Earth Weeps, Saturn Laughs

by Abdulaziz Al Farsi

  “Voices of agreement went up in support of Jam‘an’s point of view, urging Ubayd to agree to his request. Ubayd gulped. He knew now that his suspicion had been correct, and that Jam‘an’s absence had been a studied plan to get what he was after. He agreed grudgingly once again. More days passed. Then Jam‘an began missing the dawn prayer. Realizing what was afoot, his rival ignored the matter and asked no questions. Three nights passed. Then, at dawn on the fourth day, Jam‘an got to the mosque before Ubayd and sounded the call to prayer. By this time they were at loggerheads, so they decided to bring the matter before the village council.

  “Mihyan said, ‘We’ve come together tonight to resolve the dispute between the two muezzins, Ubayd and Jam‘an. We’ll listen to them one at a time. What do you have to say, Ubayd?’ Ubayd said, ‘I was the first muezzin in this village. You gave Jam‘an the noon and mid-afternoon prayers to help him be regular about attending the communal prayers and to confirm him in his repentance. And now he’s attending prayer regularly. What more does he want? Do any of you have complaints about my voice? I’ve served as your muezzin for a quarter of a century, and never once have I asked for a reward from anyone but my Maker. After all these years, don’t I have the right not to be deprived of my only pleasure in life? I’ve asked God to take me while I’m sounding the call to prayer. Would this inconvenience any of you? I don’t think so. So why would you banish me from the mosque?’

  “There was a strange silence, and everybody felt hot. Mihyan said, ‘And you, Jam‘an, what do you have to say?’ Jam‘an lifted his head, looked around at those gathered, and said, ‘God will gather hypocrites and infidels in the fires of hell. And now I’m half a hypocrite. That’s right. Half a hypocrite, because I pray the mid-afternoon prayer, but not the dawn prayer. The night I decided to help myself by staying up and waiting till it was time for the call to prayer, you summoned me here on the pretext that I’d stolen a call to prayer. Don’t laugh. You’re now accusing me of stealing a call to prayer. Otherwise, what would be the point of calling this session and of listening to the two of us? Just because I was the one who sounded the dawn call to prayer rather than the muezzin who’s served you all these years? Ubayd sounded the call to prayer for a quarter of a century. And now what? Does that give him the right to prevent someone else from drawing near to God? Who told you that acts of worship are the sole province of one person? Ubayd has been tall enough in this world. So why should he deprive a short man like me of the chance to be tall on the Day of Resurrection? I’m not demanding all the calls to prayer. I’m only asking for the dawn prayer, the noon prayer, and the mid-afternoon prayer. He can have the sundown prayer and the final evening prayer.’

  “Ubayd came rushing over from the edge of the meetinghouse, shouting, ‘No way! Tomorrow you’ll come and say you want the sundown prayer. And after that you’ll demand the final evening prayer! No way! You can have what you’ve taken: the noon and mid-afternoon prayers. And that’s it!’ Jam‘an got up and left the meetinghouse. On his way out, he stopped at the entrance. Lifting his right forefinger in Ubayd’s face, he said angrily, ‘You’re not the only muezzin. The dawn call to prayer is mine!’

  “When the meeting was adjourned that night, they hadn’t arrived at any resolution to the problem. It was after this that the battle over the dawn call to prayer started. Whoever got there first would sound the call to prayer. Each of them began making the call to prayer a little bit earlier in order to beat the other to it, until the night when Jam‘an sounded the dawn call to prayer an hour after midnight. It’s the truth! Following this incident, the men of the village delivered them an ultimatum, and assigned Imam Rashid the task of teaching one of the village’s younger men how to sound the call to prayer in preparation for having him replace both muezzins.

  “One night Jam‘an decided to spend the night in the mosque right under the microphone so that he could sound the dawn call to prayer. But just before the call to prayer should have been sounded, he fell asleep from sheer exhaustion. Ubayd al-Dik slipped in, turned on the microphone, and began sounding the call to prayer himself. When he had finished saying ‘Hayya ‘ala al-salah’ for the second time, Jam‘an came to. Indignant, he got up, knocked Ubayd to the floor, and proceeded to finish the call. The whole village heard the call to prayer that morning in two voices, in between which there was a brief pause in which Ubayd’s voice could be heard saying, ‘Ouch!’ after he’d fallen on the floor. After the prayer, the congregation had a talk about this novel way of doing the call to prayer. Sa‘id Dhab‘a said to them, ‘You’ve finally found a compromise! You’ll be sounding the call to prayer together from now on.’

  “Your grandfather said, ‘I’ve never heard of such a thing before. This is heretical!’ Muhammad ibn Sa‘id said, ‘They’ve both lost their minds . . . lost their minds.’ Khamis Hantar asked Imam Rashid, ‘What does Islamic law have to say about this kind of call to prayer, O venerable shaykh of ours?’ Imam Rashid choked on his saliva. I heard it myself. After giving the question some thought, he replied, ‘If we base our ruling on an analogy to the way the two imams take turns reciting the Qur’an during the night prayers at the Sacred Mosque in Mecca, I see no harm in letting two muezzins sound the dawn call to prayer. However, they have to announce the commencement of the prayer together, too.’ ‘That’s right,’ I said sarcastically, ‘it would be too much for one person alone.’ ‘Cut out the sarcasm,’ Mihyan scolded me. I said, ‘Does this make any sense, you ill-fated village—a call to prayer sounded by two people? The first imam at the Sacred Mosque in Mecca gets up and leads the congregation in one or two cycles of the night prayer. Then he withdraws and lets the other imam lead the worshipers in one or two more cycles. Have you ever seen the first imam step back after the first rak‘a and say, “Here, friend, you finish out the second rak‘a?” Besides, this is an invalid analogy. How can you compare the Sacred Mosque in Mecca with this renegade mosque of ours? Curses on you!’

  “But nobody listened to me. I asked Ubayd over and over to stop taking part in sounding the dawn call to prayer. He said, ‘If I give up the dawn prayer, I’ll lose all the others, too.’ After some time had passed, the two men agreed that Ubayd would sound the call to prayer up to the end of the first ‘Hayya ‘ala al-salah’ and that Jam‘an would take it from there to the end. They also divided the iqama, or the announcement that prayer is about to begin in the mosque, between themselves. And that’s how the dawn call to prayer got to be such a burdensome task that it takes two people to carry it out!”

  Walad Sulaymi heaved a sigh and looked up at the full moon, whose captivating silver hue blended with his face to create an exquisite portrait. Despite its youthfulness, it was a face that bore the scars of the years. There were two faces in this village that had extraordinary effects on the unknown inside me: the face of Walad Sulaymi with his radiant youthfulness, and the face of my grandfather with his snow-white beard and impeccably aligned teeth.

  “Can we go now?” Walad Sulaymi asked. I nodded my head. We retraced our steps in silence. After hearing what Sulaymi had to say, I became a believer like everyone else in the village. And, more importantly, I decided to concern myself with the village’s crazy secrets, and with discovering what it had left to posterity in times gone by.

  MIHYAN IBN KHALAF

  The Dream’s Eyelids, the Fluttering of Time

  No reality exists on this village’s soil. Everything here is part of a crazy dream. We’ll wake up from it soon and resume the lives we were living before going to sleep. I don’t remember when I went to sleep to have this dream. But I’m certainly having the shortest dream anyone could have. A British officer said to me one evening, “Do you know how long the longest dream anyone ever had was?” “Three hours?” I guessed. He shook his head, his lips parting in a knowing smile. He looked out at the sea before us. “Less than a minute!” he said. “And even that was a miracle, since most dreams last less than ten seconds. Imagine! These long dreams, the journeys we go on, our co
nflicts and our terrifying nightmares, in reality last less than ten seconds! Ten seconds, during which time our eyelids flutter rapidly. And then we wake up. That’s how life is, Mihyan! That’s how life is!”

  I’ve lived my life imagining that in just a few minutes I’m going to wake up to find my father saying to me, “Get up for the dawn prayer. Your eyelids fluttered a little while ago. What did you dream about?” Then I’ll tell him about this village, about this age, about those who died along the sides of this long road, about these men with their high aspirations and their noble ambitions, about the sons of the pristine earth. I’ll lay my head on my father’s shoulder, and maybe I’ll weep in terror over that long nightmare that lasted, in reality, less than a minute!

  O village dawn! Who was born yesterday, and who died? And this light of yours, how many healthy souls did it shine on? My feet have grown weary, O dawn. The years have grown weary inside me, and I’ve grown old. These abandoned houses know me well. They recognize my beads of sweat. With these two hands of mine I helped to raise their walls. Mihyan was the people’s leader, and their servant. If anyone attending the village council said, “I want to build a house,” I would declare publicly, “We’ll start tomorrow.” The next morning I would be the first person to arrive at the site. Then I would plan, help bring the mud, and start building. I found myself by building, by raising walls from the surface of the ground.

  I used to feel as though I were vanquishing Time when I caused a building that hadn’t existed the day before to rise into the air. All Mihyan wanted was to be a builder. He would bid his wife farewell in the morning, then come home in the evening, saying, “I raised the walls of So-and-so’s house.” Being a leader mattered little to him. But on the day the modern houses appeared and construction workers were brought in from overseas, Mihyan perished. They said, “Their wages are cheaper.” And I said, “Did I ever ask you for wages? All I wanted was the pleasure of building.”

  They only left these mud houses standing out of respect for my wishes. I’d argued that we needed to preserve some variety in the village by having two types of houses: new and old. The fact is, I can’t bear to tear down something my hands have built. I no longer have anyone to carry my name. So my children are these aged, abandoned houses who died on their feet. And now the abandoned houses are calling out to me, guiding my steps, giving meaning to Mihyan.

  When I walked into the mosque, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The number of people who had come for the prayer that morning was nearly equal to the number who attended the Friday sermon. So, were we really waiting for the dawn prayer just now? Men, children, and the elderly were all in attendance. It was a gathering reminiscent of funerals, and of the catastrophe that was breaking the village’s back. What had changed them all of a sudden? I knew that Jam‘an’s voice calling, “Prayer is better than sleep!” would have been enough to wake up everyone in our village and in all the villages around us. And unless God had willed it otherwise, it would have roused the dead in their graves. However, in the entire six months since he’d begun issuing the call to prayer, he hadn’t managed to force Walad Shamshum to set foot in the mosque, still less attend the dawn prayer! What had brought him out this morning? Sa‘id Dhab‘a was there, too. He had prayed the mid-afternoon prayer in the mosque the day before. Thus, according to his weekly schedule, he was due to attend the mosque for the sundown prayer today, not the dawn prayer.

  I came up to him and whispered, “I think you’re confused. You were supposed to—”

  Interrupting me, he said, “I was supposed to pray the sundown prayer in the mosque today. But today’s dawn prayer is an exception. I’ll pray the sundown prayer in the mosque tomorrow.”

  Seeing that I had arrived, Imam Rashid gave instructions for the prayer to begin. Ubayd and Jam‘an got up and announced the prayer’s commencement. The imam then stepped forward and led us in prayer. But when he recited the traditional “prayer of obedience,” he added something new to it. He said, “O God, purge our land of the rebellious. O God, deliver us from the iniquity of our sons. O God, turn their night into endless slumber!” It was no surprise to find Imam Rashid making up his own supplications, which he always insists are traditional prayers. The whole village has memorized outlandish prayers of his. However, the use of the dawn prayer in particular as a platform for his own personalized supplications was something new to the village.

  After the prayer was over, broad-framed Hamid Dahana got up and said, “I know you’ve come here to complain. After all, Khalid Bakhit has made our lives hell. We work hard all day long. Then we can’t even get a decent night’s sleep. It’s a serious matter, and it needs to be looked into right away.” Voices went up, with everyone seconding what Dahana had said.

  Walad Shamshum said, “We’re not waiting an hour longer. We’re going to resolve this thing right now.”

  Suhayl al-Jamra al-Khabitha (“Anthrax Suhayl”) added, “The village has got to go back to the way it was before. But that won’t happen unless Khalid Bakhit leaves it.”

  “That’s right!” everyone agreed.

  “And his Saturnine poet, too.”

  There was a loud clamor.

  Someone said, “And his homeland.” Then everyone fell silent.

  Khalid Bakhit himself was present, and he was laughing. But no one dared insult him or lay a hand on him as long as his grandfather, Zahir Bakhit, was in the same room. A vigorous old man, Zahir Bakhit enjoyed remarkable prestige. Even though he was seventy years old, he still stood erect, and his eyes were as sharp as a hawk’s. He was busy uttering praises to God on his rosary, with Khalid seated to his right. Then he raised his hands in supplication. When he had finished, he got up and headed for where Hamid Dahana was standing. Dahana retreated and sat down. Zahir Bakhit looked around at everyone, and silence filled the room.

  “Peace be upon you,” he said. They returned the salutation. Then he began to speak. “Welcome. So you’ve come together? During the day you pass by the mosque while the imam is leading people in prayer, then you go home as though you were deaf and blind. But when it comes to whether you can sleep or not, a complaint against a fellow Muslim, or some intrigue, you come and fill the mosque. Your hearts must be dancing for joy now, since you think you’re going to hurt my grandson. But rest assured, no one’s going to hurt him, not even this good-for-nothing imam who added something new to the prayer of obedience, and prayed for the village to be purged of my grandson. And before long those who are so up in arms will find out who’s going to be purged from the village. Where is Mihyan ibn Khalaf? Are you here? This group will attend your council meeting after the final evening prayer to discuss the matter. Whoever has something to say, let him say it then. And now, go to your jobs, or go back to bed!”

  Nobody dared utter a word after that. They withdrew quietly, one after the other, with the imam in the lead. When I left, the grandfather and his grandson were alone in the mosque, looking at each other.

  The Awaited Trial Council

  Khadim fetched the coffee beans and the cardamom and set about making a small fire in front of the meetinghouse, which opened onto the outdoors. As he busied himself preparing the coffee, the aroma of the roasting coffee beans brought thoughts to my mind. He got up and brought the dalla and the cups. Meanwhile, I began looking thoughtfully at his stout fingers, his robust frame, and his black complexion. When the coffee was ready, he poured the pot’s contents into the dalla, then stood up to serve the coffee as he always did. He handed me my first cupful. I lifted my eyes toward him and said, “You’re growing a mustache, Khadim.” I returned the cup and he handed me my second cupful.

  “‘Boy,’ Master,” he said. I handed him the cup, and he gave me my third cupful.

  “What did you say?” I asked. “I didn’t hear you well.”

  “Call me ‘Boy,’ Master,” he repeated, “the way you always have before.”

  “But you’ve grown up,” I replied. “You’re a man now. And Khadim is your name.”


  “I’ll be your boy, Master, as long as I live.”

  As we spoke I took the cup, shook it gently, and handed it to Khadim. He put the dalla back in its place and set about washing the cups.

  “What’s the village news?” I inquired. “Have you heard anything?”

  “Yes, Master. Everybody’s preoccupied with tonight’s meeting and what Zahir Bakhit is going to do. Hamdan Tajrib said, ‘When a mild-tempered person gets angry, watch out.’ Sa‘id Dhab‘a said he had a raging fever and that he might not attend. Hamid Dahana said to him, ‘So why don’t you send your wife to the meetinghouse? She’s braver than you are. And at least she doesn’t use some fever as an excuse when the going gets tough.’ That made Sa‘id mad, so he announced that he’d be coming. Khalid Bakhit went to the city and brought back four new books. He told the men who’d come to pray the mid-afternoon prayer, ‘The homeland has gone to sleep in one of these books. I’m going to look for it before I come tonight, and maybe I’ll bring the Saturnine poet.’ Suhayl al-Jamra al-Khabitha said he was going to attend in order to give his blessing to the gathering. Walad Sulaymi hasn’t said a word all day. Walad Shamshum . . .”

  Ubayd al-Dik sounded the call to the final evening prayer, so Khadim stopped in mid-sentence. We listened to the call to prayer, then headed for the mosque. When we went in, it was bursting with worshipers. Everyone was chattering with the person beside him. Then the prayer began. Imam Rashid recited suras 93 and 111 of the Qur’an. As soon as the prayer was over, everyone in the congregation headed straight for the meetinghouse. Sa‘id Dhab‘a and Walad Shamshum were waiting for the others when they arrived. So they hadn’t attended the final evening prayer!

  Silence reigned among us at the meetinghouse. The only sound that could be heard was the clinking of cups as Khadim passed the coffee around. Once they had all had their three cupfuls, the silence returned. To my right sat Walad Sulaymi, to his right sat Hamid Dahana, and to their right sat Dhab‘a. Walad Shamshum sat to my left, and to his left, al-Jamra al-Khabitha and Hamdan Tajrib. Khalid Bakhit and his grandfather sat along the right side of the meetinghouse. I looked around at the many faces. I couldn’t recall a single name, and it seemed as though there were faces I hadn’t seen before. As usual, the young men chose seats at the far end of the meetinghouse so that they could make an easy getaway if the session wasn’t to their liking.