Signs on the Horizons

by Michael Sugich

  Finally, after years of vacillation and delay, I came to Habib Ahmed Mashhur and asked to take his hand. He said, in a matter-of-fact way, "We have been waiting." He initiated me into the tariqa and prescribed the Wird Al-Latif for recitation in the morning and the Ratib Al-Haddad for recitation in the evening. He sealed the initiation by saying simply, "Now I am your Shaykh.” That evening he hosted a meal to celebrate my entry into the tariqa. It was an honor I had done nothing to deserve.

  When he was in Jeddah I continued visiting my Shaykh alone or with Sayyid Omar Abdullah. At any given time there would be visitors from all parts of the world but there were rarely ever more than about 20 men in attendance. It was a sign of the times. One day we had been at a gathering with Al-Haddad at the home of one of his disciples and had returned to Bani Malek. As a group of us were entering the Al-Haddad house and my companion, Mostafa Al-Badawi, casually observed, "You know, in another age, thousands would have been sitting at his feet instead of our small group.”

  Whenever Habib left for Kenya it was the custom of his followers to see him off at King Khaled International Airport in Jeddah. On one of these occasions I walked with him as he moved from his car into the terminal. At every step of the way, a disciple or admirer approached to say farewell. Dozens came to pay their respects. It was an extraordinary sight. In Saudi Arabia Sufism was banned and displays of reverence to a Shaykh of Instruction were forcibly discouraged. In another time and place Habib’s departure would have been attended by hundreds, if not thousands of disciples. This informal, surreptitious procession was, in a way, even more impressive.

  I met several times with him in private or with members of my family. He gave my wife a wird to perform and met with my mother, who had converted to Islam and was visiting from California. He gave her an invocation to recite and answered her questions. After she left, Habib looked at me, shook his head with a sad smile and said, "Miskeena (poor woman), she has was-was (uncontrolled thoughts, whisperings)." This was true and plagued my mother until her death, may God be merciful to her. However, she died in a state of extreme grace, was buried as a Muslim and I believe her meeting with Al-Haddad played a part in her blessed passing.

  He was robust and normally full of energy but periodically he would suffer a relapse of malaria, which he had picked up many years before in East Africa, and would withdraw until he recovered. On several occasions he said to me, "Haroon I have been suffering from malaria, please pray for me.”

  The first Gulf War, "Desert Storm", was a metaphysical turning point. When Saudi and American armed forces joined to fight the Iraqi army, Muslim against Muslim, Habib Al-Haddad withdrew into spiritual retreat for the duration of the conflict. We did not see him for weeks.

  From that point on he became increasingly frail. Yet he continued to descend from his apartments and preside over gatherings after the sunset prayers. During Ramadan he led the tarawih prayers every evening. Finally, in his late 80s his health gave out altogether. He lost the use of his legs, then his eyesight and hearing. He was no longer able to come down to meet visitors. From time to time we would ascend to see him. I missed him but didn’t want to tire him. At one time I came with my son Abu Bakr to visit. His grandson Sayyid Adnan bin Ali, who had served Habib throughout his youth, brought me up to his apartments. He was reclining, immobile and blind. Adnan whispered in his grandfather's ear, "Haroon is here." Habib couldn't acknowledge my presence but he was a river of invocation and Qur'an. I listened and invoked God and prayed for my Shaykh and for myself and my children.

  On another occasion I was sitting alone in his small study. Suddenly Sayyid Adnan brought his grandfather into the room in a wheel chair. He whispered my name in his ear before leaving me alone with him. He was extremely weak. I couldn’t be sure whether he really knew I was there. I sat on the floor at his feet. I remembered the magnificent, vigorous and compassionate wise man I had known and I wept. I wept for all the lost opportunities I had to benefit from his presence. I wept for his awesome humility. I wept in gratitude to God that I had been given the gift of knowing him. I wept for the love of him and for all my many flaws that he overlooked. I wept for a long time, wrapped in his presence, and although he never uttered a word or acknowledged me in any way, I felt that he had spoken to me with love, directly, clearly, deeply, forcefully, straight to my heart.

  A short time later I heard that his condition had suddenly deteriorated and he had been admitted into intensive care. I drove to the hospital, hoping to see him. Sayyid Ali came out to greet me. "Miskeen," (Poor soul) he said with a sad smile. Then he added, "He's nearly 90." I said, "He has had a long life. May God cover him with His Mercy.”

  It was late on Wednesday night on the 7 December 1995 (14 Rajab 1416) when I received a call that Habib Ahmed Mashhur Al-Haddad had passed away in the late afternoon and that he would be buried in Al-Maala cemetery in Makkah al-Mukaramah after the dawn prayers. I arrived at Al-Maala after dawn prayers to find the cemetery empty. I waited outside, near the grave of my mother-in-law who was buried near the grave of Sayyidat Khadijah at Hejoun and prayed for her and for my Shaykh and to be allowed to pray the funeral (janazah) prayers for him.

  I returned to my home and picked up my eldest son, Muhsin. The two of us returned to the Holy Mosque and stationed ourselves in the shade of the Sinan Pasha domes between the Yemeni Corner and the Black Stone. Prior to the noon prayers in the Holy Mosque, I scanned the mataf for members of the family or followers but could find no one. I vowed to attend every prayer in the Holy Mosque until the janazah prayer for Habib was performed. After the noon prayers the salat al-mawt (Prayer for the Dead) was called and believers clustered beside the Kaaba in the bright winter sunlight to pray for the deceased. We rushed out of the shade across the mataf toward the jostling crowd behind the imam and heard the murmur of Habib’s name.

  The janazah prayer was performed and Habib Ahmad Mashhur Al-Haddad was lifted above the throngs on a wooden bier covered in a green banner embroidered with yellow calligraphy. The crowd surged toward the mas’a (the track between the mounts of Safa and Marwa) carrying the body of the Shaykh aloft and reciting the tahlil (the Muslim confession of faith) with increasing force. We carried Al-Haddad across the mas’a, up the steps, out through the piazza area, passing into the Souq al-Lail. The passion of the tahlil intensified as the procession crowd increased in number and I recalled the verse from a qasida of Shaykh Mohamed ibn Al-Habib:

  “You are a treasure to My worshippers,

  you are a dhikr for mankind.”

  The bier came to rest at the enclosure that was reserved for ‘Alawi Sayyids. The crowd of worshippers lowered the shrouded body of the saint to rest in a simple, unmarked grave. We all wept. My son told me many years later that he had never seen me weep so much. I saw Sayyid Ali, we were both in tears. We embraced. I can’t imagine what this loss was for him. We recited Qur'an and other invocations. The burial ground was charged with light. This was a day of passing. The world that we knew would never be the same.

  One of the awliya recommended that when praying one should always picture the Kaaba and one’s Shaykh standing before the Kaaba. I have never been able to picture anyone but Al-Haddad in my mind’s eye standing before the House of God. I see him in my prayers. I see him easily. I carry him in my heart.

  “Oh God! Guide me to one

  who can guide me to You!

  Cause me to reach one

  who will cause me to reach You!”

  A supplication for the seeker

  from Shaykh ‘Abd Al-Qadir ‘Isa*

  AMBASSADOR

  EXTRAORDINAIRE

  AND PLENIPOTENTIARY

  In the popular mind love is usually linked with romance and sex. I never imagined that the first person I would fall madly in love with would be a short, flamboyant, erudite, bespectacled, snaggle-toothed black man from Zanzibar who spilled things, wore long coats over a sarong, spoke in rich Edwardian English, had an infectious laugh and walked with a cane. It was through h
im I understood the meaning of the declaration of the Companions of the Prophet Mohamed, peace and blessings be upon him, "May my mother and father be sacrificed for you!" I never understood how anyone could say that about their parents until I met Sayyid Omar Abdullah.

  From the moment I laid eyes on him I fell in love with him. I can say that I loved him more than anyone else in my life. He taught me the meaning of love and its reciprocity. He knew I loved him and I knew he loved me. My heart surged when I knew I would see him. I missed him terribly when he was away. I thought about him constantly. I enjoyed every moment I had with him. He was a kind of uberfather for me. He was my best friend. I felt safe knowing he was in the world. When he died, I was desolate, overcome with a sense of profound loss from which I have never fully recovered.

  As I came to know him I discovered that I was not the only one who had fallen in love with him. Once we were walking together on the streets of old Jeddah in Saudi Arabia, and someone approached us. He came up to Sayyid Omar and cried out in Arabic, "Ya Habib! (Habib is an honorific the people of Hadramaut in South Yemen – Hadaram – bestow upon their spiritual elders) I love you!" Then he asked, "Why do I love you, Habib?" Sayyid Omar lowered his eyes, smiling, and shook his head modestly. "A gift from my Lord," he shrugged. I witnessed this kind of exchange many times. The great Sufi and Proof of Islam, Imam Abu Hamid Al-Ghazali wrote that one of the marks of honor bestowed upon the people who have attained knowledge on the path to God is that they are beloved of all creatures. Sayyid Omar elicited love wherever he went.

  When I first met him he was serving as Ambassador Extraordinaire and Plenipotentiary’ from Comoros Islands, which, I think meant that he was the little island nation’s only ambassador. He travelled the world on behalf of Comoros and, through his charisma, managed to bring the country many millions of dollars in foreign aid, particularly from the Gulf countries, where he was especially beloved.

  Beneath his diplomatic cover he was one of the greatest living African educators and beneath his educational cover, he was a Sufi saint. While on one of his diplomatic missions, he came to learn of a young group of Sufi acolytes living in London and he came to pay us a visit.

  He was a force of nature and took our group by storm. He savored knowledge as if he was feasting at a table groaning with delicacies. Indeed, he often said that Sufism was about taste. "Without tasting the sweetness of dhikr and knowledge it is very difficult to continue on the Path." There was no subject off limits. He laughed easily. His laughter was infectious, his sense of humor contagious. His knowledge of the path was encyclopedic. I had never heard anyone deliver classical Sufi doctrine in English with such clarity and depth of insight and with such boisterous good humor. The atmosphere was charged in his presence. He exuded an intense joy of life. He loved people. He came with his close companion Sayyid Hadi Al-Haddar. The two of them sat cross-legged on the floor with us and spoke of Sufi doctrine and practice. Sayyid Hadi, who was an ecstatic, solemnly announced to the group, "I congratulate myself for being among you." Sayyid Omar balanced sobriety and intoxication, and combined his magnetism with a rich eloquence. He galvanized his listeners with insights, anecdotes and wisdom sayings. As he spoke his embroidered cap (kufia) would begin slipping farther and farther to the back of his head. Just before it fell off altogether Sayyid Omar would rescue it and slide it up back to the top of his smooth head and continue talking.

  When the time for prayer came I leapt at the chance to help him make his ritual ablutions. I filled a pitcher and poured water for him in my upstairs room. He invoked a blessing on me. While we were having tea after dinner Sayyid Omar addressed me. He asked me where I was from. I had been an actor in Hollywood before I entered the path. I had been in the theater since I was a small child. I thought that the only thing I wanted in life was to be a great performer. I left what looked to be a promising career, suddenly and, for my family and friends, dramatically. I joined a Sufi order and never looked back, or so I imagined. I told him I was from America. He asked me what state I was from. I answered that I was from California. He then grinned and burst out suddenly with, "So you left Hollywood and came here!" I turned beet red. He had nailed me. The whole assembly exploded into laughter. My friends all knew my past. I realized that I was carrying this mythology around with me about having been an actor in Hollywood and left it all for the Path. In one funny and embarrassing (for me at least) moment, he put that pretention to rest.

  This was the first time I had ever interacted with someone possessed of spiritual insight, or firasah, although I had always been fascinated by this capacity, which is a combination of innate ability enhanced by intense invocation. The Prophet Mohamed, peace and blessings be upon him, said, "Fear the insight (firasah) of the believer, for he sees with the Light of God.”

  On another occasion Sayyid Omar suddenly appeared at the zawiya. It was an afternoon. I was sitting with a friend of mine who had just returned from many months in Palestine under the tutelage of a Sufi shaykh who had put him under an incredibly intense regime of invocation that had left him in a highly strung state. He had returned to England and was at loose ends.

  There were only two of us alone in the minzah when Sayyid Omar appeared. He strode into the zawiya and, without pause or ceremony, sat directly in front of my friend, greeting him and asking his name. "Abdul Latif", my friend replied. "Well Abdul Latif, I must warn you, you mustn’t try to go too fast.” Abdul Latif listened, nonplussed. Sayyid Omar continued, gravely but gently, "Because if you go too fast you might lose your balance." Abdul Latif was speechless. He’d just received a rather alarming admonition from an exotic older gentleman he’d never laid eyes on. He stared back, dumbstruck. Sayyid Omar looked him in the eyes and said, "You know what I mean," then casuall-added, "What do you do? Do you cook?" Stunned, my friend nod ded, stammering, "Uh, yes, I...I cook at The Buttery at the John Slade Art School in East London.” This was Sayyid Omar’s way of letting him know that he wasn’t just whistling Dixie; that he could see into his heart. He then said again for emphasis, "Don't try to go too fast. Take things slowly and you will be fine." My friend took his advice and has kept on the path up to now, never losing his balance.

  I witnessed this kind of exchange numerous times and was fascinated by these flashes of insight he seemed suddenly and without warning to blurt out. When I mentioned this, he said innocently, "Do I really?" He explained that things just came to him suddenly and he was impelled to say something. It was intuitive rather than cognitive. He dismissed this faculty as of little importance.

  Born in Zanzibar in 1918, he was of Hadrami extraction and could trace his lineage directly back to the Prophet Mohamed, peace and blessings be upon him, through the great Sufi Shaykh Habib Abu Bakr bin Salem, making him a Sayyid. He was raised in a Sufi family from the Saadatu l‘Alawiyya Sufi order of Hadramaut. He was one of the most educated men in Africa. A graduate of Makerere University in Uganda, in the early 1950s he took a degree in Islamic and Comparative Law from the School of Oriental and African Studies in London. During this period he came to know the British Sufi scholar and author, Martin Lings, who was a fellow student.

  When Sayyid Omar returned from England in the 1950s, he served as chancellor of Zanzibar’s prestigious Islamic Academy. He returned to England in 1960 to earn an advanced degree in Comparative Religion and Philosphy from Oxford University. His master's thesis at Oxford was on "The Concept of Felicity in Medaeval Islamic Philosophy”. In 1964, one year after he returned to Zanzibar, the Government of Sultan Jamshid bin Abdullah was overthrown by African revolutionaries. In the aftermath of the revolution all those associated with the previous regime were under threat. Hundreds were killed. Although he had no political affiliations and his presence was never less than benign, Sayyid Omar’s life was in danger.Within days of the revolution he was warned that he would be arrested. He gathered up his family and left Zanzibar, taking asylum in the Comoros Islands.

  His standing was so high in Africa that he was immediately g
iven citizenship and became a government advisor and the country’s roving ambassador. He was a disciple of the great East African Hadrami Sufi master Habib Omar bin Sumait. He once confessed to me that he turned down the opportunity to remain in England and earn his doctorate because he was too attached to his Shaykh. He said, "I wasn't a very good murid (disciple) but I loved being with my Shaykh too much.” He said this to me, I knew, because I was, indeed, a very poor disciple but loved his company more than anything. I don’t believe for a minute that Sayyid Omar wasn’t a great murid.

  He never stopped travelling. A poem was written about him calling him Al-Rahhal, "The Wanderer". A friend once told me that the people of the East African coast (Sawahel – Swahilis) loved two things more than anything else: safari (travel) and resting. In this sense, Sayyid Omar was a typical Swahili. He loved travelling. He would go anywhere at the drop of a hat. And he loved to rest. I would ask him if he would like to go to such and such a place and, without a moment’s hesitation he would always say "Yala!" (Let's go!). When we would take off by car he would begin to invoke the names of God and almost immediately fall asleep. He told me many times, "I never regret any sleep that I have.” His reasoning was that when one is sleeping there is no hisab, or accounting, by God. Sleep is a recess from judgment.

  Sometime after my first meeting with Sayyid Omar I had a vivid dream or ru’ya. In it he was standing before me. I said to him, apropos of nothing in particular, "The thing is, I can fly." He didn’t speak but, rather, made an upward sweep of his arm as if to say, "So fly!" And I did. I began to fly, rising above him as he gestured me higher and higher. I kept rising until Sayyid Omar was a tiny speck and the atmosphere became so rarified that I lost consciousness. When I regained consciousness in my dream I was standing in front of my own personal Kaaba. It was smaller than the real Ka’aba but very beautiful and powerful. I made takbir (opening the prayer by raising one's hands and declaring "Allahu Akbar" - "God is Great") and said my prayers. I had no idea what the meaning of the dream was but it was one of the most beautiful and vibrant dreams I have ever had.