As he headed home, Zahir said, “Truly. May God take revenge on every depraved soul.”
All the men went home, and I headed for my house as well. Everyone must have been thinking about who the culprit was. Mihyan must have had a hand in it. Even if he hadn’t burned down the meetinghouse with his own hands, that wouldn’t have prevented him from sending some stranger to do the job. He thinks he’ll regain the village leadership if he burns down our meetinghouse. But that will never happen. Then again, who’s to say it wasn’t Zahir? He’s another one of the people who have refused to recognize our council. Walad Sulaymi has also rejected our council, and tried to prevent us from starting it. Did they make a joint plan? It’s possible. They all had a part in laying the plan. So who carried it out? Khalid. That’s it. Khalid! That night when I caught a glimpse of him, he must have come to check the place out and plan a way to burn down the meetinghouse. I’ll get back at all of you. Our meetinghouse will go back to the way it was. I’ll get back at you, you crooks!
KHADIM WALAD AL-SAYL
O Sorrow, Wring Us Dry!
“Come closer so that you can receive a reward,” called Imam Rashid. “Let each person strew three handfuls of dirt on the deceased, then let someone else do the same so that he can receive a reward as well.”
As we flocked around the grave to strew soil over it, a cloud of dust was released into the air, and fits of coughing began. Hands reached out and strewed the soil until the grave disappeared and there was nothing left but dirt. The hole disappeared and the dirt rose higher, forming a hill over the surface of the earth. Little by little people began to withdraw. We started sprinkling water over the mound atop the grave. People stepped back.
We sat around the grave in silence. The soil was moist. Faces were mournful and frightened. Ubayd al-Dik cleared his throat. Then, his eyes filled with tears, he began reciting. “In the name of God, Most Gracious, Most Merciful . . . Everything will perish except His own face. To Him belongs the command, and to Him will ye all be brought back . . . . Every soul shall have a taste of death, and only on the Day of Judgment shall you be paid your full recompense. Only he who is saved far from the Fire and admitted to the Garden will have attained the object of Life. For the life of this world is but goods and chattels of deception.” Tears welled up in people’s eyes. My master Mihyan’s fingers trembled. I found myself crying and mixing my tears with the mud that clung to my fingers. Ubayd al-Dik’s voice continued: “From the earth did We create you, and into it shall We return you, and from it shall We bring you out once again. God created you on Earth for reward, and into the Earth will He return you, giving your bodies over to the worms and the soil. Then out of it shall He take you once again so that your deeds might be presented before Him, and you might be called to account.”
Everything fell silent except for that beautiful voice. Even the sparrows grew still. All our eyes were directed toward the grave. Ubayd al-Dik said, “In the name of God, the Most Gracious, Most Merciful. In the name of God, in God, from God, to God, upon God, and upon the religion of the Messenger of God. This is what the most Merciful has promised, and the apostles have spoken the truth. There shall be nothing but a single cry, and behold, they shall all be brought into His presence.”
He stopped. All eyes were on Ubayd. His tears were flowing, and he gazed steadily at the grave. He tried to speak, but choked on his tears. He fell silent. He tried once more, and again he got choked up. Then he began, in a faltering voice, “O servant of God, son of God’s handmaiden, may God have mercy on you. The earthly world and its adornment have departed from you, and you are now in one of the places of transition between this life and the life to come. Beware, lest you forget the pledge with which you parted from us and which you brought with you into the abode of eternity, namely, the testimony that ‘There is no god but God, and Muhammad is the Messenger of God.’”
All of us repeated the dual testimony, our lips quivering. Many shook their heads in anguish and dismay. The mellifluous voice went on: “So if you are approached by the two angels who have been given charge of you and of others who, like you, belong to the nation of Muhammad, let them not be a cause of disturbance or alarm. Know that they are creatures of God just as you are. When they come to you, prop you up in your grave and ask you, ‘Who is thy Lord? What is thy religion? Who is thy prophet? What belief dost thou profess? And in what faith didst thou die?’ say to them, ‘God is my Lord.’ When they ask you again, tell them, ‘God is my Lord.’ When they ask you a third time—which is an auspicious conclusion—tell them confidently, without fear or alarm, ‘God is my Lord, Islam is my religion, Muhammad is my prophet, the Qur’an is my leader and guide, the Ka‘ba is the point toward which I turn in prayer, prayer is my solemn duty, Muslims are my brethren, Ibrahim the friend of God is my father, and I have lived and died based on the profession that there is no god but God and Muhammad is the Messenger of God.’”
The weeping grew louder. Bitter weeping. The sparrows were weeping. The earth was weeping. The men were weeping. Everything was weeping bitter tears the likes of which there had never been. After a pause Ubayd al-Dik continued dictating to the deceased: “Hold fast, O servant of God, to this plea, and know that you will dwell in this place of transition until the dead are raised. When you are asked, ‘What sayest thou about this man who wast sent among you, and among all humankind?’ say, ‘He is Muhammad, may God’s peace and blessings rest upon him, who came to us with clear signs from his Lord, so that we followed him and believed in his message.’ But if they turn away, say: ‘God sufficeth me: There is no god but He. On Him is my trust, He is the lord of the Throne Supreme!’ Know, O servant of God, that death is real, the descent into the grave is real, the interrogation by Munkar and Nakir is real, the resurrection is real, the accounting for one’s deeds is real, the Scale in which a person’s good and bad deeds are weighed is real, the Sirat is real, the Fire is real, Paradise is real, the Fire is coming without a doubt, and God raises those who are in the grave.”
The voice came forth, rending the heavens and rending hearts. Khalid was weeping in a heartbreaking voice, and Walad Sulaymi had buried his face in his hands. Ubayd continued, and gradually hands were raised in the air. “We commend you now to God’s protection. O Thou who art the Intimate Companion of all who art alone, Thou whose presence shall never come to an end, keep him company in his solitude, and be merciful to us in our sojourn as strangers, and to him in his.”
“Amen.”
Ubayd went on: “Give him the words to say in answer to the angels’ questions. Put us not to the test now that he has departed. Forgive us and him, O Lord and Cherisher of the worlds!”
“Amen.”
The voice grew fainter as it said, “Glory to thy Lord, the Lord of honor and power! He is free from what they ascribe to Him. And peace on the apostles. And praise to God, the Lord and Cherisher of the worlds. The Fatiha.”
Then our lips began to move as we repeated the Fatiha, the Throne Verse, and suras 112, 113, and 114 of the Qur’an. After a brief silence, the mellifluous voice rose in supplication: “In the name of God, Most Gracious, Most Merciful. Praise be to God, the Lord and Cherisher of the worlds. Let our praise be commensurate with His blessings and their increase, and may it ward off His chastisement! May blessings and peace be upon our master Muhammad and upon his family and companions one and all.”
“Amen.”
We all said it, and al-Dik’s voice rose aloft with a tone of lament that shook us to the depths: “O God, may the reward, blessing, and light produced by our recitation of Thy timeless speech reach the spirit of our master Muhammad (peace and blessing be upon him) and the spirits of his ancestors, his descendants, his fellow prophets and apostles, their families, and all other righteous people.”
“Amen.”
“May it reach the spirit of the person on whose behalf we have recited these words and for whose sake we have come to this place. Thou dost know him better than we ourselves do, and dost know his
name: Zahir, son of God’s handmaiden Fatima.”
“Amen.” As everyone uttered the “Amen,” Khalid broke into loud sobs, his voice rattling in his throat. My master Mihyan had tears in his eyes, Walad Sulaymi was shaking his head, and Ubayd continued praying. . . .
WALAD SULAYMI
The Prayer of the Fearful
Was I just having a long dream?
What’s happened is no small thing. Everything has happened more quickly than anyone could have anticipated. Just like that, in a matter of days, the tranquillity the village enjoyed for decades has turned into a huge clamor. I never thought I would live to see everything that’s happened in the past few weeks. Does this make any sense?
The day after that meetinghouse was burned down, Suhayl registered a complaint against Khalid with the municipal authorities, accusing him of setting the meetinghouse on fire. The authorities brought a team of experts to examine the site of the conflagration. They jailed Khalid for two days. Then, not finding any evidence against him, they released him. Furious, Zahir started a war of words with Suhayl and his cronies, accusing them of sabotaging the village. They in turn accused him of being the village’s biggest saboteur, and the cause of all its woes. People got to work building a new meetinghouse four days after the first one had been burned down. The night after the work began, the mud house Mihyan had been building for Alam al-Din was destroyed. We woke up the next morning to find everything Mihyan had built in ruins, with pickax marks on the walls. Everyone who saw the house was incredulous.How could people have taken pickaxes to the walls during the night without anyone noticing who had done it? Zahir pointed the finger at Suhayl and those with him. He said, “You’ve gone too far this time. Now you’re showing your malice openly!”
Suhayl denied that either he or any of his helpers had done the deed, saying, “There are lots of people in the village who don’t want Alam al-Din to be here. Why are you accusing us in particular? Or is this your way of keeping people from thinking about the fact that our meetinghouse was burned down?”
A battle of words broke out between them that, as usual, did nobody any good.
The night after this big argument, Zahir was found dead. He had been stabbed in the heart with a knife. He was lying on his face near the market. We were all shocked. I didn’t believe the news. I’d been sitting with Mihyan, who was taciturn and miserable over what had happened to him, when Khadim ran up to us, panting, and told us about the state they’d found Zahir in. We rushed toward the place, where we saw people gathered around the corpse. They summoned the municipal authorities, who came right away and took possession of the body. Khalid didn’t believe it had really happened, since he hadn’t been present when they found his grandfather’s body. By the time he got there, the authorities had already taken the body away, so he went after them. After two days of red tape and an autopsy, they released the body. An officer leaked information to the effect that, according to the police report, there was no sign indicating Zahir had tried to resist the murderer. There wasn’t a single scratch on his body. All they had found was the knife, which had nothing but his own fingerprints on it. Did that make any sense? Even if everybody in the world agreed that Zahir had committed suicide, I would call them liars to their faces. Why would he have committed suicide? Mihyan, who lost the village leadership, hasn’t killed himself, so why should Zahir have killed himself? Zahir—who had more strength and resilience than anyone I’ve ever known—kill himself? He didn’t kill himself when fate afflicted him with his son’s addiction, or when, after his son’s death, everybody refused to pray over him and bury him. Never once did he run away from the village in spite of all the confrontations he had with its people, or the difficulties he faced here. So how could he have decided to run away from the whole world just like that, without any forewarning? I’m absolutely certain he was murdered. They murdered you, Zahir. But how could you have failed to notice that stab of treachery? Who was close enough to you to surprise you with a blow that could find its way to your heart? Who’s left in this village? I don’t believe what the officer said about your killing yourself by positioning the knife so it aimed toward your heart, then throwing your whole weight onto it. That’s stupid. You, Zahir, weren’t someone who would kill himself and die a coward. And on whose account? On account of these scumbags?
Your death forced them back to Mihyan’s meetinghouse, even though, just a few days earlier, they’d sworn they would never go back there. They couldn’t find anywhere else to hold the wake, so they came to you with their heads bowed in humiliation. The wake that was held on your behalf was different from any that had gone before it. Everyone kept quiet. No one dared talk about anything irrelevant the way people do at most other wakes. People came, offered their condolences to Khalid, then sat down along the edges of the meetinghouse without saying another word. It was as if they were afraid you might suddenly jump out at them and shout in their faces not to talk about trivialities.
The three days of the wake were extremely difficult for me. The village has no flavor without you, Zahir. When the wake was over, Khalid went back and shut himself up in the house. He stopped attending the communal prayers. And why should he come to pray? Jam‘an has begun crowding Alam al-Din out at the noon and mid-afternoon prayers. He comes and sits in the first row. When the muezzin announces that the prayer is beginning, he comes forward to lead the prayer. With his horrifying voice, he shouts, “Stand in a straight row, God have mercy on you!” Where is the mercy going to come from as long as you’re the imam? Alam al-Din knows he can’t compete with Jam‘an for the position of imam. He’s a stranger, and he’s new. Besides, those wicked men want Jam‘an. The day before yesterday, Imam Rashid stayed away from the sundown prayer and Jam‘an came forward. In the first rak‘a, he recited sura 99, “The Earthquake.” I swear to God, I felt as though the mosque was actually being shaken by an earthquake, his voice is so hideous. In the second rak‘a he began reciting sura 101, “The Sudden Calamity,” and three men fled and didn’t finish their prayer. No doubt they wanted to rescue their ears. After the prayer I said to him, “Fear God, man! Why do you intimidate Muslims this way?” We’ve started being afraid of praying because of Jam‘an. And now there’s another disaster on its way: I hear he wants to start preaching the Friday sermon. Now that is a calamity! For years we’ve put up with Imam Rashid when he preaches the Friday sermon. He used to deliver the sermon in a kind of singsong voice, and people would fall asleep while he was talking. Now Jam‘an’s going to come, and it looks as though nobody will even be able to stay in the mosque till the end of the sermon.
The village is headed for an abyss, and I don’t know where the bottom of it is. After the wake was over, people rebuilt the new meetinghouse, and Mihyan began spending most of his time staring at the minaret. I went to him and said, “Haven’t you spent enough time mourning? When will you get back to your life?”
“What’s the use?” he replied. “All I want now is to die, and for my grave to be inside that minaret. Do you see it?”
Our eyes filled with tears, and we parted without another word. Even Khadim is without work now. All he does is sit in the house waiting for his master to go back to the way he was before.
You’re falling, you wicked village. Everything in you is headed for hell, just as I expected. Don’t you remember how many times I said, “You fell out of hell, and you’re bound to end up back there again. You’re bound to end up back there again”?
Wickedness has multiplied. That’s why I keep saying, “O village, one of these days you’ll be back in hell.”
KHALID BAKHIT
The Messages Are for You Alone
My beloved Abir,
What should I write now? Two days ago I thought oblivion was bound to come, and that it would swallow up the love and sorrow that had passed between us. I believed in my ability to move forward along life’s paths and to become so busy with other things—anything—that I would have no time to think of you. But you cling to the minu
test particles of the spirit, and there’s no way to extract you except by extracting them. The wound you left inside me is getting steadily smaller, and whenever I wake up my heart says to me: “If she hadn’t been madly in love with you, if she hadn’t been afraid of losing you, she wouldn’t have hidden from you the fact that she was married. Maybe she’d never experienced being in love before, and had come to know the richness of its worlds with you alone. Maybe she just didn’t have the courage to rebel against societal strictures. Or maybe you didn’t give her enough security for her to feel confident risking everything. Did you ever tell her that your desire for her would never change no matter what lay in her past? You were bound to forget the past and date her birth from the day she first saw you. But you never spoke to her of this desire, or how love began with you. Didn’t she have the right to be afraid of losing you, then, and to do whatever she could to keep you? Even when she invited you to her house to prepare the way to tell you, you gave her no respite. Instead, the minute you heard the truth, you struck her! But what had she done wrong? The children aren’t hers, and she had married that man based on her father’s decision, not hers. When she loved you, on the other hand, it was based on her own heart’s decision. Did you ever learn of any liaisons between her and other people? Did you ever doubt her loyalty to you? Our problem when it comes to love is that we always want those we love to match the image we’ve drawn of them in our mind’s eye. We’re more in love with our own fantasy than we are with the people themselves. And when we’re confronted with reality and it exposes the falsity of our illusion, we punish the ones we love! You were hasty. Believe me, you’ll never forget Abir as long as you live. Believe me.”
Earth Weeps, Saturn Laughs Page 21