When I arrived in Makkah in 1980 I was at a crossroads. I had been following the Sufi way for over 8 years and had been able to sit at the feet of many great men of the Path but I had never been under the direct discipline of a living shaykh of instruction. When I arrived in Makkah I had made it my intention to find a guide who could take me by the hand and keep me on the right path. So when I learned that Shaykh Abdul Qadir 'Isa was living in Makkah, I sought out his company.
The first thing he said to me when we were introduced was, "Haroon, you must have a living shaykh." During the time that I kept company with him he repeated this to me many times and yet, curiously, he never once encouraged me to take his hand. In their love for their Shaykh, his disciples pushed me to join their order but I could never bring myself to take this step. I half expected Shaykh Abdul Qadir to make some kind of overture but he never did. He was always kind to me and welcomed me into his circle but there was always a distance. Later on I came to learn that the relationship between the disciple (murid) and the shaykh is a grave matter, written in the unseen; that no authentic teaching shaykh can take on a disciple without the spiritual authority from God to do so. It is a matter of secrets. It is a matter of the heart.
However, Shaykh Abd Al-Qadir 'Isa was very clear in defining who an authentic teaching Shaykh actually is. He quoted from his own master, Shaykh Muhamed Al-Hashimi, who said:
"O my brother! Travel the path under the direction of a living Shaykh who knows Allah and is truthful and sincere; one who possesses correct knowledge, clear experiential taste, lofty spiritual will, and a well-pleasing spiritual state; a Shaykh who has travelled the path under the hands of true guides, having taken his manners from the possessors of manners; one who is well acquainted with the pathways; in order that he may save you from the pitfalls in your own spiritual journey and guide you to the state of being gathered (jama’) with Allah.”*
When a visitor mentioned someone who had recently claimed to be Sufi shaykh, Shaykh Abd Al-Qadir dismissed the pretender as a matter of fact, saying simply and with a shrug, "He who is connected to the one who is connected is connected and he who is connected to the one who is not connected is not connected.”
His teaching revolved around the supererogatory (nawafil) practices. The pillars of Islam – prayer, fasting, the poor tax (zakat) and pilgrimage – were a given. The practice of Sufism is the application of the supererogatory. For most ordinary mortals, superogatory practices can be grueling. For Shaykh Abd Al-Qadir 'Isa the superogatory practices were like breathing air. His practice of the supererogatory was incessant, his devotion infectious. He would pray all the sunna prayers before and after each obligatory prayer. We would pray the tahajjud prayers in the depths of night. He never let up.
Most gatherings would culminate in a spiritual dance (hadra), which Shaykh Abdul Qadir would lead. Under his guidance the hadra was intense and bracing but very light. His singers had lilting angelic voices that soared above the rhythmic collective breath of the fuqara. But it was his practical advice that made the deepest impression on me.
I once asked Shaykh Abdul Qadir what the spiritual value of the lesser pilgrimage (umrah) was and he said quite simply, "Umrah burns up wrong actions.” I had always loved umrah and was attached to its practice. This saying gave me even greater incentive to make the lesser pilgrimage because my wrong actions were too numerous to count.
Another disciple mentioned that he had insomnia. Shaykh Abdul Qadir laughed and told him to rise and make supererogatory night prayers (tahajjud). He said, "The devil (shaytan) hates it when you pray and will make you drowsy and go to sleep. If not, you will have your reward.”
He inspired intense devotion from his disciples. They loved him deeply. He was, on the surface, detached, brusque and sometimes brutally direct. Beneath the surface he was a sea of love and compassion.
I was blessed to have been able to spend time in his presence at a crossroads in my life. He kept me on the Path that eventually led me to a living master. May God be well pleased with him.
“My servant never ceases to draw near to Me through supererogatory works until I love him. Then, when I love him, I am his hearing through which he hears, his sight through which he sees, his hand through which he grasps, and his foot through which he walks.”
Hadith Qudsi*
LOVE
“May God make me a feather in your wings”
Sidi Ahmed Al Badawi “Zwetan”*
THE BELOVED
He was among the greatest Sufi saints of the 20th century. It was said that he was one of the four spiritual Pillars (Awtad) in the hierarchy of saints, but God knows best. He was also the most humble man I have ever known. In the scheme of things, I was no one of importance, spiritually or temporally, yet when I would enter his presence he would struggle to his feet and stand in my honor on his game leg. He would call out my Muslim name with great love and reverence, "Haroooon, Haroon. Allah, Allah, Allah!", as if I was the most important man he had ever met.
I first met Habib Ahmed Mashhur bin Taha Al-Haddad shortly after settling in Saudi Arabia in 1980. A visitor from England who was staying with me in Makkah had heard about him and asked me to drive him to meet the Shaykh. I can’t remember how we found the Al-Haddad family home, which was at that time in the old Kandara District of Jeddah, but we were welcomed warmly and spent many hours in his company. It was his humility, hospitality, kindness and natural forbearance that first struck me. Although he was already in his seventies he was full of life and had a beautiful luminous face. Almost immediately I formed an attachment to him. During that first meeting I met his eldest son, Sayyid Ali. He said, "Ali is your brother. Keep company with him.”
He had a large family and I came to know all his sons but I spent more time with Sayyid Ali, who owned a successful construction supply business in Bab Makkah. My first place of work in Saudi Arabia was in Bab Makkah around the corner from the Al-Haddad store and I would often visit. When the time of Hajj arrived during my first months in Saudi Arabia, I was invited to join Al-Haddad’s entourage. He performed Hajj every year with his disciples.
On the day of Arafat I set off alone from our family house in the district of Jarwal, taking a taxi to the edge of the plain of Arafat and, following the instructions I had been given, tracked down Al-Haddad’s encampment. Hajj fell in the middle of summer. In those days tents were not air-conditioned and the heat was oppressive but this only seemed to heighten the spiritual intensity of this gathering of Sufis within the greater gathering of Muslims on the most sacred plain on the most sacred day of the year. Al-Haddad sat amidst dozens of his disciples in a state of extreme awe. He spoke with grave adoration of the Day of Arafat and its significance. He instructed everyone in the assembly to recite Sura Ikhlas one thousand times. This, he said, was important. He then withdrew as, individually, we all began reciting the heaviest and most powerful Sura of the Holy Qur'an through the day. I recited Sura Ikhlas on the Mount of Mercy, walking back through throngs of worshippers and in Al-Haddad’s tent. At that point I was unfamiliar with most of his disciples but knew Sayyid Hadi Al-Haddar, who I had met in London. I kept close to him. Habib presided over meals which, in the light of Arafat and his presence, seemed sanctified.
I continued to visit Al-Haddad after the Hajj. He spent half his year in Mombasa and the other half living with his sons in Jeddah. Born in Qaydun, a small town in Hadramaut, he was a Sayyid, a direct descendent of the Prophet Mohamed, peace and blessings be upon him. His lineage traced back to Sayyidina Husayn, the Messenger’s grandson. The Husayni Sharifs of South Yemen were known as the Bani Alawi, named after Imam Alawi, the grandson of Ahmad Al-Muhajir, who settled in Hadramaut in the fourth century of Hijra. The Sayyids of the Bani 'Alawi (Saadatu l‘Alawiyya) established one of the world’s oldest, most enduring and most cosmopolitan Sufi orders. Committed to scholarship, spiritual practice and travel, they spread the traditional practice of Islam throughout the world, to India, Southeast Asia and Africa. Habib Al-Haddad was the
spiritual heir of his great ancestor, the celebrated 18th century Sufi saint, Imam Abdullah ibn'Alawi Al-Haddad, may God be well pleased with them both.
He memorized the Qur'an at an early age and studied Arabic and the religious sciences and was placed under spiritual discipline. My teacher, Sayyid Omar Abdullah, who knew him when he was young, told me that as a youth his extreme good looks combined with intense spirituality made him so physically attractive that he was forced to veil his face in public.
He also had, from a young age, a profound kashf or unveiling. Sayyid Omar Abdullah once told me that when he was a student in England, Al-Haddad sent him a letter, which he ended by blessing him in a series of seemingly unrelated destinations in Europe, the Middle East and Africa beginning with London and ending in Zanzibar. As it turned out, months later Sayyid Omar travelled to each of these destinations in the exact sequence listed in the letter. Of Al-Haddad’s kashf, Sayyid Omar mentioned an incident he witnessed with one of the Shaykh’s most advanced disciples, who also had a great sense of humor. Sayyid Omar was sitting with Shaykh and disciple and Al-Haddad said to him with a smile, "You know your spiritual station would be raised if you would only make ghusl (full ritual ablution) after you have sex with your wife and before you sleep.” His disciple burst into laughter and said, "Habib, do me a favor. Confine your kashf to the sitting room and stay out of my bedroom!"
He was a disciple of the Hadrami Zanzibarian Sufi master Omar bin Sumait, may God be well pleased with him, and emigrated to East Africa, settling in Mombasa. His influence over Islam in East Africa was immense. He taught Islam and the Sufi sciences and ventured deep into the jungles to reach out to pagan tribes. Through his powerful spirituality, profound wisdom and beautiful character he brought tens of thousands of tribal people to Islam in Africa. In the process he contracted malaria and became lame in one leg from a road accident on one of his safaris into the interior.
In Jeddah, he met his disciples and visitors in a small anteroom off the entrance to the large family home his eldest son Ali built in the early 1980s in the Bani Malek district. The room was lined with books and furnished unpretentiously with Belgian carpets and plush floor cushions and bolsters.
He would descend from his living quarters in the morning and sit with visitors until the noon prayers, after which he would share the noonday meal (ghada) with whoever was present and retire for an afternoon rest (qaylula). He would return for the afternoon prayer and sit with visitors through the sunset and night prayers and the evening meal (asha) after which he would retire. He kept to this taxing schedule into his late 80s, until his health drastically weakened.
Visitors from around the world would come to call. Day after day he would minister to a parade of ordinary and extraordinary people, hearing their problems, patiently giving good counsel and always remembering God. Conversation in his presence flowed from the mundane to the divine. Every gathering was organic and natural yet infused with Al-Haddad’s transcendent presence.
I remember sitting beside him as one of his disciples went over in excruciating detail his problem of finding another flat in Jeddah. Al-Haddad listened to him patiently, giving him sincere advice on where to go and what to do. I kept thinking to myself, "What a waste of this great saint's time!" How little I understood. On another occasion, toward the end of an evening after the Night prayer, one of Al-Haddad’s Hadrami disciples turned up suddenly and Habib upbraided him sharply. "What's the matter with you? It's late. You shouldn't come here so late." I looked on in reproachful silence. The next day I saw the same man sitting before Habib, who was holding his head between his hands speaking to him with great love and compassion.
One day I was sitting in Al-Haddad’s house with Sayyid Omar. We were in a room adjacent to Al-Haddad’s anteroom where he was meeting one of his disciples. I thought how exhausting it must be for him to have to interact with the usual assortment of self-involved, worldly people like me and feeling more than a little guilty for taking up his time. I said to Sayyid Omar, "I don't understand how someone like Habib can stand being around someone like me." Sayyid Omar turned to me and said, "Someone like Habib only wants to be alive because of someone like you." He was silent for a moment. "Otherwise, he would rather be with his Lord." This reminded me of a Sufi saying that the Friend of God (Wali’ullah) is "the one who lives for his neighbor".
Habib always encouraged moderation and balance in his disciples. This was the way of the Bani ‘Alawi. My teacher Sayyid Omar related a story of a young Zanzibarian disciple of Habib Omar bin Sumait who had decided to emigrate to Europe. He asked his Shaykh for spiritual permission (ijaza) to perform an intensive course of invocation and was refused. Habib Omar bin Sumait explained that in a place like Europe, which is materialistic and permeated with forgetfulness (ghaflah), the impact of invoking God was far more powerful than in places where invocation and prayer were common. The disciple immigrated to Europe but failed to heed his Shaykh’s admonition and performed long, intensive spiritual practices, which made him lose his mind.
I was acquainted with an extraordinary Saudi Sufi acolyte who followed a great shaykh from Mauritania. He was one of the most impressive disciples I have ever met, incredibly intense with a single-minded devotion to the path of invocation. He was so intense, so devoted, so superior to me that he made me uncomfortable. If I had learned anything over my years on the Path it was that the process was natural and gradual. There was intensity, to be sure, but the intensity was reflective, self-effacing and all the great Sufis I had ever met had a sense of humor and the ability to laugh and enjoy life even as they remembered God. This faqir was just too serious.
One day I visited him at his home. He was suddenly acting erratically, formulating grandiose, messianic plans for a new utopian spiritual society. It was as if he had experienced a personality change. The whole encounter was slightly mad. How could this extraordinary disciple go haywire in this way? I had seen this behavior before and came away from the meeting very disturbed and decided to avoid his company. From mutual acquaintances I learned that he experienced a complete mental breakdown. My intuition had been right.
Sometime later I walked into Al-Haddad’s majlis. The Saudi disciple was sitting in the presence of Habib. He was like a shipwreck washed up on shore. Habib was leaning over to him, speaking with great compassion, advising him, reciting invocations and healing the sincere disciple, who eventually found his equilibrium.
The tariqa of the Saadatu l’Alawiyya was a path of knowledge. Gatherings revolved around open-ended spiritual conversation. Being accustomed to the more ritualistic Shadhiliyya way, I found the informal and intellectual gatherings at Habib’s challenging. Even my brilliant, scholarly Arabist friend Abdal Hakim Murad (T.J. Winter) complained that he sometimes found it difficult to follow the spiritual conversation carried out in the presence of the Shaykh, which shifted seamlessly from classical Arabic to local Hadrami idioms and back.
I had been used to the practice of the Shadhiliyya Sufi orders, which revolved around the rituals of reciting from the diwans, performing the hadra and listening to discourse. Having weak Arabic, it was hard to follow Habib’s gatherings although at times, his Arabic was so clear that I could follow every word.
I often felt outmatched and discouraged and I mentioned this to Al-Haddad. He prescribed for me the supplication of the Prophet Moses, peace be upon him, from the Holy Qur'an to recite as a dhikr to help improve my Arabic.
Rabbi ishrah li sadri
wa yassir li amri
wa ahlul l’uqdata min lisani
yafqahu qawli.
(My Lord expand my breast for me,
Ease my task for me,
And remove the impediment from my tongue,
So that they understand me.)*
After I began repeating this ayat there were many subsequent occasions when I could understand his spiritual conversation with uncanny clarity.
So, while I would visit Habib in Jeddah semi-regularly, my relationship with the Shaykh rema
ined informal for several years. I frankly preferred the company of my mentor Sayyid Omar Abdullah, who taught me in his beautiful, rich English.
At one point I let myself become completely caught up in my work and family life and kept putting off a visit to the house in Bani Malek. One day, finally, I decided to force myself to make a long overdue visit. When I arrived in Bani Malek and knocked on the door, one of the female members of the household answered and told me that Habib was at the airport, preparing to depart for Kenya. Suddenly, I was overcome with remorse. I had wasted six months and the opportunity to sit with one of the world’s greatest living saints.
I drove straight to the airport, parked and rushed into the terminal reception area. To my relief I found Habib sitting with his sons, grandsons and disciples amidst the rows of seats for waiting passengers while he was checked in to the flight. I rushed over to him, kissed his hand and his forehead, on the verge of tears. I told him I was so sorry I did not see him this time. "I feel very terrible, very upset that I didn’t visit you.” He held my hand with great compassion and said, "Don't worry Haroon, I am always with you and you are always with me.” I was deeply moved and comforted and vowed that I would not make the same mistake again. I sat with Habib until he had to move into the departure lounge. I accepted his comforting words as a sign of his immense kindness and compassion.
Sometime later I mentioned my airport exchange with Al-Haddad to Sayyid Omar Abdullah, by way of saying that he was very kind and compassionate to me and, to my surprise, Sayyid Omar stopped, looked at me gravely and said, "Did he really say this to you?" Yes, I said. Sayyid Omar then said, "He wasn't being kind or compassionate. No Shaykh can say this except with Divine authority. This means that he is your Shaykh in the unseen and has always been your Shaykh.”
There is a consensus on this matter among all the masters of the Way, which was clearly articulated by the great Shadhili Shaykh Abu'l Abbas Al-Mursi,who said, "No Master makes himself known to disciples unless he has been led to do so by inspirations (waridat) and unless he has received authorization of God and of His Messenger.”
Signs on the Horizons Page 11