Here comes the rain – Alhamdulilah. The sky is beige and its falling in sheets. Good for the garden I am sure. Still, my wife has rushed into the garden to defend her vege against the snail/slug onslaught – last seen heading for the garden with a bag of porridge. Don’t ask. Anyway, alhamulilah for rain!
While preparing our vegetable patch this weekend, burning the last remnants of our pruning, it occurred to me that the average Englishman hardly has any relationship with fire in this age. If we are cold, we flip a switch and do the same when it gets dark; the closest we get are the blue jets of heat on the gas cooker. Whereas my wife’s mother will stoke the flames in her wood burning stove to cook some fresh corn bread several times a week, whereas desert nomads would gather around open roaring flames comforting them in the deep cold night, we are a people of switches. So I started to wonder: are we in danger of losing the imagery of centuries? What effect does the loss of contact with one of the most potent influences on humanity have on our language? Standing there, watching the tall orange flames, the heat reaching my face though I stood more than a metre away, these random thoughts came to mind. In the evening, when I returned from the market, I arranged a pile of bricks both side of the now white ash and placed a grill on top. Dinner was delicious that night and I felt some sort of appreciation for the imagery of old.
When I was studying for my Masters degree in Publishing six years ago, I was interested as a recent convert to Islam in the question of safeguarding knowledge now that technology had brought publishing within virtually anyone’s grasp. As a new Muslim I was interested in the question of what constituted knowledge, given that I was able to lay my hands on any number of books on Islamic topics without really knowing anything about their authors. It was because of this that I decided to write my dissertation on this subject, proposing a concept of review and accreditation for popular Islamic publishing in the United Kingdom.
I have been reflecting on this recently after encountering several instances of individuals offering sincere advice to others on matters pertaining to our religion. There is nothing wrong with this of course; indeed it is commendable. What troubles me is that the advice is offered by people who care not to tell us their name. One would understand that someone in fear of his/her life or prosecution might seek refuge in anonymity, but each of the cases I have witnessed has been quite straight forward: the photographer receiving an anonymous letter warning him that his trade is haram; the commentary on nasheed culture published by a concerned anonymous Muslim; a writer given firm but kind advice by one who does not reveal his or her name.
Compare this to the enlightened days of our ummah. A reading certificate defined which books scholars could use, while a record of regular attendance was always kept by those promulgating books of hadith. Details were kept of who had listened to the entire book, who had joined in partially, which portions they missed, and the dates and location of the readings. The certificate was an exclusive licence for those listed within to read, teach, copy and quote from that book.(1) Muslims were so concerned about the preservation of knowledge that an entire science developed to determine the authenticity of hadith. In their Guide to Sira and Hadith Literature in Western Languages Anees and Athar wrote about the science of hadith: ‘It is the only branch of knowledge that requires personal ethical responsibility on the part of individuals who involve themselves in this endeavour. In its quest for exactitude, it held accountable those who transmitted information.’(2)
By contrast we do not know if the anonymous author is such-and-such, son of so-and-so, student of such-and-such, nor where they obtained this knowledge and whether they have a reading certificate to accompany their advice. We simply do not know. Consequently I find myself pondering that question which I first asked six years ago. At the time – considering an Islamic heritage that placed great emphasis on the authentication of knowledge – I was interested in whether there was a case for the establishment of a review body, modelled not just on Muslim tradition but also on the structures of peer review set up in the scientific and academic publishing industries.
In a society that argues that there is no absolute truth, only contingent truths, the claim that Islamic knowledge needs protection can obviously be considered an affront to the concept of freedom of speech – indeed, to the freedom of individual Muslims to make their own fatwa. Two authors writing about publishing in Muslim countries almost a decade ago noted that the books now published by Muslims in great quantities, ‘set aside the long tradition of authoritative discourse by religious scholars in favour of a direct understanding of texts. Today chemists and medical doctors can interpret Islamic principles as equals with scholars who have graduated from traditional centres of learning.’(3)
While many advocates of unrestricted free speech would welcome such a development, I argued that apart from opening our religion to the general threat of corruption, it could be used to support actions which have disastrous consequences. I had in mind wanton acts of violence, but the possibilities are endless. I was in favour, therefore, of the tradition which saw Islamic scholars confident of their role as guardians of knowledge. I noted that Rosenthal, writing in Knowledge Triumphant: The Concept of Knowledge in Medieval Islam, argued that there was little that later influences and developments were able to accomplish by way of injecting new ideas into what constituted Islamic knowledge.(4)
In an age in which the publishing medium has been democratised – the photocopier, the personal computer, desk top publishing and the Internet are all within our grasp – it is important that we keep our rich heritage in mind. The exacting sciences designed to preserve the teachings of Islam developed for a reason: to protect us as believers. When it is narrated that anonymous reported that an unnamed scholar forbade such and such, we know that it is not right. Let us honour those great men and women who passed before us who strove to safeguard knowledge for our benefit. We can start by putting those remarkable traditions into practice in our own lives.
Sources
(1) Al-Azami, M.M. (2003) The History of the Qur’anic Text from Revelation to Compilation (Leicester: UKIA)(2) Anees, M.A. and Athar, A.N. (1986) Guide to Sira and Hadith Literature in Western Languages (London: Mansell Publishing Limited)
(3) Eickelman, D.F. and Anderson, J.W. (1997) ‘Publishing in Muslim countries: less censorship, new audiences and rise of the “Islamic” book’ in LOGOS (London: Whurr Publishers Ltd.) 8/4
(4) Rosenthal, F. (1970) Knowledge Triumphant: The Concept of Knowledge in Medieval Islam (Leiden, Netherlands: E.J. Brill)
I have been asked to write something about my love of writing, where it started and so on. It is an interesting question, especially when I look back. I am not well read nor am I learned. I did not have this interest throughout school – or at least I don’t think I did – although I have always been my own story teller.
(more…)There is a fantastic bird of prey that I have seen circling in the sky in this region repeatedly over recent months. It is one of the most exciting sights I know. Sitting at my work station in the office all day under the buzzing florescent lighting, the sight of one those birds – some with a wingspan four feet wide – instantly delights me. I saw one this afternoon on my return from Jummah prayer. Perhaps I was irritated by another sermon in Urdu or by the thoughtless parking along the road outside the mosque, but the sight of that huge bird made me exclaim alhamdulilah. It was way too big to be a Kestrel or a Buzzard. I wondered if it was a Hawk or a Falcon. Back at my desk, I had to ask. And thus I learned that it was a Red Kite. Once driven to extinction in this land, they were reintroduced to the area around the turn of the Gregorian millenium as a single mating pair. Now there are hundreds of them. Mashallah – tis always a sight to behold.
Exactly a decade ago I spent every day, between the hours of about two in the afternoon and three in the morning, tapping out a novel called The Beauty of the Lion. I had just finished a short contract testing mapping software on the Science Park in Cambridge and had returned to my parents’ home. I don’t know how they tolerated me, but I spent about five months solid writing that book. When I had finished, I printed five limited editions on my HP inkjet on some plaid A5 paper I had bought from WHSmiths. My father then took the pages with him to the office where he had them bound.
Shortly afterwards he kindly ordered me a dozen packs of guillotined A4 paper, which arrived in thick A5 blocks wrapped in brown paper. A few more copies promptly popped out of my printer. I say promptly, but there was me printing the odd pages from each one of the twenty-nine chapters, each one stored in a separate Word file, turning them over, setting the file to print back-to-front and then printing the even pages. My sobs when it pulled multiple pages through the printer at once were audible throughout the house. When I had finished I flew off to Tanzania to spend forty-nine days with my missionary uncle.
By the following summer, after a year at university, I had decided to re-write that novel, having concluded that the original was a pile of #@£$. I wanted to make a decent book out of it, so I spent my entire summer holidays working through it. Again, I don’t know how my parents tolerated me, but they did. The first draft had been all about race, the new one more about religion. The shift in my writing reflected what was happening in real life, as attested by The Neurocentric column published in the student magazine. I never finished this draft for by the following summer I had embraced Islam and was shunning the creative life.
The Neurocentric disappeared from the student magazine and all work on the novel ceased. A couple of years later in a fit of disillusionment I deleted the files from my computer and threw the printed copies away. A week or so later I wondered what on earth I had done; the writing may have been poor, but those books were part of me. I frantically searched for some software to restore my files, for they were long gone from the Windows Recycle Bin. I searched my Zip disks, my floppies, the odd CD-ROM. Some files, at least, I was able to restore, but half a dozen chapters from my latest work were gone. There was once a manuscript from that one circulating amongst friends – it is the only remaining copy of those words – but I have no idea where it is, even if it still exists.
I have written on this web log before about why I ceased to write in this fictional setting. I stopped for three or four years, although there were moments now and then when I returned, or thought about returning. The urge to write remained, but I was often disillusioned. I did not know if I still could, or still should. There was another aspect: in the past I had been a rather angry chap and so I used my writing to work things out of my system. As a Muslim, however, I no longer have that anger, or at least I cannot sustain it. If I am angry, my prayer makes me calm again. With five prayers in the day it is nearly impossible to use that anger, to put in down on paper. Rage is such great inspiration, but Islam has made me calm.
Around four years ago, however, I finally came to some sort of peace, reconciling my desire to write with my Islam. I perceived a need. And so began a new novel at last. It is a tale about the way power can corrupt and temptations overcome us. Progress is incredibly slow, but at least there is a work in progress. These days I am employed full time and I am a married man. I cannot lock myself away for hours on end; especially since I haven’t even shared a paragraph with my good wife in three years. Progress is painfully slow. No more than 90,000 words in three years. But at least I am writing again.
Despite the constant requests, I am reluctant to share my novel even with my wife or a writer friend of mine because it is disjointed at the moment and would not make sense. I have long since abandoned the first chapter which I wrote three years ago, thus my original second chapter is just hanging there while I rework everything. Alas it was not a short chapter either, so it is quite a substantial gap. While reading a bit of Wilde and a bit of Dickens recently made me re-evaluate my chapter structure and make them much shorter, those early versions were 16,000 and 36,000 words respectively. The early text was also set in a fictional town circa 1993, while it now encompasses a very real landscape and a new decade – so continuity is hugely wanting.
What is more, the way in which I am writing this novel causes reluctance. As I have said before, I describe it as “layers upon layers”. I usually start by rushing the dialogue down, then I would go back to really work on that dialogue. Later I would move on to the environment, the setting, the details. Sometimes it’s the other way round – I have swathes of atmospheric text I am really happy with, but the dialogue is hollow. I would say I have a continuity of twelve chapters now which could be considered a complete first draft – from what was my new first chapter – and the original long second chapter, but beyond this all I have are islands. Some of those islands are there because I haven’t got to them yet, but many others are there simply because they are so difficult and I am avoiding them as long as possible.
People think I am crazy: I am the author after all. Why am I making things so difficult for myself, they ask. It is the gap between formulating the story and my ability to tell it as I want it to be told. It is really hard work. My writer friend was asking me why it is taking me so long a couple of weeks ago. I explained that I tapped out my first novel over just a few months a decade ago, but it was a load of rubbish: it had no stylistic merit whatsoever. This time I want to write something that is “good” at the very least.
I have picked it up twice this week, but only managed five sentences. I am lazy, or easily distracted, or I have a very short attention span. Emails took me away from it. The Neurocentric took me away. The call of my garden pulled me away. A forum for writers distracted me. My evenings pass me by too quickly. I do not want to neglect my wife. So much to take me away. I may pick it up again this evening. It is Friday night, I may work into the early hours. I may.
But then again, I said I would cook a pie tonight; I said I would do my share. Sorry, dear novel, I must neglect you once more.
The power of words is astonishing. Some have the power to stir the emotions, to lighten one’s load. Others strike like a knitting needle pushed through the heart; that piercing pain that arises on receipt of harsh sentiments. Others still just perturb.
Last night I could not sleep because words had unsettled me. My chest was tight. Fear not, it is apparently just asthma which seems to be triggered by stress, the stress no doubt triggered by my oversensitivity. The words were not addressed at me in particular, but they still jarred against me, making my brain fizz.
Invite to the way of your Lord with wisdom and beautiful preaching says the Quran.
I wish we did. Even when they come from my dearest friends, from people I may agree with, even when they are not targeted to me, there are words which cause me unease. Why do some of those who are apparently closest to the spirit of tawhid address others with such contempt, while the more distant perhaps find the most pleasant words even for their enemies? Why is it that in our zealous desire to convey the truth, we abandon good manners and common etiquette?
I know I am oversensitive these days; I know this skews my response from time to time; but this condition is very real. I have a friend who spent his early days as a Muslim amongst the ultra-salafis until he could take their harsh words no more. Ripping into him with their tongues, they left him in tears in a public gathering more than once. Traumatised by those years, he has left them far behind. But now he has harsh words for them, indeed for all salafis. It is not true that these people are alone in suffering from this disease. We all do and we all do it. We all condemn one another, forgetting that we are brothers. I have seen and heard the harsh words of both the salafi and the sufi, the traditionalist and the modernist, the sunni and the shia.
We forget that we are but brothers. We forget the true Prophetic instruction on how we should advise one another when we er, or when we do not know. Our words are harsh for him on the other side, forgetting that he is actually on our side. If some of us are remiss, then advise us in the best of ways. If some of us have made mistakes, remind us in a way that is kind. If I do not have knowledge the like of yours, invite me to the way of our Lord with wisdom and beautiful speech.
The power of words is indeed astonishing. No wonder we are warned to maintain control of our tongues at all times, and of our typing finger by extension. What a vast amount of timber can be set ablaze by the tiniest spark. I don’t think this only refers to the destruction caused by a rumour; isolated words also hurt and crush the soul. Words can be uplifting, words can be light, words can be a comfort and words can be a guide. These are our halal openings and we must evaluate all that falls without.
Invite to the way of your Lord with wisdom and beautiful preaching.
And may Allah have mercy on us all.
It is Easter weekend and I am staying in the Rectory with my parents. As both of them are vicars responsible for different churches, they are in and out all weekend. The station of the cross on Good Friday after the night vigil on Thursday. My mother has already returned from her service this evening, but my father is still out doing his in the darkness. At dawn tomorrow my mother will be lead her congregation in another vigil, and then the main service later in the morning. It is Easter weekend, marking the key events upon which their entire theology hangs.
The crucifixion, the burial and the resurrection. Christians believe that the crucifixion represents the ultimate example of God’s love, the only means by which we are forgiven for our sins. Thus this weekend is a time of emotion for them, a time for reflection and giving thanks. It is a time of contemplation, and yet logically I find it a somewhat peculiar theology. The walls in my mother’s office are lined with books, mostly on different aspects of Christian theology. It is not that they have not reflected on it; in fact they believe in it with passion, considering it an altogether coherent philosophy. They live and breeth this theology. It is everything to them.
Still, I find it peculiar. For me, the ultimate example of God’s compassion cannot be seen in a ransom. Instead it is that beautiful and humbling moment when we turn to Him alone, regardless of what we have done, repenting sincerely. He does not require a sacrifice or an atoning saviour. He merely asks us to turn to Him in repentance and He will forgive us. The simplicity of the act is its blessing.
Let the Christians dwell on the cross and the empty tomb, but I will continue to dwell on the words of the Qur’an, on the supplications we are taught to say when we er and on that famous Hadith Qudsi:
O son of Adam, so long as you call upon Me and ask of Me, I shall forgive you for what you have done, and I shall not mind. O son of Adam, were your sins to reach the clouds of the sky and were you then to ask forgiveness of Me, I would forgive you. O son of Adam, were you to come to Me with sins nearly as great as the earth and were you then to face Me, ascribing no partner to Me, I would bring you forgiveness nearly as great as it.
That indicates an infinetly more generous Lord. My sins could be like mountains, but God promises forgiveness so long as I turn to Him. No cross, no tomb, no crown of thorns. Just simple words from a sincere heart.
Something to keep in mind…
- Question 1: “Are these words true?”
- Question 2: “Are these words necessary?”
- Question 3: “Are these words beneficial?”
- Question 4: “Are these words kind?”
If I think the answer is no, I should probably leave them in my head.
As most people who have been reading this web log for a while will have come to appreciate, I am not one to view the Muslim world through rose-tinted spectacles. Indeed I have never shied away from condemning the violence and depravity emerging from Muslim nations. I dislike the refrain that “The West” is to blame; those who study history and politics may see a shadow of truth in this, but the full picture is infinitely more complex. In any case, it is not really the traditional Muslim viewpoint. The Qur’an recounts the lessons of the Children of Israel – the Muslims of that age – precisely so that we may not repeat the mistakes of those who passed before us. But we do. I meet Muslims who consider themselves the Chosen People, who look upon others with contempt, considering their lives worthless like Gentiles deserving of whatever they get; meanwhile these Chosen Ones would never think to share their faith with them. Thus English Muslims like myself are not greeted with joy, but with suspicion and disbelief. But I digress.
This entry is a “But…” I agree that the Muslim world is awash with violence and depravity… But…
Yesterday I experimented with the Blogger search function, first typing in the word “Muslim” and then the word “Islam”. I cannot report that anything positive came back, at least amidst the first ten pages. All across the blogosphere people are writing about the barbarity of Islam; many of the US sites were also carrying a banner supporting a Democratic Iran – how considerate they are! Out there, Islam and Muslims are viewed with greater contempt than I could have imagined. Now some of this criticism is valid, but this is where the “but” comes in.
I came across a posting by a military man stationed at Pearl Harbour, USA, which argued that the “problem” is not with the extremists, but with Islam itself. It cited that horrific case where the so-called religious police prevented fifteen schoolgirls from escaping a burning school dormitory in Mecca because they were not “properly dressed”. Yes, you heard it; fifteen young girls burnt alive in 2002 because these imbeciles were worried that in fleeing their beds they would be wearing but pyjamas. The blogger’s opinion is that because Islam mandates a certain dress-code these people were correct according to their religion in preventing the children from escaping, which thus proves that Islam is a barbaric religion. Why then, if this were true, is a person facing starvation permitted to eat forbidden meat if nothing else is available?
Again, I do not deny that our house is far from being in order, but I have to object. The blogger calls Islam a barbaric, blood-thirsty and violent religion. I obviously do not believe that it is, although I do think that this description would suit some of our sick brethren. Yet this is where my “but” comes in. There is a vast amount of hypocrisy here which really irritates me. I suppose it irritates me more when it comes from those who passionately worship their nation, those who believe they stand at the pinnacle of civilisation. And there is hypocrisy.
Take this example: the accusation that we follow a barbaric, blood-thirsty and violent religion. You may not, but I see barbarism everywhere.
Which nation invented the nuclear bomb? It was not a Muslim nation. Which nation used the nuclear bomb, the combined death toll of which is estimated to range from 100,000 up to 220,000, of whom most were civilians? It was not a Muslim nation. Which nation created and deployed napalm (jellied gasoline) as a weapon of war, a substance formulated to burn at a specific rate and adhere to material and personnel? It was not a Muslim Nation (it was the Germans for the anti-Americans amongst you). Which nation has refused to ratify a United Nations convention banning its use against civilian targets? Which nation invented the vacuum bomb which causes its victim to implode from within when it is used? It was not a Muslim nation. Which nation undertook the extermination of up to six million Jews over a period of five years? It was not a Muslim nation. Which nation developed Botox and Anthrax as weapons of mass destruction? I could go on, but I won’t.
I see barbarism everywhere in this depraved age of ours. Muslim terrorists have hijacked and blown up civilian airliners, but so have Nationalists, Socialists and indeed States. In 1988 the US shot down an Iranian passenger jet killing all 290 people on board, while in 1983 the US accused the USSR of shooting down a Korean airliner, killing 269 people.
What can we say? Perhaps it is our mindset which is at fault, conditioned by the bloodiest century ever. What can be said of a race (the human race) which has turned killing into a form of entertainment? The Romans had their gladiators and we have Hollywood. We have got death and destruction down to a fine art: the subtle thriller about the lone murderer, the action packed adventure of one man verses the terrorists complete with buildings exploding and planes crashing, and the grim horror about the obsessed mass murderer. All in the name of entertainment.
The truth makes you weep. We live in a barbaric and deprave age. We see the kidnappings in Iraq today, but we recall the kidnappings of Afro-Americans in 1960s America. We see the beheadings of innocents today, but we recall the hangings and lynchings of innocents yesterday. We think of the bombs on the London tube system, but we remember the Omagh bombing as well. We lament the bombing of a mosque in Pakistan this week, but we remember the Oklahoma bombing a decade ago. We see Churches destroyed in Indonesia, but we recall the mosques demolished in Bosnia ten years ago. If we are honest, we see the depravity everywhere. If we remember, if we think deeply, we see the barbarity all over the place. All we can say is that we live in a barbaric and deprave age.
It is depressing, isn’t it?
So remember: we are not “all” killing each other. We are not all involved. There is light and love in the world. The Muslim doctor who will see you when you end up in casualty. The Christian nurse who will tend your scars. The aid workers to those in need. The man who makes sure his neighbour is well. Despite the depravity, there is still hope.
Remove the plank from your own eye and you might just see a little bit better.
For the second time I watched Rabbit-Proof Fence this weekend. It tells the story of ‘half-caste’ children who were brought up in camps and homes in an attempt to ‘advance’ them into white society. Thousands of children were forcibly removed from Aboriginal mothers between 1900 and 1971. The film is the true story of Molly Craig, who was taken from her mother in Jigalong in 1931 at the age of 14. With her half-sister Daisy and cousin Gracie Fields, she was taken to the Moore River Native Settlement in Western Australia. Rabbit-Proof Fence tells of their nine week trek all the way home in their bid to be free.
There is a sentence that sticks in my mind from the film. AO Neville – ‘Protector of Aboriginals’ –was a sincere believer in the cause of the pseudo-science of eugenics. Eugenics held that there was an identifiably pure race which could be kept pure, in a positive way by breeding programmes and in a negative way by eliminating the impurities. Neville and his colleague Cecil Cook argued for the forcible removal of part-Aboriginal children from their families in order to ‘breed them white’. In 1937, Cook said:
Generally by the 5th, but invariably by the 6th generation, all native characteristics of the Australian Aborigines are eradicated. The problem of the half-castes will quickly be eliminated by the complete disappearance of the black race and the swift submergence of their progeny in the white. The Australian native is the most easily assimilated race on earth, physically and mentally. The quickest way is to breed him out.
Neville said:
Are we going to have a population of 1,000,000 blacks in the Commonwealth, or are we going to merge them into our white community and eventually forget that there were any Aborigines in Australia?
The sentence from the film that sticks in my mind reminds me of the words of another sincere believer in a cause of our own age. AO Neville passionately insists that the Aboriginals must be helped even against themselves.
If only we would learn from the tragedies of the past.
With increasing frequency I suffer from bouts of melancholy. It exhibits itself in periods of unhappiness which come upon me unexpectedly and seemingly for no reason. It also appears – as it has done this afternoon – in the form of heightened emotions. I have written about this in the past, identifying spiritual causes as the source of this discomfort; if I focus on purifying my heart, I have concluded before, this sadness will leave me. But it is not this simple. Recently I learned that the cause may well be physical; it may be linked to the fact that my body cannot produce enough of a certain hormone. I felt extremely low on Friday and could not concentrate at work. I felt that I wanted to start getting treatment straight away, instead of waiting for the result of yet another blood test. I should have patience, for what did our predecessors do in this situation? They just lived it out. Yet I felt miserable and became impatient. The clinical rationale for treatment include stabilizing or increasing bone density, enhancing body composition by increasing muscle strength and improving energy and mood. Prayer is always an ally, but there comes a time when we Muslims have to accept that not all our problems are spiritual. No doubt this is the reason why we refuse to capitulate to the demands of those who wish us to keep faith a private matter.
Sometimes I feel like the nomad. I came to Islam towards the end of the twentieth century of the Christian Era, over fourteen hundred years after the Prophet’s migration to Medina, peace be upon him. I came to Islam after the European colonial age which saw the slaughter of Muslim scholars and the “Great Powers” playing different groups of Muslims off against each other. I came to Islam after the seed of nationalism had grown into a vast but barren tree.
Those born into practicing Muslim families could at the very least grasp on to the tradition of their parents, seeking refuge in the remains of a living tradition. This was the discussion I had with my wife two nights ago that prompted me to hammer out that huge post on knowledge: as converts to Islam we are thrown into the deep sea of confusion, looking this way and that, listening to the competing claims of Muslims here and there. The Scholars are the inheritors of the Prophet, peace be upon him, we are told: but which Scholars? Perpetually we are warned of corrupt scholars, government scholars, wolves in sheep’s clothing, pretenders to the throne… the list goes on. We do not have Muslim heritage to look back on. We cannot ask our grandparents about their grandparents.
So I do find myself harking after the simple faith of the nomad. If you ask me what my aqida is, I will say I do not know. I don’t even know what aqida is. Just now I simply pray and fast and give charity, and try to be kind to those around me. This is about the entirety of my Islam. I am well aware that there are dangers in this, but it is all I can do in this time of confusion. I cling to the jamat wherever I find myself and focus on those actions about which there is no disagreement: the smile which is a charity, control of the tongue, the five prayers and their companions, a few coins to one in need, responding to the one who asks.
I cannot do more than this because my mind is too small to fathom the pathway to the past as it passed through the era of European Empire. My wife is Armenian and she tells me of the mischief of the British, as they encouraged the Armenian uprising whilst the Turks were defending their borders. The scene was replicated throughout the Muslim lands. Ethnic groups turning on one another, scholars slaughtered, the European Powers promoting one group of Muslims against another… The simple faith of the nomad seems safer somehow.
As an agnostic about ten years ago I wrote a somewhat irreverent piece about my search for the truth. While I have faith today, testifying that none has the right to be worshipped except God and that Muhammad is His messenger, there remains a mustard seed of truth in that piece. It is no longer a question of religion, but of who you can trust to follow. Just follow the Qur’an and Sunnah, say some, but we all know it is not so simple. Am I to interpret them myself, given my distance in time, space and language from the Prophet and his companions? Everyone agrees that the scholars are the inheritors of the religion, to explain these matters to us, but we do not agree on which scholars: which are the wolves and which the pretenders to the throne. I know that ijazzah can be traced to ijazzah, back through the generations, but where is this presented? So there remains a grain of truth in that piece of mine from a decade ago:
Question everything, but don’t tell anyone. When you’re on that journey of yours, never confess that you’re completely lost. Just smile, grin, and bear it. It’s going to infuriate you, but nobody will understand. In their control rooms, they have their timetables and maps. To them it’s obvious, so why can’t you see that?
… Recently, you were going to church every Sunday, hoping a sermon would cure your questioning mind. And one day, your lucky day, they invite the unsure, the faithless, the agnostic, to stay behind after the service, where they’ll explain it to you and make you see the truth. You sit there and wait: you pray they’ll make you see, but soon you discover that it’s not you who’s blind. The preacher arrogantly assumes that you’re just ignorant, that you don’t have faith because you’re ignorant. Because you didn’t read the Bible.
“Well, actually, I was reading the Bible, I just didn’t see the proof.”
And what is the preacher’s proof? He says it’s obvious. Well, no, it isn’t obvious, because you wouldn’t be sitting here listening to him if it was. He arrogantly assumes that those without faith simply have no faith because they never tried and never thought about it. He tells you that it’s obvious, so obvious that even a four year old could understand. But wait. You’re not four years old; the four year old didn’t read the Bible, she just sucked on her lolly and never wondered if the sugar would rot her teeth.
An editor recently left a message on my answer-phone asking me to write a balanced view of the birthday of the Prophet in light of my Christian upbringing. I very nearly did not write anything because I do not know anything about the topic. When I eventually got a few thoughts together the result was neither passionate nor critical. At best it was wishy-washy. I was asked to tie it in with how I viewed Christmas as a Christian and so I merely described my experience. It was not an argument in favour or against, but merely a description of my encounter. The truth is, I have never met anyone celebrating his birth, only those who commemorate it by focusing on his biography; so I said so. I concluded:
…as I ponder on those I witnessed expressing such love for the Prophet as they read his sirah and his sunnah, I can only conclude that whatever I write will be worthless, because I do not know the Messenger as I should.
This prompted somebody to respond with eight hundred words on the question of innovation. Talk about interpretation. I was talking about how love for the Prophet permeates the actions of those who sit and learn, of those who immerse themselves in learning. I was talking about how distant I am from that example. I was saying that their love inspires me to learn much more. You see, I have the faith of the nomad, but I want so much more.
“Then He lifted Himself to heaven when it was smoke, and said to it and to the earth, “Come willingly, or unwillingly!” They said, “We come willingly.”
From the translation by the non-Muslim, Arthur J. Arberry (1905-69), Verse 10, page 491, The World’s Classics Series: The Koran Intepreted, Oxford Univisity Press, 1964
