“O Lord of the Worlds,
I have foundered
Drowned in tears of blood,
my ship’s driven ashore.”
Faridu-d Din ‘Attar*
AN ORDINARY MAN
In the early 1970s the Qarawiyyin Mosque was still a gathering place for the Sufi Orders of Fes, and every evenin-after the sunset prayer fuqara (literally "the poor", members of Sufi brotherhoods) gathered in circles throughout the mosque to recite their evening litanies (awrad). My companions and I formed a circle and began reciting the wird (singular of awrad) of Shaykh Mohamed ibn Al-Habib. We were a small group, no more than about eight men. At the time I was young and easily agitated and my heart was in turmoil as we intoned the familiar liturgy. My eyes were lowered and closed as I wrestled with my turbulent heart and tried concentrating on the meaning of the collective voice from the circle of remembrance (dhikru’llah – invocation of God). I continued in this way until suddenly, without warning, my heart liquefied. I was immersed in a pool of light. The atmosphere became cool and diaphanous. My agitation vanished. I looked up to see if something had changed. A very ordinary man had joined our small circle. He was smiling. He was so ordinary looking that it was hard to believe that he had anything to do with my unexpected change of state. In fact, quite uncharitably, I saw him as an irritating intruder into our sacred circle. When we completed the wird, our guest went round the circle, kissed everyone’s hand and departed.
His name, I came to learn, was Sidi Tami. Although ordinary on the outside, he had an extraordinary place in the spiritual hierarchy. He was the spiritual Guardian of Fes, chosen for this role by God, or this is what was accepted by the Sufi adepts. How this worked I never learned. Symbolically, concealed beneath his djellaba, he wore an immense set of prayer beads (tasbih) that extended all the way down to his knees. Few ever saw this. When he got to know us better, he once pulled the tasbih out. It was awesome. He then said casually with a wink and a smile and without a trace of self-importance, "Not too many people know this but I am a wali‘ullah (literally, a Friend of God – a Saint)". If anyone entered the labyrinthine ancient city of Fes from any gate with the intention of remembering God, they would "run into” Sidi Tami. There were times when three parties would come into different parts of the city unannounced from three different directions at the same time and they would all "by chance" just happen to meet him. He would then direct each party to different parts of the city to sit with spiritual adepts, join circles of remembrance or to visit the tombs of the saints.
On one such occasion, we entered from Bab Boujloud with no particular agenda and began walking into the bowels of the city. By this time we knew that we were bound to encounter Sidi Tami. We turned a corner and, sure enough, there he was. He took one of us by the hand and led the party down through the intricate cobbled walkways of Fes, deeper and deeper into the center of the city. He led us down a narrow side-street until we reached a low battered wooden door set within a scarred stone wall. Sidi Tami knocked on the door. When it opened the soaring voices of the Fes Singers broke through. We ducked under the small door as we passed through a magnificent medieval courtyard and into a large side room where a gathering of dhikr was already in progress. Hundreds of men were singing from the diwans of the saints, most from memory. The fabled Fes Singers were grouped at the center of a series of concentric circles, their accomplished voices rising above the assembly. The scene was dreamlike, electric, illuminated. The gathering was permeated with intoxicating perfumed smoke from the globular incense burners (mabakhir) that were circulated round and round the concentric circles. When the mabkhara reached each member of the assembly, he would pull the hood of his djellaba over his head and breathe in the exhilarating fumes. Some would lift up the hems of their djellabas and place the incense burner under their garments to capture the rich fragrance.
Other fuqara passed through the circles, waving rosewater sprinklers over the devotees. Once the assembly reached a pitch of intensity, one of the organizers bypassed the ornamental etiquette of the nickel plated sprinkler, pulled the cork on a large bottle of rose water and waved the contents over the assembly, drenching the crowd in the heady perfume.
Glass after glass of sweet mint tea was passed through the crowd as we sang from the wisdom of the saints and invoked the remembrance of God until the diwan gave way to the hadra and the sacred dance began, lasting deep into the night. The evening ended with a recitation of the Holy Qur'an and a reflective discourse by one of the great scholars (ulama) of Fes. We reeled through the small door back up the winding streets through the intoxicating, luminous night; an evening courtesy of Sidi Tami.
Sometime later I was in Meknes at the Moussem of Shaykh Mohamed ibn Al-Habib. This was a week-long celebration revolving around the act of remembrance, morning, noon and night. After the noon prayer, fuqara tended to remain in the zawiya resting. Some slept, others chatted amongst themselves. Some drank tea. Some left to do errands or return to their families until the afternoon prayer. The day was hot and soporific. An unusual lethargy permeated the large zawiya hall.
Amongst the group was a strange but devoted Meknesi tinsmith who was known for his eccentric behavior and sudden, inappropriate outbursts in which he would leap up in the middle of a gathering and begin a solo hadra. He would always volunteer to wash the hands of the fuqara, carrying around a pitcher and an aluminum basin with a soap dish for hand-washing after a meal. In his case, once all the fuqara had washed their hands and mouths, he would lift the basin to his lips and drink down the used soapy water with relish, for the "baraka”, or blessing. We always watched this odd spectacle with a mixture of amusement, revulsion and, I have to say, a kind of admiration at the mad devotion this faqir exhibited. There’s a false assumption among the uninitiated and outsiders that the spiritual path is the exclusive domain of saintliness and sanity. This is not the case. The path is full of ordinary people. Some are sane, some are imbalanced, some advance, some stay behind. But the path provides a matrix for grace, and one person’s inappropriate behavior can trigger another person’s epiphany.
That sweltering afternoon, Si Fudul Al-Hawari Al-Sufi, the great Fesi scholar, began to give discourse to the gathering. He was an orator of shattering insight who could easily galvanize a crowd. In the midst of Si Fudul’s sober oration in the quiet, languid afternoon, the tinsmith jumped up, eyes closed, and began his rhythmic solo hadra. On many occasions when this happened the fuqara ignored him or even interfered to stop him. On this occasion, Si Fudul waited for a moment and then he signaled the assembly to begin a formal hadra. Suddenly about fifty men formed a circle, all linking together by holding hands, and one of the most intense spiritual hadras I had ever participated in began. The dance was unbelievably powerful. Of the fifty people in the circle probably thirty were bona fide awliya. Every member was enrapt in the sacred dance, which eventually intensified into the exhalation Hayy (the Living), an accelerating collective breath. Outside the circle, fuqara with soaring mellifluous voices sang from the Diwan of Ibn Al-Habib.
The technique we were taught for concentration during the sacred dance was to visualize the Name of God – "Allah” in blazing white light against a blue horizon of sea and sky. The aim is to make the Mighty Name larger and larger until it fills one's vision, obliterates all thought and overtakes the heart. I was very inexperienced and my concentration was weak. I managed to keep the Name in my vision through the first part of the hadra but then my concentration wavered and the image of the Name vanished from my mind’s eye. The moment the Name disappeared from my interior horizon, I felt the faqir on my right side squeeze my hand and pump my arm up and down to the rhythm of the hadra with great vigor, until the Name reappeared. I glanced over to my right. Sidi Tami, eyes closed, seemed completely absorbed in the back and forth rhythm of the sacred dance.
At first I thought that this might have been a fluke, but after losing sight of the Name several times and having Sidi Tami pump my arm until it returned, I knew it
was no coincidence. It was as if he was inside me, seeing what I saw. This was no ordinary man.
“Exalted be He Who makes His Saints known
only in order to make Himself known
and Who leads toward them those whom
He wishes to lead toward Himself.”
Ibn Ata’illah Al-Iskandari*
THE CARETAKER
He was, and, as of this writing is, the caretaker of the Zawiya (literally "corner" – the gathering place for a Sufi order) of Shaykh Mohamed ibn Al-Habib in Meknes. A pure Berber, he came to the Sufi Way through the most extraordinary circumstances and is living proof of the transformative power of spiritual practice. As a young man he was virtually without religion, working as a lumberjack in the Atlas Mountains. Throughout the history of Islam in Northwestern Africa the Berbers have had an ambivalent relationship with Islam, often reverting to their pre-Islamic pagan traditions or rejecting religion altogether only to be drawn back to Islam through the influence of one of the saints.
There is a story of a 19th century Sufi master who settled in the Atlas Mountains and began bringing the Berbers of the area back to Islam. Word of his achievement reached a scholar from the city who made his way to where the Sufi had settled to see for himself. When he entered the mountain village and approached the mosque, a mountain Berber galloped up on his horse, jumped off, brushed past the scholar, nearly knocking him over as he strode into the mosque with his boots on, walking across the carpeted floor toward the qibla – the direction of prayer. He stopped, said the takbir and performed his prayers. When the scholar met the Sufi he upbraided him. "Sidi, you are remiss. How can you let these people come into the mosque with their boots on?" The Sufi replied, "I got them into the mosque. It’s your turn to teach them to take their boots off.”
Sidi Ali lived a rugged, hard-drinking life in lumber camps in the Atlas Mountains without a thought for salvation until an accident that nearly took his life, changed his life. In Morocco logs from felled trees were loaded on flat-bed trucks and held in place with thick hemp ropes or chains. The bindings on one shipment Sidi Ali was loading broke and a massive log slid off the truck and crashed into his face, nearly killing him. He was taken to a hospital in a coma, where he hovered between life and death. He briefly emerged from the coma in darkness and silence; deaf, dumb, blind and paralyzed. In this abyss he swore that if he lived, the first thing he was going to do was to go to a mosque and embrace Islam. Then he relapsed into a coma.
When he finally regained consciousness he had the sight of one eye, the hearing in one ear, he could speak and had regained the use of his limbs. True to his oath, he dragged himself to a mosque near the hospital and re-entered Islam. He then returned to the hospital to recover from his catastrophic accident, which left him disfigured and disabled.
Throughout his convalescence he had a vivid recurrent dream. Every night in his sleep he would find himself sitting before a shaykh in a white cloak (burnoose). The shaykh methodically taught him a long recitation. When he awoke he found that he could remember portions of the recitation. This continued until he had memorized the entire litany, which lasted about 40 minutes. When he had completed memorizing the litany, the dream shaykh told him to come see him. He said, "My name is Mohamed”.
When Sidi Ali finally recovered and was released from hospital, he limped to a local mosque to start a new life as a practicing Muslim. The first people he met there were members of a Sufi order. He told them about his dream and recited the litany he had learned by heart.
One of the fuqara recognized the litany. "This is the Wird of Mohamed ibn Al-Habib,” he said.
"Where can I find him?" asked Sidi Ali.
"He resides in the city of Meknes."
Sidi Ali made his way north to Meknes and found the zawiya of Mohamed ibn Al-Habib. When he entered through the narrow passageway leading to the large mosque area where the fuqara gathered, he was met by the guardian of the zawiya, Sidi l'Ayyashi, a stern, imposing figure and meticulous disciple of the Shaykh. Sidi Ali knew nothing of Islam, much less Sufi protocol. He marched into the zawiya and simply asked where Mohamed was. Sidi l'Ayyashi said, "Who?"
"Mohamed, Mohamed," Sidi Ali shrugged. "He told me to come to him.”
"Do you mean Our Master Shaykh Mohamed ibn Al-Habib?"
"I don't know. Yes, I guess so."
Sidi l’Ayyashi looked skeptically at this squinting, funny-looking little man before him. He told him to wait there and ascended the stairs to the Shaykh’s quarters to tell him of the curious visitor. Shaykh Mohamed ibn Al-Habib instructed the guardian to bring the visitor up to his apartment.
When Sidi l’Ayyashi returned to the zawiya mosque he asked Sidi Ali whether he had wudhu, that is, whether he was in a state of ritual ablution, as it was the custom of the Sufis to be in a state of ritual purity when in the presence of a spiritual master.
"What's wudhu?" Sidi Ali asked.
Sidi l’Ayyashi shook his head in disbelief and patiently showed the young half-blind Berber how to perform the ritual ablution. Then he escorted him upstairs to the Shaykh’s living quarters. When Sidi Ali entered the room he saw the man who had appeared to him every night in his dreams. And Shaykh Mohamed ibn Al-Habib said, "We've been waiting for you."
I first met Sidi Ali in 1973 and heard this story from his lips. He was living in the zawiya, helping Sidi l’Ayyashi to take care of the premises. When Sidi l’Ayyashi passed away during the 1980s, Sidi Ali became the guardian of the zawiya. Completely illiterate, he has memorized large parts of the Qur'an and the entirety of the Diwan of Mohamed ibn Al Habib in addition to many Prophetic traditions, wisdom sayings and odes from the Sufis. He's now totally blind and mostly deaf. He carries a card from the Moroccan government certifying that he is officially indigent (miskeen) that entitles him to beg, which he sometimes does when the guests in the zawiya need to be fed and there is no money. He flashes this card with a mischievous laugh. When I saw him in 1981, he told me proudly and with a chuckle, as if he had achieved the impossible, "You know, I got married."
I traveled with Sidi Ali to the desert in 1981 to visit one of the greatest living saints in Morocco, Sidi Mohamed Bil Kurshi. There were three of us plus Sidi Ali, who knew the road to Touroug, the ksar where the great Sufi lived, which lay in the Sahara beyond the Atlas. We drove through the afternoon and stayed overnight in a desert village. It was winter and bitterly cold, so cold in fact that many local people do not perform their ritual ablutions (wudhu) with water during winter. If they do their hands and feet become deeply cracked and damaged. They perform waterless ablution, or tayyamum, with dust or stone instead. But as I was only passing through I insisted upon performing wudhu with well water. They looked at me as if they thought I was mad, but drew water from the well for me at dawn. I began to perform my ritual ablution. When the icy well water touched my skin I felt as if I was being stabbed with knives. It was excruciatingly painful. After breakfast we set off toward Touroug.
We drove through the day further and further into the desert. At midday Sidi Ali insisted that we stop for the noon prayer but I insisted that we press on to reach Touroug early, before nightfall. We were, after all, in a state of travel and could join our prayers. Sidi Ali shook his head and said quietly. "We really should stop for the prayer.” We ignored him and drove on, closer and closer to Touroug. The time for the afternoon prayer arrived and Sidi Ali reminded us that we should stop for both prayers. We were so close to Touroug that I said we would do our prayers once we arrived. Again, Sidi Ali shook his head and said quietly, "We really should stop for the prayers." Again, we ignored him. We drove on and on and became hopelessly lost. The sun was getting lower on the horizon. Sidi Ali said quietly, "I'm telling you we should stop for the prayer.” Finally, I relented. We stopped and prayed both prayers together. When we got back on the road, we instantly found the track leading to Touroug. Sidi Ali said, by way of quiet admonition, "I told you we needed to stop for the prayers.”
About 15 years later
one of my close friends visited Sidi Ali in the zawiya in Meknes. They were sitting together and, in passing, Sidi Ali mentioned that the week before his sight had gone completely. He sighed in resignation. "I was able to see shadows before. Now there is nothing.”
Here is a man who by all conventions should have been a denizen of the lower depths of society: ignored, illiterate, disfigured, limping, penniless, blind and deaf. Almost anyone in his place would be bitter, miserable and without hope. Yet here is a man whose constant invocation, dedication to service and association with living saints transformed him into an inestimable gift, a man of knowledge, wisdom, certainty, kindness, lightness of heart and peace.
He is, for me, the personification of the words of Shaykh Moulay Al-'Arabi Ad-Darqawi: "Certainly all things are hidden in their opposites – gain in loss and gift in refusal, honor in humiliation, wealth in poverty, strength in weakness, abundance in restriction, rising up in falling down, life in death, victory in defeat, power in powerlessness …”
“When He opens up
your understanding of deprivation,
deprivation becomes the same as giving.”
Ibn Ata’illah Al Iskandari*
AN OVERFLOW OF ECSTASY
Outwardly he was unremarkable, a clean-shaven, bespectacled, bourgeois gentleman, fastidious in an immaculate djellaba and red fez. He owned a small shop in Casablanca that, if I remember correctly, sold buttons or fabric or ribbon. He was a family man. His children took piano lessons. His life was, on the surface of things, ordinary. The surface of things is, of course, deceptive.
I first met him in a passageway leading to the main zawiya hall in Meknes. I was always very hard on myself, and the first year I visited the Sufis of Morocco I was in a perpetual state of shock. I had spent most of my youth in the theater and was characteristically narcissistic. Suddenly I was thrown into the company of men who had virtually no self-regard, but who spent every waking moment remembering God. They couldn’t have been less interested in my past, personality or my emotions. They were only interested in remembering God.
Signs on the Horizons Page 2