far beyond mere shared interests or compatible personalities; light years beyond romance, or affection borne from ties of kinship or proximity. It is, in its purest form, something heavenly and spiritual – a love for Allah, by Allah, and with Allah.
“Allah the Exalted said: My love becomes incumbent for such persons who love one another for My Sake and who associate for My Sake…’ ” (Malik and Ibn Hibban)
Unfortunately, this love often gets mired in the all too worldly dust of things like attraction, fascination with personality, or envy. I wonder at some of the stories of righteous people of old who somehow seem shielded from these things. Men who would go to visit a righteous woman with their sole intention being to hear a few words of advice from someone close to Allah, with no undercurrents of sexual tension seeming to mar their interaction. Or the spiritual disciple who would spend years under the guidance of a shaykh, but would never fall into the murky waters of worshipful adoration. Or the student of a scholar who would be constantly at his service, carrying his shoes, serving him food, waiting at his door in the humblest of manners to learn at his feet, with no feeling of envy or ambition penetrating his heart, nor secret whisperings saying ‘Now you know just as much as he does – you are beyond this station.’ This was a love that was purely felt and correctly expressed.
This love is in many ways a test. One of the biggest misfortunes that can befall a seeker of knowledge is losing this softness of heart and love for one’s teachers. It happens in the guise of seeing things from a more ‘informed’ stance: The teacher whose Arabic once seemed so eloquent and faseeh just a short while ago, now seems to make painfully obvious mistakes in ‘iraab. The one whose Quran recitation was once so moving has a weak ‘daad and trouble with their mudud. The scholar at whose feet one first learned the basic concepts of fiqh clearly has no grasp on the role of the waqi’ and maslaha. And so on. Somehow, the people who once brought us close to Allah have faults so glaring in our sight, so unforgiveable, that the ties of love and honor begin to lose hold. This is why some of the righteous used to pray that Allah shield them from seeing the faults of their teachers, and say ‘O Allah, busy me with my own faults over the faults of others.’
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I remember visiting a friend of mine at her home a few years ago, and in her bedroom I noticed a small photograph taped to the wall close to her bed. It was in the perfect position for one to gaze at when lying down to sleep, or for one’s eyes to settle on when first waking up in the morning. It was a small portrait of her shaykh, taken while he was sitting in a somber and dignified pose, wearing a turban and the long, traditional raiment of scholars. A respectable photo, yet in seeing it I felt that I somehow stumbled across an embarassing intimacy. Like a starry eyed teenager who secretes away a photo of their crush in a private diary, only for it to somehow slip into the public eye, I felt that I had come across something that was not meant to be seen by others.
My friend felt no such embarrassment. She told me that she would look at this photo and be reminded of Allah. In thinking about her role-model and teacher, remembering his example, she would remember her purpose and renew her intentions. I could not shake my discomfort however. Wouldn’t it have been better to write out some of the things he taught, and gaze at that instead, or even put up a verse from the Quran that helped keep one focused? Why the focus on the person, and not the lesson being taught?
Years later, someone sent me some photos of a dear teacher of mine that I had not seen in quite some time. In one, he was standing with some students and pontificating on something with a very familiar gesture, one he used often in his lectures and classes. Somehow, this picture reached somewhere deep inside and tears came to my eyes. It was not just about remembering the moments of enlightenment and inspiration and lessons learned; but also about seeing one who walked a certain path that most left untred. At that moment I think I could understand something of that sister’s feelings so many years ago.
This too is a place where love can be a test, and where extremes are easily met. Abdal Hakim Murad once mentioned an explanation that Imam Ghazali gave of Christian belief; that they were people who “had been so dazzled by the divine light reflected in the mirror-like heart of Jesus, that they mistook the mirror for the light itself.” Do we, in some ways, do the same with our teachers? Are we so dazzled by their personality, beautiful qualities, or simple state of being that we go beyond just limits? And when they do stumble or misstep, is our heart-brokenness borne from realizing we have mistaken the mirror for the Light?
I can only wonder at the depths of the love the companions must of had for the Prophet (salAllahu alayhi wa salam). How much more intense it must have been, with someone one knew would never disappoint, go astray or become mired in human failings. For our teachers, the more we get to know them, the more their weaknesses and foibles are often disclosed to us. But with that Teacher (salAllahu alayhi wa salam), the closer people got to him, the more beautiful and perfect they found his character and manners. This is what the poet described when he said about him, salAllahu alayhi wa salam:
He is like the sun that appears to the eyes from a distance
Seemingly small and insignificant – but dazzling to the eye when studied.
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An Arabic aphorism says, “Kun `aaliman, aw mut`alliman, aw muhibban.” “Either be a teacher, a student, or a lover.” Even if we are not from the scholars and teachers of sacred knowledge, nor from among those trekking that path, we would be in a noble state simply by loving those who are. May Allah grant us this love, a love pure and refined, unsullied by our own weaknesses, that honors us and our teachers. Ameen.
Small Voices
There is obviously so much that can be said about the recent revolution in Egypt and I hope to be able to write more about it in the future. For now, I’d like to share an an op-ed piece I wrote for the Times Union (Albany, NY) a day or two before Mubarak’s resignation.
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As an American Muslim who has lived in Cairo for the last four years, I have found the past two weeks both tumultuous and inspiring. The protests have shown me a new side to the Egyptian people, and their desire to better themselves and their country.
Last week, when looters began to take advantage of the lack of law enforcement on the streets, people from every neighborhood gathered together and sought to protect their homes and communities. They organized themselves to take shifts around the clock, check cars that passed by and guard their neighborhoods.
One night, I woke up to the frightening sound of gunshots that seemed to be coming from a nearby street. I looked out of my window to see a group of young men wielding sticks, on guard, blocking off the street from would-be thieves.
At a time of chaos, when Egypt was at its most vulnerable, many Egyptians took the initiative to work for the good of their communities in ways they were never able to before. The protests themselves have been well-organized, with Christians and Muslims marching side by side, volunteers checking people’s identification and minimal injuries incurred considering the large number of participants. Along with a political message, these actions spoke for the resilience of the Egyptian people and a reawakening of their humanity.
There is a new spirit in Egypt now, which has been painfully missing for years: a feeling of empowerment, and with it, a feeling of hope and optimism in the future.
The grinding poverty I would see on a daily basis, and the constant fear of living in a police state, led to a crippling apathy that is now, finally, being shaken away.
“We were dead before these protests,” one woman told me, “and now we are alive.”
Having seen this desire for betterment with my own eyes, I can only question the United States’ support of brutal authoritarian regimes. I believe our policies in Egypt and in other places are fueled by the mistaken belief that Muslims cannot govern themselves in a just manner that honors human rights for all, and instead need to be ruled by a dictator of our liking.
This is in part a xenophobic idea that hearkens back to colonialism, and is also linked to a deep distrust and suspicion of Islam itself. Recent hysteria in the U.S. over Shariah law underscores this idea, and shows how little we really know about Islam, other than assuming it is misogynistic and barbaric.
Instead of a nuanced understanding of the ways in which Islam is expressed in Muslim-majority countries, we paint all of them with the same brush: as extreme and intolerant.
It is disheartening that even with Egypt — where polls show the vast majority of people support freedom of expression, freedom of religion and other convictions that we as Americans hold dear — our prejudices cause us to equivocate in our support of the people. Our lack of understanding about Islam and our mistrust of Muslims causes us instead to support a dictator who has worked to crush these ideas and silence these voices.
With heavy hearts and at the urging of our families, my husband and I decided to leave Cairo a few days ago.
As we waited for our ride to the airport, my son, Ibrahim, began to play with some of the neighborhood kids.
As I saw their heads bent together in shared laughter, I could only pray that when we came back to Egypt, it would be a place where those feelings of hope were well-founded and where these children’s voices would be heard.
A fresh start…
To new beginnings, blank pages, and renewed intentions and dreams…
May this year be one filled with moments of sweetness, happiness, and remembrance of Him. Ameen.
