Of course I went along with all this on the outside but inwardly my ego was screaming, "What about ME?!!" I had just completed my ritual ablutions and joined a crowd of fuqara entering the zawiya. My heart was constricted and it must have shown on my face. As he walked past me he looked me in the eye, smiled sweetly and flipped his hand, palm up, as if to say, "Lighten up." He pointed to the sky and said, "Don't worry, remember God." I remember thinking petulantly, "That's all very well for you t” say, but you are not a self-involved, neurotic wreck like I am. Silently, I wished I could be untroubled like this infuriatingly normal fellow appeared to be.
A few days later we were told that a very great saint was coming to visit. We gathered together in anticipation. The gentleman in the passageway arrived. His appearance was less than impressive. He had none of the romantic Arabian Nights mystique about him that some of the other Sufi saints we met possessed. He looked exactly like the shopkeeper that he was. The only thing I noticed that set him apart was that he seemed to be in a constant state of remembrance, repeating invocations and supplications (du’aa) under his breath from the moment he entered to the moment he left.
He sat before us, eyes lowered. He sat for what seemed like a long time, lips moving in silent supplication. The atmosphere became charged, transcendent. He exhaled the Name of God slowly. Then, without introduction, he began to speak.
His talk was aphoristic and seemingly random, almost like a stream of consciousness. He would say something, wait in silence and then he would say something else entirely unrelated. Yet, I noticed that each time he spoke his words seemed to have a profound impact on a single member of the audience. Whenever he said something someone would quietly exclaim, "Allah!" or "Masha’Allah!" ("So God wills"), as if he was speaking directly to that person, as if his words struck the heart. One by one, his speech hit each member of the audience. He was speaking heart to heart to heart. I can’t remember what he said that struck me personally but I remember his words hit me hard.
What I do remember vividly – and this memory will never leave me as long as I live – was the awesome transformation we witnessed. It was like watching an accident of nature; the eruption of a volcano, the formation of a tsunami, the approach of a cyclone.
Gradually, as he spoke of God, he began to tremble. His eyes filled with tears. He looked toward his listeners but he saw something else. His eyes widened. He began to weep uncontrollably. He began shaking. Overwhelmed, his deep sighs became intense heaving. He swayed in awe. He looked into the distance, crying out the name of God. The atmosphere brimmed with an overflow of ecstasy.
We watched in stunned silence as this unassuming, quiet shopkeeper, became a raging, crazed, drunken lover: Majnun crying out for Layla. He left the gathering in a state of utter devastation, sobbing, supplicating, calling out the Names of God, and leaning on one of our companions for support. He had swamped us with passion. He had shown us a glimpse of the overwhelming power of Divine Love.
“Oh Distracter of Lovers, arise
and openly proclaim!
Fill us to the brim and refresh us
with the Name of the Beloved.”
Shaykh Abu Madyan Shu’ayb *
A BLACK ANT
ON A BLACK STONE
One walked past them or around them with barely a glance. They were a background feature, local color – the dregs of society, forgotten, anonymous – these beggars who gathered outside the mosques of the Old City of Meknes between the prayers and at the edge of marketplaces. They were all registered as officially indigent (miskeen) and thus legally permitted to take alms. Even so, the authorities would periodically round them up and clap them in jail to clear the streets. Most suffered from a severe infirmity. Among them was a blind man who sat patiently in his position every day and waited for his provision.
He had been blind from childhood, the victim of trachoma, a disease transmitted by flies, often to young children. He would pass his days performing invocations (dhikru’llah) and occasionally chat with his fellow beggars. He never asked passersby for alms. He simply sat outside the mosque patiently. He was always pleasant, always smiling. At the end of the day, he would wrap his coins in a white handkerchief, pull himself up by his cane and make his way back through the winding cobbled streets of the Old Town to the zawiya where he lived.
Si Khlefa shared a room off the public area with other fuqara. He had few possessions. He shaved his head, so he didn’t need a comb. He was blind, so he didn’t need a mirror. He had an arak stick to clean his teeth and a bar of soap to wash with, and he had a small purse to keep the coins he collected. He would put each coin in his mouth to determine its denomination. He had only one change of clothes, which he kept scrupulously clean. He may have had an extra pair of socks and an extra handkerchief. I don’t know. Whatever he did possess he meticulously stored in his bedroll, which he put away in a cupboard every day. He left no trace. I once saw him washing his grey djellaba and turban by hand. He wore a long undershirt and had to remain in his underclothes until his djellaba dried in the sunlight.
One day he failed to return to the zawiya and went missing for many days. The fuqara were very worried but no one could find him. Then, without warning, he returned to the zawiya in a much weakened state. The police had made one of their periodic sweeps, threw Si Khlefa in jail and forgot about him. He did not eat anything for one week.
His sense of good humor never flagged. Blind eyes closed, he smiled constantly, laughed easily. He was satisfied with his place in the world. His face had a luminous moon-like quality. He never ceased invoking God.
He is a hidden treasure, the incarnation of the Sufi aspiration to "be like a black ant on a black stone at midnight".
“If I deprive My servant of his two eyes in this lower world, I shall give him in compensation nothing less than Paradise.”
Hadith Qudsi*
THE MU‘ADHIN OF SEFROU
I would never have noticed Hajj Mohamed Al-Khidra’a had not one of my companions pointed him out to me in a large gathering of Sufis in Meknes in 1975. He did not have an imposing appearance. He was an elderly man in his 70s or 80s, white bearded, with a high forehead and wearing the dark green turban of the Darqawa, lost in the crowd, head bowed, reciting Sufi odes (qasa’id). We somehow expect men of spiritual attainment to have an obvious beatific presence. This is sometimes the case, but more often than not the saints are wrapped in anonymity.
He had been the mu’adhin – the one who delivers the call to prayer – of Sefrou, a small village outside Fes. He was, I was told, a very great saint. For many years he had lived in a state of extreme dread (khawf) of God. This is an exalted and terrible spiritual condition on the Way in which the Sufi is overwhelmed with fear and paralyzed by a direct experience of God’s Majesty (Jalal). According to Moulay Abdul Qadir Al-Jilani, in Futuh Al-Ghaib:
"Al-Jalal produces a disquieting fear and creates disturbing apprehension and overpowers the heart in such an awful manner and its symptoms become visible on the physical body.”*
According to fuqara who knew him at the time, Hajj Mohamed lived for years in a state of paralysis and terror, rarely speaking and weeping copiously. He constantly trembled with fear and was repeatedly struck by what the Sufis call Lightning (Barq), which is a spiritual event where a powerful electric-like wave shoots from the base of the spine through the neck like a lightning bolt. When this happens, the faqir should cry out the Name of God ("Allah!") and then lower the eyes and say a blessing on the Prophet Mohamed, peace be upon him. The experience can be shattering and hits certain people on the path from time to time. In Hajj Mohamed’s case lightning struck him over and over again for years. The impact is hard to imagine.
By the time I met him he had passed through this station transformed, and was now basking in the Beauty (Jamal) and Mercy (Rahma) of God. His whole manner was effusive, light and overflowing. He was childlike, innocent and unreservedly sweet. Moulay Abdul Qadir Al-Jilani described this condition in Futuh Al-Ghaib as th
e Divine "reflection on the heart of man producing light, joy, elegance and sweet words and loving conversation and glad tidings with regard to great gifts and high position and closeness to Himself…”**
A few days later Hajj Mohamed came to us and spoke. He could barely contain himself. He was like a shimmering river. It was as if he were reporting excitedly from the vantage point of Paradise. His entire talk consisted of ways to get to Heaven, what happens there and the overwhelming Mercy of God. Everything seemed to well up within him. It all seemed so accessible, so close. He was utterly convincing, simple and sane. I had been similarly impressed by the quiet assurances of the illuminated saint Moulay Abu'l Qasim*** but whereas Moulay Abu'l Qasim spoke infrequently and with deep ecstatic gravitas, Hajj Mohamed inundated us with glad tidings. He spoke for hours. I remember he admonished us all always to complete our supplications (du’aa) to God with the invocation, Ya Dha l’Jalali wa l’Ikram ("Oh Lord of Majesty and Gifts"). This, he said, was a seal that would ensure our prayers would be answered. He also told us, "When things are going well have fear (khawf) of God and when things are going badly have hope (raja) in God.”
When he finished, we all left together to attend a laylat al-fuqara (literally, "night of the poor" – a night of invocation). We walked as a group from the courtyard house we were renting in the old city to the home of one of the wealthy fuqara who had invited us for the evening. Hajj Mohamed’s talk had left me completely exhilarated and as we walked I fell in to step with him. In his discourse he had said that with every step one took with the tahlil (la ilaha illa ‘llah – no god but Allah) on one’s tongue, one built a castle in Paradise. As we walked silently side-by-side, both of us invoking the tahlil, I was filled with the sensation that this was actually happening. Before we parted company that evening Hajj Mohamed invited us to come and visit him in Tangiers.
After this sublime evening I led a group of fuqara to the Middle Atlas. On the way back I fell asleep during a bus ride. On awakening in Khenifra, I found that my wallet with all my money and passport had been stolen. I was originally supposed to travel to Algeria but found myself stuck in Morocco without passport and penniless. I borrowed a little money and made my way on a wooden train from Meknes to Tangier where the U.S. Consulate General was, to try and get a replacement passport and wire England for enough money to get back to London. This was not the first time in my life I was completely alone, reduced to poverty and almost absolutely helpless, but it was the first time this had happened to me in a foreign country. I had the equivalent of about $5.00 after my train fare, passport expenses and the cost of a telegram.
I made my way to the Siddiqui Zawiya in the ancient part of Tangiers and, in the time-honored tradition of the Sufis, requested lodging. After explaining my circumstances, the caretaker of the zawiya, showed me to a windowless cupboard behind the qibla wall of the mosque, with a small bed. I gratefully accepted.
The first day I was at the zawiya I joined the weekly laylat al-fuqara. I sat in the back of the gathering in a state of extreme helplessness. As qasa’id from a diwan were sung by the large assembly I began to remember Hajj Mohamed for no particular reason. His beautiful old face loomed up in my mind’s eye and filled my heart. An overwhelming desire to see him welled up within me. I knew he lived in Tangier but had no idea how to find him. I longed to see him and began to weep, his face etched in my memory, the sound of remembrance surrounding me.
I put my face in my hands and wept for a very long time. At the conclusion of the first phase of the invocation the gathering began to recite the La ilaha illa ‘llah over and over again in a wonderful lilting melody I had never heard before. My weeping subsided. I looked up and across the circle I saw Hajj Mohamed. It seemed as if he didn’t notice me but when the assembly stood to perform the hadra Hajj Mohamed purposefully moved around the circle beside me and took my hand. We performed the hadra hand in hand. At the end of the dance, he turned to me, kissed my hand in greeting and departed. In a state of high excitement, I rushed to the caretaker of the zawiya and pointed out Hajj Mohamed's departing figure. I asked him if he knew him. He said, "No, I've never seen him before. He never comes here."
After accepting lodging at the Siddiqui Zawiya I privately vowed to myself not to ask anyone for anything more. I used most of the money I had left to purchase oranges and svinges, Moroccan style doughnuts. I subsisted on this fare for 3 days. On the third day, I began to become weak and ill. The greasy svinges and the acidity of the oranges gave me severe stomach pains. After the noon prayer on the third day, I raised my hands in supplication and asked silently, "O God, I'm getting sick and this will put my hosts to more trouble. Please, please feed me so that I can keep up my strength.”
The moment I finished my supplication, a young man about my age sitting beside me turned and struck up a conversation with me. It was the usual sort of encounter one had in mosques. I was accustomed to conversations with young Muslims from the Arab world fascinated with the West and Westerners, amazed that an American or European would want to become a Muslim and come to their countries, when most of them dreamed of the exotic, wealthy West. It was a typical exchange, mostly about me being from America. I mentioned that I was staying in the zawiya but that was all. Almost as an afterthought, he asked me if I’d had lunch. Keeping in mind my vow, I lied and told him that I’d already eaten but he suddenly insisted that I come upstairs with him to eat. I couldn’t believe it. It was the answer to my prayers. From that moment on, without ever asking, I was fed morning, noon and night for three weeks and by the end of this period I was not so much being fed as feasted as a guest of eminent Moroccan scholars. I never had to ask for anything.
The young man who first invited me was named Mustafa. He was from Tetouan and had spent years working in factories in Spain because he couldn't find work as an Imam, which is what he had been trained for. He had been the Imam of a mosque in Tetouan and was hafiz of Qur'an (one who has memorized the entire Qur'an). He recited Qur'an with a stunning, angelic voice. He lived upstairs in the Siddiqui Zawiya with his uncle, who had a position in the Siddiqui Sufi Order, and a number of other young huffaz (plural of hafiz) in similar circumstances. Mustafa took me under his wing, mainly I think because he was fascinated by America and because we both spoke broken Spanish and could communicate (I didn't know a word of Arabic at the time).
Two days later I was walking in the Nouvelle Ville (New Town) with Mustafa. He told me about his frustrations and desire to get married; how girls were not interested in men who knew Qur'an, but wanted to marry men who were worldly and had money. As we climbed up the steep hill from the Old Town to the Nouvelle Ville I found myself thinking about Hajj Mohamed. I thought to myself, "I hope we meet him and I hope he invites me to lunch." The moment this thought came to mind – I’m not exaggerating – we turned a corner and standing before us was Hajj Mohamed. He beamed, kissed our hands and said, "Salamskum! Would you like to come to lunch with me?" I was overjoyed. Hajj Mohamed asked us to come the next day and showed us where his house was in the New Town. He took us on a tour of his home, which was an apartment in a modern block of flats. He was particularly pleased with his European-style bathroom (hammam faranji), which he showed us with almost childlike pride. We then promised to return the following day and took our leave.
I asked Mustafa to join me for lunch the next day. I needed him to translate for me. He was not enthusiastic. He said he was not sure if he could. I pleaded with him. In my excitement and to convince him to come with me I said, "He is a great saint (wali’ullah).”
At this, Mustafa stopped suddenly and scolded me, "You mustn't say that! If he's a wali, I’m a wali, you’re a wali! A wali‘ullah is someone very rare and special. He’s a sweet old man, but you mustn’t call him a wali’ullah. This is something very serious.”
I replied defensively, "I didn't make this up. I've been told by people of authority that he’s one of the awliya.”
Mustafa wasn't convinced. "I don't think so," he said.
The next day I managed to drag Mustafa out of the zawiya up the hill to the Nouvelle Ville for our luncheon engagement. We came to the flat at the appointed time. Hajj Mohamed's wife answered the door and said that he had gone out and would be back soon. She asked us to come back in half an hour.
We retired to a nearby park overlooking Tangier Harbor to wait. I could see Mustafa was becoming impatient and began to worry that he’d abandon me. In the park he ran into a friend of his. I waited for half an hour, looking out over Tangier and the harbor. Mustafa was engaged in conversation with his friend and showed no interest in returning to Hajj Mohamed’s. I waited as long as I could and then said to Mustafa that I was going on ahead back to Hajj Mohamed's house. "Please join me when you’re done here,” I pleaded. Mustafa said that he might but I wasn’t optimistic.
I made my way back to the block of flats and ascended the stairs to Hajj Mohamed's flat. He opened the door when I knocked, beaming, greeting me with "Salamskum!" I greeted him back and gave him a pot of honey I had purchased with the little money I had left. He was thrilled and thanked me profusely. His happiness made my heart sing. I felt that I had done the right thing. He led me to a sitting room off the entrance and sat me on a couch beside him. There were two cups of sweet milky coffee on the coffee table in front of him. I assumed one was for him and one was for me. He moved both in front of me and smiled. We smiled at each other but couldn’t communicate. He shrugged. I shrugged and sipped my coffee. I was incredibly frustrated, but could do nothing. Hajj Mohamed excused himself and went into another room. He sat down when he returned and we looked at each other helplessly. I could tell he wanted to say things to me, but it was no use. I prayed that Mustafa would turn up.
Signs on the Horizons Page 3