Remember when you ask yourself, “What purpose have I?” that you have a purpose. It is easy to delete your email address, to cut yourself off, to head for the hills and vanish—it is easy to hide yourself away, but you will forever remain in hearts of the people you touched. Remember as you head for self-destruction, throwing yourself to oblivion, abandoning all that went before: yes, you have a purpose. Not for nought was all of this created!
The past two weeks have seen this blog go through the full mid-life crisis. First going into maintenance mode, then reappearing for a couple of days, then being deleted and replaced with the finale from a Walt Disney cartoon, then momentarily restored, only to be shunted into a sub-directory, to be abandoned in favour of a much needed sort-out of my scattered study notes.
This morning—thanks to a long chat with a trusted advisor last evening—I have put everything back as it was two weeks ago, and I have locked up the notes repository to spare the general public my mistakes; if they do make it back into the public domain at some point in the future, it will only be once they have been checked, edited and put into the right order. Patience is then the order of the day in that regard.
Of course, it wasn’t this inanimate website that had a little crisis; that was me. Blame it on the maddening antics of friends on Facebook that caused me to flee the technology in an instant, blaming the tool instead of dominating nafs; indeed, just as I deleted my blog, so I deleted numerous other online accounts that I have accumulated over the years. Or blame online discussions that to me resemble backbiting and mere gossip—two of the deeds condemned by our deen—that inspired me to rid myself of any blame by association. Or blame the way I stumbled once more soon after venturing back online after many weeks away. Or simply blame my numerous insecurities, my persistent fear of my use of words, the lack of constancy in my life, the wavering between certainty and doubt.
I might blame all of these, but I blame too the lowly character traits of mine that arise from time to time: pride, arrogance, the ego, the desire to be known, respected and liked. Yes, this much is true. This web of little boxes connected by cables all over the world is like a plain upon which we amass our troops, ready to battle our corner for the diseases of our hearts. We fire off rounds and shells: the cruise missile called “respect me”, the scud-missile called “don’t condemn me”, the atomic bomb called “I respect you, so you MUST respect me”—mutually assured destruction?
Yes, I have witnessed all of this in myself, and as a true soldier I kept on fighting my corner right up until last night, even after I had pulled the plug on the website. Because even pulling the plug was part of the battle: it is the ego, the desire to be seen. One’s intention, as we know, is as difficult to detect as black ants crawling on a black stone at night. Even so, as we attune ourselves to our heart as the years pass by, we soon learn that we cannot escape the two witnesses of the heart: God and ourselves.
The games we play are incredible, rekindling the inner child with every passing day. A visitor shall respond, “Actually you’re wrong.” But the inward gaze laments that I’m not wrong at all, and so I can only envy that one that has conquered the calls of his nafs and the whispers of the rejected one. To that one I must repeat that I only know what my own soul contains; you have your journey and I have mine.
My foray into the world of “blogging” has been recent. Prior to mid-2005 I had never heard of a blog—or if I had, I had never given it any thought. I had created a website in 2001 and had occasionally added an article to it over the years that followed, but by 2005 it seems that I was totally out of touch with the technologies of the Internet—my websites were all still static affairs, using table-based layouts and plain HTML. Even a cascading style sheet was a mystery to me.
I believe it was an article in a computer magazine that first pushed me towards creating a blog. I read it in the week that four bombs exploded on the London public transport system and suddenly I had a need to write, to work things out of my system. I googled for a blogging platform and promptly minted one using the first offering that came up. The Neurocentric—my journey of a self-centred soul from my student days—was thus resurrected on Blogger, shedding the sarcasm that my magazine column was famous for in favour of an intense inward gaze. Soon I was hammering out my thoughts, spewing my anger onto the keyboard, relieving the heaviness within.
Google also provided my first link into the world of Muslim blogging. I had no connections with Muslims in cyberspace, for all of my friends were three-dimensional folk. So my search would have been, “blog islam”. The first site I discovered was Yusuf Smith’s Blogistan, and I don’t believe I got much further than this, for his site was the gateway to this corner of the internet; had I hit upon SalafiManhaj, my virtual world could have been entirely different. Br Yusuf had carefully collected a huge list of Muslim blogs, categorised as “Brothers” and “Sisters”, and so I was soon clicking away in my discovery of this other world. He also had a small collection of links entitled, “A-List Blogs”, which would soon become my staple: sunnissisters, izzymo, writeoussister, ae and rolleduptrousers, plus Bin Gregory because I liked the name.
But for me, blogging was not so much about reading what everyone else had to say as about writing, or more specifically, counselling myself with words. That period—however long it lasted—wrought good and bad for me: the bad in an intense depression brought on by unsuccessful medical treatment, the stress of moving house and a disastrous change of job; the good in the bad leading me to re-evaluate my priorities and refocus on my deen. The writing was a kind of therapy, complimented by the words of others, far wiser than I. The blog known as Sunnisisters was the jewel in the crown, always providing exactly what this soul needed exactly when it was needed. Like early in 2006, a post brimming with useful guidance on fasting the Day of Ashurah in Muharram, about which I had been oblivious. Or a beautiful post about the importance of being disciplined in the use of words.
Though, ever since I entered this world of blogging, I have frequently had the urge to walk away, in truth I have benefited from it enormously. Yes, from thinking things through and receiving feedback on my thoughts, and in encountering the words of others. Over the net I hear rumours that the world of the Muslim blog is imploding as battles rage on, but in truth there has been more benefit here for me than the despair that others speak of. Perhaps my blog vision is just too narrow to know much of the wider web. I have moved on beyond that famed A-List, discovering the wonders of Dynamite Soul and Mr Moo, but I am no adventurer: I can count the websites I visit regularly on my finger tips.
Despair descends suddenly and this imperfect soul is well known to waver and stumble, between its bouts of constancy. With the despair come doubts about one’s worth, or the worth of one’s efforts, and so it is only natural that I should return to the same old argument within, between keeping the blog and closing it. But it also helps to step back and be reflective, to evaluate the good as well as the bad, the benefit as well as the harm. Sometimes we can do this alone, but sometimes it takes an outsider to help us see an issue in its proper light. For some, the world of the blog has run its course: they have nothing more to take from it and nothing more to add. But the blog, as a trusted advisor told me last night, still has its place, and can still be a worthwhile pursuit and can even be important.
Somewhere in this jumble, splurged onto the page, is some kind of explanation of how he persuaded me to carry on and keep it up, and keep at it. Yes, with words come responsibility, but that is not only to be silent, but to convey truth, goodness and beauty as well. And so I am here to say, inshaAllah.
It is said that Moses—peace be upon him—was walking with his disciples when they came across a donkey’s corpse.
One of them said it smells so bad. The other said it looks so ugly. Moses, however, looked and said: ‘Mashallah, its teeth are so white.’
- The gratefulness of the ears is to hear goodness with them.
- The gratefulness of the eyes is to see goodness with them.
- The gratefulness of the tongue is to say goodness with it.
There is beauty around but it’s for the trained ear, eye and heart.
I’m not really sure about this Web 2.0 malarkey. I’ve just deleted my Facebook account again. Last time it was because I imagined a fantastical conspiracy in which key investors were databasing our identities for unspeakable ends. I can’t remember how the account came to be resurrected, but somehow I delved back in and rebuilt my global empire of friends. I found old classmates, connected with the Turkish relations and found myself sought by people who knew me from somewhere, or who were a friend of a friend, or who were just trying their luck.
But as of two nights ago, my Facebook account is no more (well technically, it will be no more in 14 days time; in the meantime I can change my mind and pretend this never happened). This time the reason was closer to home. Learning of another marriage on the rocks in which Facebook had played at least a part, I found myself heeding the alarm bells going off within. If this could happen to folk likes these—far better believers that I—it could clearly happen to me.
Although Facebook for me was just a glorified address book—as I shunned the invitations and applications that appeared on the dashboard when I logged in once a week—the analogy that sprang to mind was that of the marketplace. Now I can understand why sitting in such a setting without purpose is discouraged. ‘The nafs that walk the street,’ as a friend said recently, oblivious to the fallen relationships, ‘are the same nafs that surf the net.’ The face in a crowd that appears much more beautiful than that of your beloved is no different to the virtual contact who appears far more interesting than them.
In the past when my wife recounted yet another article describing a family torn apart by a blossoming relationship across the keyboards on Facebook, I felt able to dismiss it, pointing out that these things have always occurred, that it’s only the technology that’s changing. Why single out Facebook, I would ask? It was a valid argument, but it missed the point. She would condemn any forum where people were losing their senses and falling headlong into sin. But media accounts always carry a different weight to those of people you know. It is scary, to be perfectly honest, to realise that real relationships, real families, real spouses and real children are indeed reaping the consequences of our abandonment of the sunnah when we venture online.
I have enough experience of my own to learn that the Internet can be an addictive drug. There is something rather unsettling in the routine that sees one repeatedly checking back to an old favourite to see if it’s live again at last, even though it’s become perfectly apparent that we’re stuck with visual commentary for the rest of eternity. Such a habit is, of course, the least of the problem. Obsessive Compulsive 2.0 is rather more intrusive.
The weeks I spent offline, bringing the garden under control, were physically exhausting, but emotionally liberating. The world offline—for me—brings a peace to my heart (but often aches to my back, knees and arms). My return online soon has me spinning back into old, irritating ways. It is my curse.
And it is the curse of others too. Obsessive Compulsive 2.0 is taking over people’s lives, as they forget a multitude of sunnahs—the gaze of our eyes, the company we keep, our use of words, sitting alone (albeit with the intervention of fibre-optic cables) with those haram to us, and this list goes on.
‘What has happened to Tim?’ asks a friend. ‘Why such extremes, so suddenly?’
Is it an extreme, or is it the dawning of reality? Today ‘extreme’ is where Obsessive Compulsive 2.0 led two friends, but tomorrow I may change my mind. Today I am thinking out loud. Tomorrow I may make the hard choices.
- Guess what this is…
Aslam, the servant of Umar Ibn AlKhattab, narrated that one night he went out with Umar Ibn AlKhattab until they reached a place with harsh terrain, where they saw a fire. Umar told Aslam that these people had been forced by the night to set camp and decided to go to them. There they found a woman with children and a pot on the fire; the children were crying.
Umar said, “Assalamu alykum, O People of light” —for he did not want to say people of fire—and she replied, “Walykum assalam.”
He asked if they could come closer, to which she replied, “Come closer or leave.”
So Umar went closer and asked what they were up to. She said that the night and cold had brought them there. He asked what was the matter with the children, for they were crying, and she replied that it was their hunger. Umar asked, “What’s on the fire?”
She said it was water, to distract them with until they would fall sleep. Then she said, “Allah is between us and Umar.”
Hearing this, Umar cried and went back in a hurry to the state’s food store, took some wheat and meat, and said, “O Aslam put it on my back.”
Aslam said, “I’ll carry it for you, O prince of the believers.”
But Umar replied, “Will you carry my burden on the day of judgment?”
So Umar carried it on his back until they reached the woman. There he put some of the wheat and meat in the pot and kept blowing on the fire while smoke was penetrating his beard. Once the food was ready, he served the children and they ate until they were full, while the woman kept doing dua for him not knowing who he was. And he remained there until the children slept. He then left and ordered provisions for them.
A week or so ago I received some advice that knocked me off course and disorientated me. Reflecting on their words, I found myself wandering around, wondering if I really had got everything wrong. I pondered on the advice and criticised myself for not being a dictator. And then, when I was done, I decided to ask a trusted friend and teacher for his advice as well.
“I was wondering if you could advise me how Islam defines manliness,” I said, “and/or point me towards a good book that covers the topic.”
As is often the case, his insight set me back on course again. I intended to post his response early last week, but the demolition of an outbuilding took precedence, occupying me every evening after work. But better late than never:
…
‘Manliness is “rujula”; it is what a man should reflect. In short, a true man is close to Allah, and the further from Him he is, the less of a man he is. So humbleness is manliness, arrogance is not. Patience, endurance, forbearance and so on is manliness.
Eating while walking in the street without a good reason diminishes one’s manliness. To serve your parents, your wife and family is manliness.
It is one of these men of our predecessors who said to his wife, “May my hand be cut off if it were ever lifted to strike you.”
Anyway this is a very broad topic, however I hope that the following points will be of help inshallah:
1.There are books about men, closely linked to the sciences of hadith but not always. There are also books about women. These books have different names. Some of these books are called “tabaquat…” e.g. tabaquat alquraa (men of Quran recitation), tabaquat alhufath (men of memorisation), tabaqat ashafiaa (men of the Shafiee school), etc. Tabaqat actually means levels, but it’s about men hence I translated it as men, albeit men at different levels.
But the best book of all about who is really a man is AlQur’an. AlQur’an mentions men who were Prophets and some who were not. Sometimes the Qur’an just uses the word “man” without naming the person.
2. Man and male are two different things. Every man is a male but not every male is a man. Man is a status, so a young boy of 11 may be a man and yet an adult of 50 may not be. We have a very common expression that goes “mashi rajel” —“he is not a man”— when a person breaks the etiquettes of Islam when dealing with others.
There are always men but not all are complete. Men are ranks: they are of different categories and they enter aljannah in the group they belong to.
3. We’ve been studying one category which is called “ibadu rahman” i.e. the servants of the Most Merciful at the end of Surah alFurqan.
4. Culture has a lot of influence on men and can entrap them. Hence spiritual migration, but sometimes it has to be a physical one. Historically all Prophets travelled, and were even expelled and rejected by some members of their tribes. Also it has always been the way of the ulema to travel.
However not everything that is cultural is condemned by Islam. As you know, in the Algerian desert, men cover their faces, but women do not. Also in the countryside sometimes it is the women who work the fields. The kitchen in Islam is not a space reserved only for women. The Muslims as you may know developed a whole industry related to cooking. As you may know the famous scholar ASuyuti wrote a book about cooking. And ASuyuti is definitely a man of high calibre.
6. Some men had very hard wives, but the good way they behaved with their wives propelled them to amazing levels of men. They became ‘legends’.
7. No true man sees himself above anyone else even if it were on a battle field. And there are true men who do not even feel their very existence in front of their Lord.
And Allah and His messenger know best.’
Do you know, I’m getting rather tired of the near constant chatter that husbands and wives are enemies? The mockery of marriage amongst work colleagues, perhaps, is only to be expected, where phrases like “getting tied down” abound; the night before one’s wedding described as “the last night of freedom”. To encounter the enmity of two halves discussed so frequently and openly between Muslims, however, just causes me despair.
In the Qur’an we read that our spouses are our garments and that we are theirs. And when two strangers come together in this union, Allah puts love and mercy between them.
I don’t deny that some couples do not get along; that a whole range of scenarios exist that can make married life difficult for many men and women. I don’t deny this, but the constant chatter suggests that this is the norm: wives are westernised, inconsiderate, self-centred and exploitative, and vica versa for their husbands.
My faith lies in those beautiful words, wherein God tells us that He puts love and mercy between us. When I met that stranger for the first time, I placed my trust in Him and accepted her as a gift from God. And His words are true, for she is indeed a garment for me. The world that has been opened to me by our union is vast and incomprehensible.
Our marriage isn’t perfect, because we are not perfect people. We are just beginners, learning our deen slowly, correcting the bad traits of our characters little by little. We have our share of arguments and sour faces, but we always resolve to make up before we close our eyes at night: a sincere “Salam alaikum” has to come before sleep takes us away.
I hope and pray that the world of enmity between husband and wife is not the norm, for it is such a depressing thought. How could it be that two people drawn together by the love of God, given as gifts to one-another, turn upon one-another as worst enemies when in fact they should be best friends?
I followed the lamentations about the Westernisation of Muslim women for a while—I call them islamofeminists, quipped one of their detractors—but it started to occur to me that the complainents’ views had a ring of the very traits they claimed to abhor. Remarks about the housework began to fall flat as I recalled the scholars of our deen who spent their lives cooking every single meal for their families. Yes, and as I remembered that our blessed Prophet, peace be upon him, mended his own clothes, a habit that even the most enlightened Westerner would still consider women’s work. A poor husband feels oppressed because a wife will not respond with a cup of tea when he asks for one. For crying out loud, man, do it yourself. And while you’re at it, offer to make her one too. You might get some reward.
Races off to do Maghrib… and a thought occurs to him…
I mean, you will happily spend several hours watching your football each week. It’s a bit like the toaster calling the kettle white. Isn’t that Westernisation?
To become a faithful believer is not easy. This thought occurs to me repeatedly as I set out to renew my faith and recommit myself to God. This voyage has recommenced many times over, only for me to stumble again within days. This time I’m serious, I tell myself, but still it is a struggle.
In ten years I have never abandoned the prayer, but there is more to the deen than this. Over the years I have become but a shell, fulfilling the minimum of our obligations, my prayers often rotten beneath the surface, their core like dust. As the months and years passed by I emptied sins into my book of deeds, always oblivious to their gravity, returning to them often as if they were of no consequence. To lift oneself from the habit of certain sins is a real test, for after a few days they pull at the heart, the symptoms of that addiction soon infecting one’s whole being. And so, once more, I slip.
Perhaps this time is better than all those previous occasions, I think to myself, because this time I have learned of the gravity of those sins; because this time my response is founded on knowledge and certainty. Right now I cannot imagine returning to them. It would, for me, be like drinking alcohol, stealing or taking a life. If I returned to them now, would I just give up? I pray I do not return to them. I pray I do not return.
And so it is that I find myself, a decade after I uttered my testimony of faith, making my first faltering steps along this way, and it is hard. How easy it is to fit in one’s prayers at home between one task and another, ending the day upon the prayer mat just metres from one’s bed. But to await the congregation, to venture outdoors when already tired, to head out to one’s place of prayer as others are preparing to sleep: for one unaccustomed to striving in the way of God, by the third day exhaustion has set in. And what of arising early in the morning to return? Here the fears for our community set in, for when those grey and white haired ones pass away, will the mosque any more open in the morning? One day I make it on time, the next day I awake just as the congregation draws together, the following day, who knows?
As each evening draws in, I commit to abandoning the computer and the internet, in order to sit and read instead. I have found this a blessing, a habit I could easily get used to. Yet my eyes are constantly drooping, a heaviness descending, craving for sleep, though there seems to be no time for it after work, in-between study, prayer and food, and so I find myself wondering how I will ever conquer my laziness and retrain my soul. Though a decade has now passed since I first uttered my testimony of faith, all I carry with me is a smattering of du’as and the shortest chapters of the Qur’an. Where have all the years gone and how is it that I learnt so little, committing to memory so few words?
To make up for lost time is hard, to be patient is hard, to maintain constancy is hard, to stop grieving over one’s sins is hard, to become a servant of God is hard. And so it should be. In life, we are told by those around us, you get nothing for free. Although the billions of blessings from our Lord cast doubt upon this claim, it nevertheless puts the difficulties of our spiritual quest into perspective: if, in life, we get nothing for free, why then should I demand an easy approach to the hereafter?
Taking stock of how far I have put myself back, how much I have oppressed my own soul and how little I have done to rectify my situation, it becomes apparent that this struggle of mine is not just necessary, but obligatory. It is my jihad: a real struggle, not a leisurely sojourn. Hence these first faltering steps of mine.
‘What’s he twittering on about?’
What’s this Twitter business then? Crawling out of my cave recently, I learned that Twitter’s all the rage.
What’s this Twitter business then? Crawling out of my cave recently, I learned that Twitter’s all the rage. They’re even talking about it on PM. Politicians, singers, comedians: they’re all at it. And friends, too, have helpfully found ways of documenting their every move, so that I can catch up on everything they have done all day.
One chap recently announced that he needed a smartphone with a keyboard because he needs to post his status updates. Tweets, I think they’re called. Well yes, it may be that I’m living in a technological backwater, that I am yet to appreciate glorious connective possibilities realised by real companies out there, but his “need” made me stumble. What need? I visited the Twitter website this morning to find out what it’s all about. Naturally I had to click on “Why?”
Why? Because even basic updates are meaningful to family members, friends, or colleagues—especially when they’re timely.
* Eating soup? Research shows that moms want to know.
* Running late to a meeting? Your co–workers might find that useful.
* Partying? Your friends may want to join you.
Hmm. Well I think the running late thing has already been solved by the invention of mobile phones (although I already hear the complaint in my ear from those who can never get hold of me because I have the irritating habit of saying, “We didn’t have these things twenty years ago and we survived” – I mean, why should I switch my phone to silent in the masjid when I can just leave it at home – grrr!).
Eating soup? Interesting. What can I say? Just don’t get the stuff on your keyboard or you’ll be wanting a new smartphone (well no doubt you already want one anyway – and what better excuse to replace your iPhone with a Bold – well not a very good excuse actually, because last time I checked the iPhone doesn’t have a keyboard – think of something else).
It’s true, I am the biggest bore of them all and the greatest party-pooper to have ever been born; I believe there was even a character on the Fast Show based on me. You would hear an objection from me, you say, regardless of it being good or bad. Well, tell yourself that and vent your frustrations on Twitter; I expect to see a perfectly formed one-liner in Unicode text on my computer screen right after the one about what you had for lunch.
Call me an ignoramus — I don’t mind — but let me whisper ever so faintly what it is that bothers me about this grand phenomenon. It’s not that I fear you are creating your own Big Brother world by your voluntary participation in sharing every boring detail about your life, nor that a Tweet appears to resemble 1984’s Newspeak, although I’m sure some are bound to make an argument about that before long.
No, it’s something else. It’s the ego. You know me and my ego. I used to publish “The Neurocentric” for crying out loud: “The journey of a self-centred soul”. So if anyone knows about the ego, it’s me. My ego and I are not exactly the best of friends; in fact we could be called the worst of enemies, for my ego is a prick.
Excuse me if this sounds harsh, but Twitter reminds me of my ego. Pardon me if I have grasped the wrong end of the nettle entirely (if indeed one end is better than the other), but the sharing of the trip to the kebab shop, the visit to the gym, the decorating, the hoovering, the profound intellectual article you are reading, the hilarious comedy you’re watching right now, all remind me of the worst part of me: that lust for fame, for acknowledgement, for attention, for respect. That ego of mine that still cannot get over an injustice a decade ago, driving me to make who I am known to all and sundry, in the hope that the unjust character might come to know how unjust they were.
I am not raging against the machine because it takes me ten minutes to send a five word text message (although that much is true), or because I would rather head into the hills to live a subsistence lifestyle on a homestead farm (although I might dream about this too). It is perhaps, I whisper to myself, because too much speech is hardness of the heart, because the ego is swift to dominate, because silence is golden, because I seek meaningful relationships not sound bites, because it’s all becoming pointless, because I seek something greater, because the true tweets — the birdsong in my garden — is far more profound and beautiful than any line of Unicode text on my screen.
All of which summarises why I am heading back into my cave. Wake me up if I miss anything important. A delicious kebab doesn’t count.
Who said we were pacifists?
Who said Muslims were pacifists? I have never heard a Muslim say such a thing. In fact, the only religious community I have encountered personally who take an anti-war stance are the Quakers. My father is now an Anglican priest, but his passionate faith did not prevent us from spending our childhood climbing all over tanks, artillery and fighter planes at military museums and air shows.
Who said Muslims were pacifists? I have never heard a Muslim say such a thing. In fact, the only religious community I have encountered personally who take an anti-war stance are the Quakers. My father is now an Anglican priest, but his passionate faith did not prevent us from spending our childhood climbing all over tanks, artillery and fighter planes at military museums and air shows. My practising Christian neighbour used to design guided missile systems for the RAF. I seem to recall that the vicar that oversaw my Confirmation used to fly the Lightning (I may be mistaken here).
The fact that I was brought up in a Christian household did not prevent me from receiving a toy sub-machine gun for my seventh or eighth birthday, it had no impact on the choice of the SAS Handbook as a Christmas present for me one year, or stop us boys from each adopting a fighter plane: my eldest brother had the Tornado, my middle brother the Phantom, while I the Harrier Jump Jet, and still I would probably champion it if a top-trumps discussion on fighter planes were ever to occur.
Today there is a discussion occurring online in which it is claimed that there are Muslims that can be compared to Zen Buddhists, who deny that Islam has anything to say about warfare. This is peculiar, because I have never encountered such people or such arguments. I have never read a book concerning the sira—even those intended for children—that has not touched upon the battles that occurred in the Hijra years. The charge seems to be being levelled particularly at those who call themselves Sufis, but this too seems peculiar to me, for in my reading of Islamic history Sufis have always featured prominently as those who would go to war when the battle cry was heard.
What I have encountered, however, are the many Muslims that point out that war is limited in Islam by the shariah: that we don’t just adopt the norms of modern warfare because everyone else is doing it, that we don’t accept the concept of total war, that we consider the idea of collateral damage illegitimate. Yes, I have heard all of this, for sure. And what is wrong with this? It is called adherence to the sunnah.
Yes, I have heard Muslims condemning terrorism. Are such Muslims pacifists? No, they are people who are familiar with the sunnah and shariah: people who appreciate that indiscriminate killing and vigilantism are prohibited in Islam. People who respect the Prophetic guidance passed down to them, which places boundaries on what is halal and haram.
Sure, there are non-Muslims who demand that Muslims deny that their religion has anything to say about war, like that mocking website, Religion of Peace, which all the same permits its contributors to support Israel’s onslaught on Gaza. Sure, there are powers that demand the disarmament of Muslim nations, despite their own frightening arsenals of nuclear weapons and stealth technology. Sure, there are those that demand that Muslims should forever turn the other cheek like the Christians of the first century of their era.
I have never, ever heard a Muslim say such things, however. Sure, plenty of Muslims have claimed that Islam means Peace, but that’s not quite the same thing as saying that Islam has nothing to say about warfare. Even the Qur’an presents that duality: ‘Now if they incline toward peace, then incline to it, and place your trust in God.’
To take a Muslim’s condemnation of indiscriminate, unlawful violence and twist it into a parting from the sunnah is pure mockery. I won’t be apologetic that Islam pronounces on warfare and sets out rules of engagement, but I also won’t stand for those who demand that we blindly support the actions of Muslims wherever they are involved in conflict. That is not pacifism. It is recognition that warfare is a serious matter that is viewed entirely seriously by our deen.
Ignorance
Ignorance is a blameworthy state, while seeking knowledge is praised. I don’t doubt or deny this, but sometimes witnessing the great schisms between better Muslims than I, I start to take comfort from my ignorance. I cannot call myself a Salafi, a Sufi, a Traditionalist. I am none of these things, for my knowledge is meagre, my learning scant.
Ignorance is a blameworthy state, while seeking knowledge is praised. I don’t doubt or deny this, but sometimes witnessing the great schisms between better Muslims than I, I start to take comfort from my ignorance. I cannot call myself a Salafi, a Sufi, a Traditionalist. I am none of these things, for my knowledge is meagre, my learning scant.
My knowledge of the deen covers how to pray, a few verses of the Qur’an, how to fast, what is halal and what haram, and a few characteristics of neighbourliness. To be complacent in one’s ignorance is a trait condemned in our deen, so when I say what I say it carries no authority: it is purely the defence mechanism of one who just now finds the ranting of the learned a blow to the soul and his iman.
In my ignorance I am a literalist about the words of God and His Messenger, peace be upon him. I do not have at my disposal scholarly texts, fatwas and commentaries that place conditions and clauses upon those words. Thus when I read that our Prophet, peace be upon him, said, ‘The Merciful One shows mercy to those who are themselves merciful to others; so show mercy to whatever is on earth, then He who is in heaven will show mercy to you,’ I take it to mean what it says. Because I do not possess texts that explain that such mercy is restrained when dealing with Salafis or Sufis, I understand that I should be merciful to everyone I meet regardless. For the brevity of my learning, for the literalism of my learning, here I say Alhamdulilah.
Alhamdulilah that my learning does not extend far beyond lessons like these: he who truly believes in God and the Last Day should speak good or keep silent; fear God wherever you are, following an evil deed with a good deed so that you blot it out, being well-behaved towards people; beware of envy, for envy devours good deeds like fire devours firewood; the strong man is not the one who is strong in wrestling, but the one who controls himself in anger.
Alhamdulilah, for in my ignorance of refutations and conditional clauses, these words prevent me from commenting on the fate of fellow Muslims, from pronouncing on the faith of whole communities of believers. Alhamdulilah that I am unversed in learning that would allow me—so easily—to make light of Prophetic guidance, disregarding the sunnah because my opponent is a Salafi, a Sufi, a Traditionalist. For isn’t our sunnah having good manners, restraining our tongues, showing mercy to our brethren and our neighbours? I don’t limit it to this; I just note that they seem to be the most neglected.
A few days ago I felt the need to recommence my journey of faith, to take my shahada anew and set out to chase after the mantle of piety. It was a noble aim—I don’t deny that—but pondering on my evident failure so far, I suddenly find myself almost content with my state. This is not a good place in which to find myself, for my state is poor indeed, but that contentment does not come from nowhere; it is the result of witnessing great schisms amongst those much more learned than I. I have read words over the last few days that crippled my iman. What saved me was my simple, literalist faith. Words like these from the Qur’an:
Serve God, and do not join any partners with Him; and do good to parents, kinsfolk, orphans, those in need, neighbours who are near, neighbours who are strangers, the companion by your side, the wayfarer and what your right hands possess: for God does not love the arrogant, the boastful.
It is true that ignorance is a blameworthy state and that seeking knowledge is praised. All of the above is not intended as justification for my ignorance. It is just a note to those more learned than I that your actions have consequences. While you engage in your battles, the lesser of us draw back repulsed. And so, perhaps, the ignorant masses grow.
In Loving Memory
My mind is crowded with memories of Grannie Bowes. Of those warm days in summer when she would host my sister and I, treating us to elevensies, to a mug of Ribena and half a Kit Kat each. Of those moments passing through the fly screen door at TreeTops with bowls with which to harvest gooseberries from the bottom of the garden. Of super-ripened bananas powdered with glucose for pudding at lunchtime. Of mountains of sunflower seeds munched before Coronation Street whilst babysitting for us at night. Childhood with Grannie was always a joy.
My mind is crowded with memories of my paternal grandmother. Of those warm days in summer when she would host my sister and I, treating us to elevensies, to a mug of Ribena and half a Kit Kat each. Of those moments passing through the fly screen door at Tree Tops with bowls with which to harvest gooseberries from the bottom of the garden. Of super-ripened bananas powdered with glucose for pudding at lunchtime. Of mountains of sunflower seeds munched before Coronation Street whilst babysitting for us at night. Childhood with Grannie was always a joy.
When I was a teenager, Grannie set herself up as my mentor, undertaking to study GCSE French at the same time as me. I was a poor student, but she always encouraged me, writing out vocabulary on pieces of card, hoping that I would be inspired by her love of the language. She would speak of a hitch-hiking adventure in France with Uncle David years earlier, as if she dreamed that I might become fluent and accompany her on another great journey in her retirement.
Grannie was forever generous, always thinking of others and giving. Many will remember her famous coffee mornings for animal welfare, and those miniature bricks bought to fund the construction of an animal sanctuary. We grandchildren will remember the boxes of goodies she always prepared for each new term of college: jars of coffee, packets of biscuits, tinned food and cartons of juice. And we will remember too that she never forgot a birthday, or let an anniversary pass by unmarked.
Yet, for me, it was over the past ten years that my relationship with Grannie became something special. Grannie became a sincere friend, an earnest advisor. As I embarked on a journey of faith that troubled many, Grannie took it upon herself to offer me considered counsel, never shying from confronting any issue head-on. In that sense, Grannie was a true friend: not one to say only what we want to hear.
When I returned from university she would request my company for lunch at a local restaurant and, over a two-course meal, she would question me and recount tales of her life with Grandpa, relating the lessons that their life had taught them. She saw her role as that of a mediator, a peacemaker. The lengthy letters she sent me were often an unusual cocktail of idle chit-chat, Christian theology and her own unique personal philosophy.
Grannie was a true blessing from God. When, at the age of 83, she journeyed from Hull to London to join me in the celebration of my marriage, she left a remarkable impression on so many of my friends. Every single time we met up over the seven and a half years that followed, I would listen as they asked after Grannie—about her health and wellbeing. As one of them said when she learnt of her passing, ‘She was a real, honest to God, lovely person—the stuff of real grannies.’
Two weeks before Christmas, Grannie called us to ask if we would visit her. I suggested Boxing Day and she said that would be nice. So early that morning we set out to drive up north to see her, and what a blessing that was. We ate lunch together in the dining room and despite her evident frailty she spoke with us like it was a reunion of old friends. And so it was.
My grannie was more than a grandmother. She was a friend, an advisor, a mentor, a teacher and so much more than this. Acknowledging her role as mediator, all of us can take comfort from beautiful words: blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God.
Each of us will have memories like these that will comfort us as our own lives pass by. All of us will thank God that we had the opportunity to know and learn from her, and in our hearts we will always be grateful to her.
All of us belong to God and unto Him is our return.
In Defence of Civilisation
I have before me a copy of The Telegraph—it isn’t mine; my grandmother left it with us after her visit today—and there is a photograph and a headline on the front that occupy me. I keep on returning to the dining table to sit hunched over it, studying the photograph and the words that accompany it.
I have before me a copy of The Telegraph—it isn’t mine; my grandmother left it with us after her visit today—and there is a photograph and a headline on the front that occupy me. I keep on returning to the dining table to sit hunched over it, studying the photograph and the words that accompany it.
The strap line above the photograph reads ‘Hamas Leader killed as bombs destroy home’, but the picture immediately below tells its own story. In the background we see three buildings severely damaged: not destroyed, but still no longer habitable. And then there is the rubble strewn land where Nizar Rayan’s house is said to have stood. But looking at the buildings in the background, it seems clear to me that this space once accommodated—by my estimation—at least a dozen similar buildings.
And so there we have it: in its pursuit of one man the Israeli air force not only chose to hold his seven innocent children responsible for the decisions of their father, killing them along with his wife and relatives, but it also chose to blow to pieces the homes of fifteen of his neighbours.
And what is a home? It is not just the place where we rest our heads. A home contains furniture, clothes, books, photographs, memories. A home contains treasured possessions, things of sentimental worth. The jewellery that a husband bought his beloved. The toys that a mother bought to put smiles on the faces of her children. I consider my own home a part of me: it is my abode of peace, my sanctuary, the container for much that I am. A home is more than bricks and mortar.
The newspaper article does not say what happened to his neighbours. If they survived, clearly all they have left is their body and soul, for the bricks and mortar have been pulverised and their every possession destroyed. If they are alive, they will have only the clothes on their backs.
The loss of innocent life is regrettable say the spokesmen for the state of Israel, but what are such words worth when the missiles fired at ‘identified targets’ are powerful enough to pulverise an entire street? Our politicians—who only a matter of weeks ago rightly condemned the atrocities in Mumbai absolutely—express ‘worry’ about the situation. A dozen houses flattened in a split second and you tell us you are worried?
A couple of nights ago I read an article by Melanie Phillips in The Spectator which sought to condemn her one-time ally, Mr Ed Hussein, for his part in protesting about the massacre of innocents. Mr Hussein, she argued, was still the Islamist through and through, misrepresenting the actions of Israel to suit his own agenda. The article was only partly about that infamous author however: it was really about the innocence and righteousness of Israel in responding to its terrorist neighbours, and the bulk of the comments that followed the article were congratulatory in their tone, praising Ms Phillips for speaking the truth, for consistently standing up in defence of Western Civilisation.
She and they are entitled to their opinions, but to me the arguments resembled those of the very people they claim to loathe. Responding to Mr Hussein’s claim that innocents were being massacred, Ms Phillips wrote, ‘The vast majority of Gazans who have been killed were Hamas terrorists. According to today’s UN figures, 364 have been killed of whom only 62 were civilians.’ Ignoring for a moment that police officers have been included in the non-civilian category, is ‘only’ an appropriate word to describe the tragic deaths of innocents? The death toll of the bombings in London on 7 July 2005 was 12 less than this number, but I have no difficulty describing it as a massacre. Fifteen people died in the Columbine High School shooting, and we still call it a massacre. What an odious defence.
What is it that these people do not get? The protests against this conflict are not a defence of Hamas. It is a protest against the killing of innocents, against firing heavy explosives into densely populated residential areas. Oh yes, Britain dare not complain after conceiving Operation Gomorrah. Germany would be a hypocrite after the Blitzkrieg. And what could the United States say after the Manhattan Project? Nations may stumble, but the ordinary man and woman knows that it is wrong. And so this is their cry.
Repeating ad nauseam that Hamas is to blame misses the point entirely. Ms Phillips may claim that ‘Israel has been targeting only the Hamas infrastructure and its terror-masters,’ but she ignores completely the power of the weapons they are using: weapons which are capable of pulverising a dozen houses into a pile of rubble within minutes, which cannot target with the precision she believes they have because their power is just too great.
We the people—not the leaders of our nations—protest because we see with our own eyes children’s lives cut short. Can you justify the death of one child? I can’t.
But in the comments that followed that article, people were indeed doing just that, arguing that it was just an unfortunate consequence of the battle with the terrorists. Thus the respectable readers have themselves become the very people they claim to loathe, no different from another group of people that is indifferent to human life. There are no surgical operations here—in the old European world amputation was the answer to many an ailment when directed infection control was all that was required—for collateral damage is not just tolerated, but justified too.
Some people may defend Hamas, claiming that by their actions they are fighting a resistance against Israeli occupation, but I cannot. The argument is often made that the Palestinians do not have F-16 fighter planes, Apache helicopters, cruise missiles and tanks, and that if they did they would fight a traditional war of army versus army; because the only weapons they have are the meagre resources around them, striking against the military is like David fighting Goliath. I would not necessarily reject that thesis, but still I lack sympathy for the organisation we know as Hamas.
What options do the Palestinians then have to resist occupation, to break the wall and fight the blockade? I’m afraid I do not have an answer. I am not a strategist and I have no skills in international relations, so I cannot provide an educated commentary on the actions of Hamas. I can only return to my very simple interpretation of my faith: to those ideas that the civilian is not to be attacked in war, that we do not destroy their homes or cut their fruit trees down. If our jurists sought to condemn the use of suicide bombing in 1994, why should the passage of 15 years now make it halal?
I may well be mistaken in my simple faith, and of course it is easy to be an idealist as an outside observer with little intimate knowledge of the facts on the ground—and indeed as one who has never had to live all my years under a humiliating occupation—but I would be a liar if at this time of passion and emotion I denied that my gut reaction to the practice of firing hundreds of missiles indiscriminately at civilians in a nation with vastly superior weapons each day was that it not only flies in the face of our Prophetic guidance, but also makes no sense at all. But again I speak as a simpleton, one unversed in strategy.
In truth, I do not know a lot about Hamas. When I was an undergraduate 10 years ago the Palestinian Society at my university organised a lecture on the conflict which included a discussion on the role of Hamas. Some students claimed that Hamas was being funded by the Israelis to undermine the PLO, while others claimed that they were actually a popular social movement that spent 90% of its income on hospitals, schools and welfare, and just happened to have a military wing as well.
I don’t have enough information about Hamas to make an informed decision about them, but can I honestly deny my feelings about the deaths of over 600 people, women and children included, that it is claimed were killed during the power struggle between Hamas and Fatah over the past year? That’s far more than were killed during the Passover massacre at the Park Hotel in Netanya in March 2002, for which Hamas claimed responsibility. When I read on Christmas Day that 27 bakeries out of a total of 47 in Gaza City have been shut down completely due to a lack of cooking gas and wheat, and that the UN Agency for Palestinian Refugees had had to halt food distribution to 750,000 refugees because their stocks of wheat flour had run out, I couldn’t help the obvious questions that bubbled into my mind. Rockets versus bread.
When we protest about what is happening in Gaza today, it is a protest for humanity. It is not a defence of the actions of the group the Israelis claim to be fighting. It is a plea for a people already suffering from an 18-month blockade—the majority of whom are without adequate water, electricity or gas—to be allowed to live their lives in dignity. To be allowed to live, to have a right to their home, without the fear that it will be blown to pieces because Israel has identified a neighbour as a Hamas target.
Ms Phillips tells us:
‘The issue of Israel sits at the very apex of the fight to defend civilisation. Those who wish to destroy western civilisation need to destroy the Jews, whose moral precepts formed its foundation stones … Unless people in the west understand that Israel’s fight is their own fight, they will be on the wrong side of the war to defend not just the west but civilisation in general.’
But here I sit, with my grandmother’s copy of The Telegraph spread out before me and there’s that photograph that haunts me. Is this the defence of civilisation? A dozen homes destroyed for the sake of one man, his children executed for their father’s crimes? What kind of civilisation is this?
Shall I remind Ms Phillips of some of those moral precepts that formed the foundation stones of the civilisation she cherishes so? Let us delve into the Beatitudes:
‘Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are the meek: for they will inherit the earth.
Blessed are they who mourn: for they shall be comforted.
Blessed are they that hunger and thirst after justice: for they shall have their fill. Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.
Blessed are the clean of heart: for they shall see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.
Blessed are they that suffer persecution for justice’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.’
Eight lessons to live by. That, Ms Phillips, is civilisation.
