Lightness of Being…

Three and a half decades and thousands of miles removed, Yusuf the son of Kemal Attas and Fatima Badri was born once upon a warm gentle summer night. The full moon shone much brighter at the moment of his birth (as witnessed and later related by his ecstatic father). The room he was born in was adorned, scented and dimly lit by an assortment of flickering lanterns and candles. Only a midwife and his parents were in attendance. After catching up with all her day’s labors, Fatima sent for Ayyesha the aged midwife. “It’s time?” His breathless father inquired. “Yes, I think we are ready now.” In between contractions, Fatima finished cleaning up, lit some incense, prepared his basket, and boiled some water. A simmering pot of “shurba”, barley soup with chunky meat and aromatic spices was ready for her first post labor meal. He had announced his pending arrival earlier that day, and Fatima had been busy in preparation, all the time murmuring soothing prayers and singing traditional welcoming songs for her first child.

By the time Ayyesha arrived, Fatima was already squatting a top some heavy duty rags, deep into the actual labor. Ayyesha washed her lined hands, and squatted with unusual dexterity (for a woman her age) ready to receive the blessed child. She massaged Fatima’s lower back with warm oils she had carried with her, praying and encouraging her beautiful daughter along. Yusuf finally found his way out, and the absence of glaring lights, bark like shouts, high levels of noise, and harried humans, afforded him a warm and comforting entry into this world. His young parents were awed by his open and inquisitive gaze. He did not even utter a cry, for his surroundings soothed him, and the cooing voice of his mother arrested him. Ayyesha had noted his curiosity, lineage, and priding herself on being a seer, sagely commented “This boy is destined for greatness”. His mother had told Yusuf (she called him her moon child) his “birth story” many times,  at his request, always adding little tidbits and details to color his sacred journey from the world of the unseen.

His parents lived a frugal life in the middle of a desert far away. Kemal was merchant who spent many nights in neighboring oases buying and selling wares, and bartering small crafts for essentials. His mother took care of the household, nurtured her garden, children, pets, neighbors and wayfarers. With his father frequently away and with him being the oldest child (a big gap in years and maturity existed between his siblings and himself), he ended up spending a lot of time with his mother. As Yusuf grew into his manhood, he always looked back with a grateful heart to the careful manner in which his mother nurtured and directed his spiritual life.

Of course Fatima Badri was no ordinary woman. She came down a line of active struggling scholars who took the concept of “social justice and reform” as a serious and necessary part of their spiritual growth. This of course often landed them in trouble, and the saga with her own grandfather neither began nor ended with him being ousted from “the” village. Even as her grandfather cast his roots in the far away desert that Fatima was born and raised (and was eventually to die in), he always spoke about his homeland and people with poetic wistfulness. He carefully instructed her father, passing down pearls of wisdom, and eventually recommended his son to continue his journey under the auspicious guidance of his own teacher. When she was born, an only child, both her grandfather and father, refused to treat her any different because of her gender. She received the same religious instruction even as she was expected to learn her womanly duties. She excelled in both, and went further to churn her well of wisdom into creative outbursts of poetry, parables, and ancient stories textured with meaning and adorned with intricate layers of beauty.

It wasn’t so much her knowledge (which was not necessary prized by those around her) but her uncommon beauty and gentle personality that garnered hundreds of proposals from suitors far and wide. Kemal won her over at her grandfather’s gentle prodding; he came from a long line of honest merchants and grew up an earnest, obliging young man with kindly and winsome ways. Furthermore Kemal’s family had opened the doors to their home when her grandfather made his way there, decades ago, with his sickly wife and screaming child, penniless and outcast. Her marriage was a way to solidify their relations and express his humble gratitude.

When Yusuf was born both his great grandfather and grandfather had passed away (one from the natural conclusion of a long, well lived life, the latter an untimely death at the hands of bandits). In spite of the absence of their physical presence, their spirits outlined his every perception. She passed down his legacy, making sure that no spiritual lesson was imparted without a corollary action. If there was one thing his great grandfather despised was the “inert” scholar. “Words should not be uttered if they do not conform with the tongue of your state (haal).”

Fatima insisted on beauty and gentleness, she carried each task she had with due attention, adding little details to color magic with her touch. She implanted in Yusuf the love of solitude and silence for “an awed soul grasps one of the keys to the gates of wisdom”. When she noted his musical inclination, she sent Kemal for a used guitar, which Yusuf cherished for the rest of his life. On certain timeless nights when his father was far away and Fatima was feeling melancholy she would request “My moon child, serenade your old mother’s heart” and out of his soul burst the most soulful and poignant of compositions.

Yusuf followed his grandparents’ path, under the sagacious hand of the very same desert teacher who taught his predecessors. Many legends surrounded that eternal man, and some thought that he had existed since the beginning of time and would die only at the very end right before the Angel of death took his own life. Even at his ancient age, the teacher could still dig up a mean well where no water was thought to exist, and labor alongside his neighbors to ensure that every soul within forty households (in each direction) had no need that went unsatisfied. He taught Yusuf many practical things; knowledge of herbs and healing, of stars and the cosmos, of logic and music, of poetry and philosophy. He gave Yusuf a few essential books and instructed him to commit them to memory (one of which was the Holy book). At every step in the way, he illustrated how the eyes of the soul can only be kept alive through the works of ones hands. “These hands of mine will attest to what they have reaped on this earth…” His ancient voice remarked one starry night “Mine will bear witness that I have never allowed them a moment of rest.”

Yusuf, a quiet and reflective boy from the moment of his birth was thus immersed in a world where the mundane was consistently elevated to sacredness by the willful breath of conscientious souls.

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Back in “the” village, the Teacher spent one of his first of many restless nights reflecting on the new turn of events which threatened his people. “And so it has come to pass, the spirit of Hamza comes back to torment us even generations later.” Of course the Teacher knew about Yusuf’s great grandfather, after all unbeknownst to even Yusuf himself, they all come from the same lineage.

Hamza (as his great grandfather’s name happened to be) had been the restless and “rebel” soul born in a long line of great and placid Teachers who valued and insisted on their own form of traditional learning. They had been in the village since the beginning of their collective memory, and had occupied the center seat of religious and spiritual instruction. Since the political structure was very informal in their small community; his family garnered as much power as the line of “unofficial” chiefs and they were equally prosperous owing to the structure and rites of their society.

Hamza was the first born and next in line for being a spiritual leader (had he managed to conform to the expectations that governed his position). For one, none of his forefathers insisted on going “abroad” (even risking the ominous forest) to seek more knowledge. His father was furious:

 ”Isn’t what I have taught you enough? Don’t you know our line goes back directly to the most Holiest of men?”

 “There is no end to learning father, and I seek only to experience a little of life outside our boundaries perchance I may learn a bit of wisdom and humility”

Since no one could really argue with that logic (nor dissuade him), they allowed him a specified period of time to go out (to a specified teacher, a couple of villages yonder) and come back. Hamza trekked past their collection of villages, into the desert beyond (which might as well have been China),  where he finally encountered an old man whose eyes spoke of such ancient secrets and wondrous wisdom; whose frame spoke of the humility of labor and suffering; and whose bearing told him only of uncompromised dignity. Hamza knew that his search had reached an end and spent many years learning and working alongside his new-found treasure of a teacher.

He came back to his village a changed man much to his people’s disappointment. He carried in his bosom grandiose ideas that would have required the complete overhaul of their lifelong traditions. The danger too lay not in simply losing what their forefathers had worked so hard to build, but in implanting foreign concepts into a simple people’s mind. Many of the men (and especially women) could not handle the power of thinking without the firm foothold of a staunch philosophy which dictates not just “what to think” but “how to think.” No one mentioned too, that what Hamza proposed would have usurped the power from two of the most prosperous clans (the Teachers’ and the unofficial” chiefs’) and how was a society supposed to function without (the liberal of course) concentration of power (and wealth)?

When his own father came upon Hamza teaching a group of women, he immediately rallied a cry to the village men who ran him, his wife and infant out of town. Teaching women? What in the world did he think he was doing? Didn’t everyone know that opening the doors to educated women would only result in disobedience and widespread corruption on earth?

The (current) Teacher’s own great grandfather, Hamza’s younger sibling, rose to power, and after the tantalizing scandal dissipated, the villagers went back to their sleepy ways and no more was thought of political reform or women rights (such lofty topics for a simple people!) The Teacher himself was not born during that time of course, but somewhere in his dim memory, simmered the collective fear and fury Hamza stewed in the village. Before his own father’s death, the Teacher was adequately guided and prepared to fight against such future breaches against their culture. He knew the time he had been warned about has come. Yusuf came to complete his own great grandfather’s destiny, and the Teacher was the only line of defense for the collective good of his small community.

“The ground of our traditions must not be disturbed.”

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Yusuf made his way up the mountain, really disturbed and confounded by the response he received. What happened? What was so wrong in making the Holy book more accessible? He felt hurt and misunderstood, but more so he sensed that there was something amiss. He was merely a piece in a much larger puzzle that he didn’t comprehend. His thoughts went back to his great grandfather. What had really happened between him and the villagers?  Was this part of the personal legend he was led to unfold? The desert teacher had encouraged him to go back to the village.  Against Yusuf’s inclination to leave his side, the ancient man gently pushed him “You are made of much gentler disposition than your hot blooded great grandfather. You will be of much benefit to your people…go discover your roots, back to the beginning, where you may pick up pieces of your legend along the way.”

Yusuf first went back to his mother’s house only to find a shadow of her former self staring uncomprehendingly at him with great suffering eyes. She had been sick for a while, and Yusuf was furious no one had sent word to him in the desert. He immediately set to work, concocting herbs, massaging her frail body and praying the prayer of the distressed for his mother’s wellbeing. Kemal had been home by her side, and two of his siblings had taken over their father’s route.

Yusuf learned a little of the depth of love Kemal held for his wife. He refused to leave her side, holding her hand, talking to her into the depth of the night. He reminded her of their honeymoon days, how they loved to race in the desert and sleep under the endless blanket of night counting the stars. He quoted her some of the love poems she dedicated to him and confessed that he had memorized every poem she composed. He went into minute detail of her great beauty, the way his soul lurches every time he sees her waiting for him at the outskirts of their oasis to welcome him back (he confessed further that even while he acted mad and warned her of the dangers of standing out there alone, he always pressed forward that last stretch of the journey only to have his eyes graced by the glow of her presence). The way he could never desire another woman after he met her, for every one else paled in the sunrise of her wake. He talked of how knowing her had transformed his soul so completely, the way she embroidered God so delicately and beautifully into the fabric of their existence. He was but a simple merchant, blessed in ways so innumerable; he could not help but welcome each dawn with a grateful heart for another day of loving.

When Fatima awoke one day, bright eyed and cheerful, they all knew better than to celebrate. She whispered at length with Kemal and finally called her children forward. “My moon child” she called Yusuf “You have your path set ahead of you; I know you will not disappoint me. I will meet you on the other side…” She called each one in turn to offer them last minute tidbits. She outlined all the affairs that had to be set in order. She asked for a sponge bath, to be helped into her simple green embroidered wedding dress, her long tresses to be combed till shiny, and some incense to be lit. She asked for a few moments to pray and speak to Her Lord. And when all was said and done, she lay down with ineffable joy marking the contours of her face.

A great multitude of people turned out for her funeral. Legends were quickly woven around her existence and people swore that her grave was illuminated by an unearthly light. “She was a saint no less!” “No an Angel, none other…” and on and on the tales continued to spin, each generations remembering details that the prior had forgotten to mention.

Yusuf  bid his remaining family goodbye with great sorrow and a heavy heart. With all his worldly belongings heaped up on his back, he willed his footsteps to go in the direction of the village. He felt like a great light had been forever extinguished from the face of the earth and mourned for all those who never got a chance to lay their eyes upon her; somewhere deep within a part of his soul slowly eclipsed.

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In another household, Yaqqin (a student aptly named for his certainty and grasp of the truth!), sat down to write a long refutation of Yusuf’s translation. He did not really read the copy, for he did not want it to corrupt his thoughts, but he had skimmed the introduction, some of the notes, and conclusion to have a sufficient idea on where this wayward soul was going. Yaqqin, one of the many children of the Teacher, had set his sights on being the “chosen one.” He knew this was his chance to outshine the rest, and prove his status as the brightest (even though he was not the oldest child). The students could only come from the direct lineage of all the great Teachers and among them the oldest (boy) was normally preferred. A few times in history, concessions were made on the “oldest” rule (like the blighted times of Hamza) and others where at the reigning Teacher’s discretion someone else was chosen.

Yaqqin’s first section focused on disparaging Yusuf’s character, that was the easy part, for his deviancy was apparent in all the weird habits he cultivated. Next he wrote a whole treatise expounding on the devil’s instrument (the guitar) and how can one claim spiritual enlightenment while flirting with the accursed one himself? He then talked of the nature of truth and the importance of tradition and the establishment of who the follower is and the followed. Surely, no one could argue that ignorance was rampant in their day and age, and “pray if we do not establish a strict manner in the guardianship and distribution of knowledge then where we would be?”  Just then an inspiration hit and he went on to lay down the rules of the appropriate manner of questioning, the type of questions that could be asked (and the ones to be avoided at all costs), and the necessity of having contentment. Contentment of course, goes beyond ones personal status, into appreciating and upholding the societal norms and established structures. He also quoted past Teachers who spoke of the necessity of following the established authority for not doing so, will only result in widespread mayhem and mischief (again all the means and doors to corruption –or the shadow of potential corruption- should be irrevocably sealed).

Thus his exposition continued, he realized with smug satisfaction, that he did not even need to skim the farce of a translation written to come up with such a powerful rebuttal. He knew without doubt his own book would declare to the Teacher what true Yaqqin (pun intended) his student possesses.

{to be continued}