We have just entered Rabi’ Al-Awwal, the month of the Islamic calendar so intimately connected to significant events in the life of our blessed Prophet – peace be upon him – not least of which were his birth and death. This month will be marked by some with remembrance of Allah and with words of thanks for the gift of the beloved Messenger. It will be marked by others with increased supplication, with a return to the pages of the sirah and with deep contemplation. It will be marked by others still with the appearance of Christmas tree lights in the mosque and it will, no doubt, be marked by the sight of a young man shouting in the same building about the sin of those who celebrate. For others, however, the month will pass them by as just another month in the lunar cycle, just as it has done for me over the past seven years. It passes us by, not because we are we have an opinion, but because we are not conscious of its significance.
The mosques I have attended have never drawn attention to a special day within this month, nor have my friends. I do not have Islamic heritage to look back on and no believing family to instruct me as I take these tiny steps forward. What I do know is little, while what I do not know is vast and daunting. In this age there are many like me; children of people who do not practice and the growing number of converts to Islam. The years pass us by and we grow a little, but not much. We miss opportunities to obtain greater blessings because we do not know; I think of my regret in early February when I found out too late that the Day of Ashurah had passed – if anyone was to benefit from that fast it was me. Thus how does one respond when he is asked for his opinion of mawlid, an event about which he has only recently become conscious? There have only been a few instances when I have encountered people commemorating the Prophet’s birth. On each occasion I have gone away in deep thought, not because their behaviour was peculiar, but because it was unremarkable.
Like many people I suppose, I have been warned about mawlid without really understanding what it was in the first place. Very soon after I became Muslim in 1998 I was taught that celebrating birthdays is prohibited altogether, hence I built up one more wall between myself and my family, refusing to accept well-wishes and gifts. I also learnt that anniversaries of deaths are frowned upon, along with any other celebration falling outside the two Eids. To mark the birthday of the Prophet, therefore, was doubly condemned as innovation. It must be this that triggered my response to those Muslims commemorating the birth of the Prophet, for their actions seemed quite ordinary. On the first occasion his birth was commemorated with talks detailing his noble character, followed by recitation of poetry and then dinner. On the most recent occasion I listened as the characters studied the Prophet’s sunnah, reading from al-Nawawi’s Riyad al-Salihin, before spending an hour or so reading poetry about him aloud.
Anticipating tinsel and fairy lights in the mosque and goodness knows what else, but finding people studying the sirah of the Prophet instead, I can only conclude that the warning refers to something else that I have never experienced. Again, how do I respond when I am asked for my opinion of mawlid? What can be said of commemorations in general, how do we respond to the fact that the early generations of Muslims did not revere the Prophet’s birthday and how do I view it in light of my Christian upbringing?
To the first question I would simply say that I do not know. Taking stock of the damage done in my personal relationships by my refusal to celebrate birthdays, I take a more magnanimous stance today. We live in a society in which families spend less and less time with one another, I concluded recently, but in my experience birthdays generally bring people together. In any case, with the guardians of the mosques of Mecca and Medina marking anniversaries, there is clearly more to it than I was led to believe.
Seven years ago the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia celebrated the centennial of its founding; the occasion, said the dedicated website, “deserves special attention by way of a unique celebration which will serve as a reminder of Allah’s bounty, and as an appreciation owed to King Abdul Aziz, the great founder of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.” Thus amidst commissions for new works of literature and architecture, a great festival was held throughout the land. It was not unique. Last September, as reported in Arab News, the Kingdom celebrated its 75th National Day “with pomp and pageantry, highlighting the heroic efforts made by King Abdul Aziz to unify the country”.
The second question should be addressed by the scholars, not by the likes of me. As to the third request, I would have to say that I believe there is little one can learn about the harm or benefit of commemorating the Prophet’s birth from the Christian’s experience of Christmas. The claims surrounding the divinity of Jesus can be traced back to before the first Council of Nicea 325CE and there is no evidence linking this claim to any celebration of his birth. Indeed neither Irenaeus nor Tertullian mentioned it in their lists of the festivals of the earliest church, while Origen stated that it was only sinners that celebrate their birthdays.
Modern day Christians do not worship Jesus because of Christmas, but rather celebrate the festival precisely because they believe him to be divine. A great deal of evidence points to the fact that the celebrations centred on 25 December or 7 January are merely Christian appropriations of existing pagan festivals. Clement of Alexandria, writing in 200CE, mocked the Egyptian theologians who argued that Jesus’ birth fell on the 20 May in the twenty-eighth year of the reign of Augustus, because believers simply did not know exactly when he was born. If anything can be said of my experience as a Christian then – and I regret that this will not be what was in the mind of the one who asked – it is only that Christmas warmed our spirits and made us think about our faith.
We have just entered Rabi’ Al-Awwal and many people will be commemorating our blessed Prophet’s birth and life. I have been asked to write something about this, but 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. Peace be upon him, I say, for we are a nation indebted to him. This year this month may not just pass me by; taking note of my distance from his noble example I may pick up his sirah and read.
Where are the real men? The latest book I have started reading is the Al-Azhar translation of “The men around the Messenger” which I was given several years ago. Naturally it goes without saying that we are like flies beside these great characters, but still it would be nice to think we were not a lost cause. Sometimes, though, I wonder. My wife knows a woman who has two severely disabled children and is charged with looking after them single handedly. Because of their fits, sometimes they hurt their mother, but all she can do is cry for she knows they do not know what they are doing. She is able to rest while her children are in day care, but come evening the restlessness returns. Where is her husband? He walked out on her because he could not cope. It is not the only case. Another of my wife’s friends – an English convert – also has a disabled son, now grown up. For years she has cared for him single handedly; another divorce because the man could not cope.
I wish these were two isolated examples, but they are not. Through my engagement with a small charity working with Muslims throughout England, I have learnt that this scenario repeats itself up and down the country. I appreciate that Islam permits divorce, but the scale of it nowadays suggests that many Muslims have missed the words that it is something most hated by Allah. Books concerning gender written by Muslims often emphasise that us men have been given more responsibilities because we are the stronger sex. If this is so, perhaps somebody can explain to me why we are so quick to run away when the going gets a little tough.
If we are the stronger sex, why are there so many instances of Muslim women being left to fend for themselves and bring up their children as single mothers? I fear something is seriously wrong with us today. Could it be that we are not receiving proper advice? We are all told that divorce is our right – we are even told in great deal what constitutes a permissible excuse – but few of us seem to be aware of our responsibilities and, indeed, even that divorce is disliked. I was once enthusiastically informed that one can divorce his wife if she cannot have children. This may be true, but what is wrong with you? There are thousands of Muslim children in “Care” in England, seeking foster parents. Most of them end up with non-Muslim families to be brought up as non-Muslims. Divorce is disliked and looking after orphans is strongly commended, but you want a divorce?
Let me turn it on its head: due to a chromosome disorder I cannot have children of my own. How do I deal with it? Well the Qur’an recounts a couple of stories about great men who were childless for many years: Prophet Ibrahim who eventually seeded two great nations, and Zachariah, whose supplication we repeat. Read those stories and learn about the patience of those old men. Think deeply. Would it be right to punish me for a condition, which I have through no fault of my own, with loneliness for the rest of my days? I say no, not just because I am biased, but because I believe that Muslims are commanded to behave with compassion and mercy. Would you really abandon your wife to a lonely existence – no partner, no children, no grandchildren? Is that how strong you are, oh man? Is that how strong you are?
The fact that I may never have children of my own torments me from time to time, but I recall that the purpose of life is to tests us as to which of us are best in deeds. If this is my test, so be it. All of us are accountable for how we respond to adversity. We have a choice: to behave like men and face it, or to turn and run away. Most of us today choose the latter. The men around the Messenger, however, never ever fled.
Mainstream contemporary discourse represents a relativist worldview, wherein there is no truth, only ideas and arguments; all beliefs are generally valid, although some are more valid than others. For people of faith this has major implications.
A few years ago, one of the discussions of the Church of England’s General Synod concerned Christian witness in a plural society. Writing in the Church Times at the time, David Banting noted that Muslims expect Christians to have convictions as clear as their own. He was right. While diversity of opinion is of course to be welcomed, the meandering, self-conscious spirit amongst many does not promote confidence in the process of dialogue. Representatives of the two faiths need to define clearly what it is that they believe, not wavering because they fear causing offence. Honesty must crown any efforts at dialogue and this means addressing issues even if they cause discomfort.
In my own case, as a convert, it is impossible to ignore the fact that my belief in Islam causes deep unhappiness within my family. While I am not a good believer and my practice is hugely wanting, I do believe sincerely. It is not something that I take lightly, nor is it something that I took on as a choice of fashion. I came down this path because I believe that it is the correct way to worship God. For this reason I cannot turn my back on it for the reason of bringing ease in my personal relationships.
Most people who are sincere in their faith hold a position similar to this, whether they are Roman Catholic, Pentecostal, Buddhist, Baha’i or Jewish. I have been told that my family and friends continually pray that I may be guided back to the truth. They worry about me, fear that I have taken the wrong path and that, on the Day of Judgement, I will be amongst the losers. This situation is just one of the things which come with the territory of believing there to be a definitive truth and a reason for our existence. On both sides we believe that we have a hold of the truth.
Yet our relationship does not end there. Indeed there need be no conflict between the idea a faith’s uniqueness and pluralism. We do not need to be totalitarian about our faith — whatever that may be — because we believe in its uniqueness; it is perfectly possible to live peaceably with people of other faith traditions whilst maintaining our own convictions. Periods of Islamic history attest to the fact that pluralism can coexist with a one-way faith, however much today’s religious puritans and secular fundamentalists may wish to prove otherwise.
A survey of all the counties touched by Islam will reveal the existence of local and diverse culture. Just look at the mosques of Turkey, India, Mali or China: each of the designs manifest something of an indigenous tradition. Consider the mastery of the Urdu poets, the literature of the Arabs or the growing body of modern self-expression in blogistan and cyberspace. Jewish writers have noted that many of their forefathers flourished as scholars under Muslim rule in Spain. Srebrenica was once a glowing example of coexistence in the midst of Europe. It is true to say that our history was not all light, but for every instance of shame we can find another to be proud about.
Muslim tradition teaches that Islam was the religion of all the Prophets. At the same time it stresses that there is one path to God: that affirmed by all of them, that none should be worshipped except the one true God, the Creator of all things. The fact that I believe this does not negate my contribution to a pluralist society. We do not need to pretend that we cannot understand another person’s point of view because we maintain firm beliefs. Muslims believe in God as the Creator of all things and therefore as the God worshipped by Jews and Christians. A Christian, however, might well argue that this is not the case in view of their Trinitarian theology; since Islam rejects the idea that anything in creation can also be the Creator, the demarcation is clear. We may hold completely different beliefs, but we are not incapable of understanding one another. The argument for the resurrection in the Christian worldview is that humans are irreparably corrupt and so our only salvation is through the blood of Christ. Islam, however, denies the concept of fallen humanity and original sin. Does this mean we cannot talk to each other?
I believe it is a mistake for Christians to renounce their faith – to deny previously established beliefs – simply because they are now encountering people of other faiths. Indeed, people of other faiths expect Christians to hold their ground; the real source of discomfort is not religious pluralism but effective secularism. It is the latter which demands that there is no absolute truth (except this one), not adherents to other religions.
Unfortunately, this alternative view of pluralism has become dominant today. Conviction is aligned with intolerance, while those who reject the relativist worldview are accused of promoting cultural ghettos. Since the massacres in London last summer we have heard much about the failure of multiculturalism from politicians, journalists and commentators alike. This is nothing new. Over the past thirty years there has been a growing body of theologians determined to frame religion in relativist terms. One William Cantwell Smith argues that it is a form of idolatry for Christians to believe that Christianity alone is true. This suggests that they worship Christianity. It is true that a religion itself can become an object of worship, but that is not what believers are doing by insisting on its truth. For the majority of followers the religion is merely the transport towards an end; they do not worship it, but use it to worship.
Yet again I insist that the concept of pluralism need not pose difficulties for our mere existence as believers of different faiths. The question is how it affects our ability to share our faith. This is the crux of the matter for me as a convert. To believe in a path as the one authentic way to worship God and yet withhold that from my loved ones is a form of hypocrisy. In life it is easier to hide — fearing to cause offence by saying that you believe this to be the way — than to invite others to believe in what you believe. Because the dominant argument of our age insists that there is no single truth and that while some views may be more valid than others, all beliefs are nevertheless legitimate, we can feel uncomfortable when it comes to sharing our beliefs with others. We avoid being a nuisance or causing resentment at all costs.
Even as this dominates, however, with belief there is always an uncomfortable feeling inside: one day, when our meeting with our Lord finally comes, will my family and friends not hold me to account for failing to adequately explain this belief to them? The uncomfortable voice within says that though you fear their anger now, there is something worse along the line if you are silent.
For believers of whatever faith, it is the central dilemma of our age.
For the first time in seven years, I honoured “Mother’s Day” yesterday. Three or four years ago I sent my mother flowers in September with a note saying, “Everyday should be Mother’s Day.” It wasn’t because of this belief that thanks should be expressed every day, however, that I ignored the celebration on its official date. Nor was it because of the rampant commercialism now associated with the day. As a child I celebrated Mother’s Day in church amidst bunches of fresh daffodils, so it was considered part of our culture, whilst Father’s Day was derided as the march of consumerism.
The reason I failed to honour the occasion over the years since I embraced Islam was the feeling that it was not from my religion; if it was not from this tradition, I thought, I should shun it. This year I felt compelled to change my view. As I mentioned in an earlier post, I recently started reading Imam Bukhari’s code for everyday living from the example of the early Muslims, Al-Adab Al-Mufrad. The fact that the first thirty-eight chapters related to the importance of maintaining the ties of kinship had a huge impact on me. It forced me to re-evaluate my stance.
The Prophet, peace be upon him, was asked, “To whom should I be dutiful?” He replied: “Your mother.” “Then whom?” asked the man. “Your mother,” came the reply again. “Then whom?” “Your mother,” replied the Messenger. “Then to whom?” asked the man finally. “Your father,” said our noble Prophet. Your mother, your mother, your mother: all I could think about after reading Bukhari’s work. If my mother would be upset with my boycott of a really quite noble occasion, I concluded, it would be me who would be the loser. Breaking the ties of kinship is, after all, a major sin, listed along side murder and polytheism.
Some may find it strange that it has taken me seven years to come to this conclusion, while others will accuse me of innovation. I can only say that the words of the earliest Muslims have suddenly stirred my in a way I could not have imagined. I realised that no gift could express my gratitude for everything my mother has done for me and no words could express my sorrow for my years of remiss. Those words of our blessed Prophet just repeat over and over in my mind: “Your mother, your mother, your mother.”
So another week has passed us by. As our lives hurtle along apace, we wonder what will become of us tomorrow and yet what can be said of our store of good deeds? We are taught that when we are gathered back together on that Revered Day we shall protest that we lived our life for but a day. It will be as if time has not dragged on at all.
Pondering this last week, a dear friend proposed that we should understand the saying of our Blessed Prophet, peace be upon him, that time will decrease as the Hour approaches as meaning that the value of time will decrease. Our days, he noted, have been chopped into the smallest of units and the more an item of value is chopped into smaller articles, its value reduces correspondingly. Thus we are troubled by a minute’s delay, whilst our predecessors were happy to journey for a day. And the angels travel down to earth in a day the like of which is a thousand years. I believe there is truth in his view, but none of it weakens the approach of the Hour.
As I look back on the speed with which the past five years have passed me by, there is a sense of regret. Time is all we have; as said another friend, time is the most breathtaking of our Lord’s creation. It is both unfathomable and true; He can stop it at will and extend it without limit. Indeed, He promises that our days in this fleeting abode will seem like nought compared to the days of the hereafter.
Another week has passed us by, and what have we done to draw closer to our Lord? Conversely, what has distracted us and led us away? Are we on call to every whim of the breaking news? Are we reactionaries, darting in one direction and then another, led by every plot and plan? Believing we are doing good, we jeopardise our obligations in our race to respond to every provocation placed before us.
In recent weeks a link to a video on MEMRI’s website has been circulating via email around the world; it has, apparently, received three million hits since it was first aired at the end of February. I received my link last Friday, with a request for comments about an article posted on a conservative US website. The article, written by a former employee of the Reagan White House, argued that a Syrian woman who had critiqued Muslim society and defended Western civilisation deserved the utmost respect of conservatives. As I wrote at the time, I was not sure why I was being asked to comment on it for, quite apart from not being a US national, I am not a media commentator nor have I written on the topic previously. Nevertheless, I looked into it, publishing a review of the author’s argument and her subject’s views as described in the article. My conclusion, however, was perhaps not what the individual was looking for.
“Why am I asked to comment on this article?” I demanded, “Is it the latest attempt to provoke Muslims, to encourage us to react as some did to the Danish cartoons? Are we all meant to call for the woman’s head, to scream and shout, march and burn down embassies? Are we meant to act like animals so that the conservatives can say, ‘Look at those irrational Moslems – they do not deserve freedom and respect. Let us wage war in their lands’?” This may not have been the intention of the person who sent me the link — indeed I don’t know anything about him/her — but the wider excitement about this insignificant video does have a familiar ring to it.
Must we respond to every provocation? I believe the answer is no. Another week has passed us by. I have no idea what will become of me tomorrow as time hurtles along apace. Taking stock of my store of deeds, I recognise that time is too precious. When we are gathered back together on the Day of Judgement we will complain that we tarried for just a few hours. So let us use them wisely.
A visitor to this site has asked me to comment on an article by one Mona Charen entitled, Stand up: Wafa Sultan is passing on a website called Townhall.com. This is a US website which prides itself on being an exchange for conservative thoughts and ideas. Charen worked in the White House Office of Public Liaison in the 1980s during the Reagan regime and is the author of two fairly well known books: How Liberals Got it Wrong in the Cold War and Still Blame America First and Do-Gooders: How Liberals Harm Those They Claim to Help – and the Rest of Us. I am not quite sure why I have been asked to comment on this because 1) I am English, 2) I am not a media commentator and 3) the article in question does not relate to anything I have written about before. I am also not sure what kind of comments the visitor is expecting: are you interested in the author’s style, the author’s opinion, the subject of the article’s opinion or what? Anonymous just says, ‘Your comments would be appreciated…’
Okay, well my first comment would be, if you’re going to ask me to do something some common courtesy would be nice. What’s your name, where are you from, why do you want me to comment on this? Are you Muslim, are you a searching agnostic, are you a journalist on a mission of entrapment? But, okay, I know, it’s not going to happen; everyone loves anonymity. So on to the article…
Charen’s Opinion
Charen argues that Dr. Sultan, who describes herself as a secular human being, deserves deep respect for her heroic defence of Western civilisation. The title is derived from a scene in the film adaptation of that provocative novel, To Kill a Mockingbird:
‘..the little girl, Scout, who has been watching her lawyer/father plead for the life of a falsely accused black man in the old South, is exhorted by an elderly black spectator in the gallery to rise to her feet. “Your father is passing,” he explains.’
The author says she thought of that scene ‘after viewing a video of a woman who must be one of the bravest souls on earth.’ Apparently Dr Sultan took part in a debate with an Egyptian professor of Islamic Studies, broadcast on Al-Jazeera. Charen tells us that she agued that there is a clash ‘between civilization and backwardness, between the civilized and the primitive, between barbarity and rationality. It is a clash between freedom and oppression, between democracy and dictatorship. It is a clash between human rights on the one hand, and the violation of those rights on the other hand…’ etcetera, etcetera.
I see great bravery all over the world. One brave soul was found by a BBC journalist sitting under a tree after the earthquake in Pakistan last year; she had lost every member of her family and her home, yet her words were filled with faith, to the extent that it was incomprehensible to that foreign correspondent. Those firemen who ran into the World Trade Centre buildings as they collapsed five years ago were incredibly brave souls. The children of Iraq and Palestine are also brave souls. The children who survived the massacres of Dunblane and Beslam are brave souls. Dr Sultan herself must have been brave to have moved on in life after men burst into her classroom and riddled her professor’s body with bullets in front of her while they shouted ‘God is Great’. And yes, she may well be brave for sitting in an Al-Jazeera studio, expressing views presumably contrary to those of her audience. The very fact that something involves bravery, however, does not always mean it is commendable. A suicide bomber must have to be extremely brave – or else intoxicated – to do what they do, but we would never say they deserve our respect.
This is the main argument of Charen’s article however. Apart from getting in a few ‘from the Muslim’s mouth’ jibes as a result of Dr Sultan’s views, she expends seven hundred words telling her conservative friends that the woman is brave and therefore demands their ‘awe and deep respect.’
Dr Sultan’s Opinion
As far as Dr Sultan’s opinions are concerned, I can only go on the basis of what is reported in Charen’s article as I have not heard the actual broadcast nor read its transcript. The author says she started by describing the struggle as one between “two opposites, between two eras,” a clash “between civilization and backwardness, between the civilized and the primitive, between barbarity and rationality. It is a clash between freedom and oppression, between democracy and dictatorship. It is a clash between human rights on the one hand, and the violation of those rights on the other hand.”
Out of context, there does not appear to be anything wrong with this, but I suspect that she means something very different from what I would mean. I am not a pacifist, but I am opposed to modern warfare. Thus I would describe the use of vacuum bombs, cluster bombs, cruise missiles, high-altitude bomber planes, chemical weapons and suicide bombs all as acts of barbarity. As an individual I have only ever hit another person once in my entire life and that one occurrence was an accident. The clash that I perceive is therefore not between ‘civilisations’ – if they even exist – but between ways of thinking.
Charen reports that the host asked Dr Sultan if her view was that ‘what is happening today is a clash between the culture of the West and the backwardness and ignorance of the Muslims?’ Dr Sultan apparently said that this is what she meant. According to the author she went on to say about the Jews and the Christians, ‘They are not the “People of the Book,” they are people of many books. All the useful scientific books that you have today are theirs, the fruit of their tree and creative thinking.’
I do not agree with this argument at all. She is framing the world as ‘us’ and ‘them’, but this is not a reflection of reality. This is the thesis which states that Muslims have not produced anything since the great age of science several hundred years ago, but this is not the case. The concept of ‘The West’ is a convenient category, but it is not a reality. There is no such thing as “the contribution of West”, for what we actually have are the contributions of individuals. Christians, Jews and Atheists have all produced useful scientific works, but so have Muslims, Hindus and Buddhists. Travel down to Oxford and you will find leading neuroscientists who are Muslims. In my own circle of friends there is a Muslim who is designing algorithms to detect cancer tumours automatically through medical imaging, having completed his PhD on artificial intelligence; there is another working in genetics, who just so happens to be the son of a well known scholar of the Qur’an and Hadith. The contribution of Muslims to science is in fact vast, but it is not recognised by those who foster the artificial construct of “The West”.
Question
Why am I asked to comment on this article? Is it the latest attempt to provoke Muslims, to encourage us to react as some did to the Danish cartoons? Are we all meant to call for the woman’s head, to scream and shout, march and burn down embassies? Are we meant to act like animals so that the conservatives can say, ‘Look at those irrational Moslems – they do not deserve freedom and respect. Let us wage war in their lands.’ Charen began with a scene from To Kill a Mockingbird. Should we point out that it was people with views not very dissimilar to those expressed on that site that were lynching black people less than fifty years ago? In England we all read the novel in secondary school and some of us understood what it was about.
There a times when I am amazed by the bouties of Allah. The last two days without any effort on my part He has inspired me with good deeds. Such a sudden swing without explanation. Allah has always been generous to me. Sometimes it scares me, for I fear I am being granted all the good in this world, but all of us must have high hopes. Last night I was inspired to pick Imam Bukhari’s Al-Adab Al-Mufrad (A code for everyday living: the example of the early Muslims) from my bookshelf and I have been reading it ever since. True knowledge, the knowledge of our religion is such a pleasure, such a lightness, such a breeze. I am so incredibly grateful. Allah provides so much. This is one of many books so generously sent to me by a considerate publisher; I do not request them, expect them or pay for them, but Allah provides. For too long they sit on my shelf gathering dust, but they remain for times like this. My heart is filled with joy, for there is so much comfort in the words in that hard-back volume. I was reading it not ten minutes ago, when suddenly Allah inspired me with a good deed for my wife. Finished, I reflecting with amazement on His bounty. And I felt I had to sit and share it.
Long before the Make Poverty History campaign caught the public imagination—its huge momentum so famously derailed by four bombs on the London transport system last July—another global movement was calling for the cancellation of the unpayable debts of the world’s poorest countries. At the turn of the millennium Africa was said to be paying $200 million every week just to service its debts. ‘The debts are unjust, unpayable and are killing too many people,’ lamented Jubilee 2000, ‘The cards are stacked against the poor. We’ve got to change the system, to put an end to this injustice.’ Thus, in over 120 countries, trade unions, charities, religious groups and community organisations came together with a unified retort; a call that the debt be dropped.
There is no doubt that this is a noble cause. It is claimed that Benin used over 50% of the money saved through debt relief to fund health care, while Tanzania was able to abolish primary school fees which led to an increase in attendance of over 60%. Our noble Prophet, peace be upon him, said: ‘Your smile for your brother is charity. Your removal of stones, thorns or bones from the paths of people is charity. Your guidance of a person who is lost is charity.’ Thus the work of Jubilee 2000 was indeed commendable. But for those of us familiar with religious law it does seem that we are missing something. While calling for the cancellation of existing debts, there is a much larger injustice about which we have fallen silent.
Low income countries pay around $2.30 to service their debts for every $1 they receive in grant aid. In her well known book, A Fate Worse Than Debt, Susan George called interest rates the ‘bane of Third World debtors’ existence.’ Interest lies at the heart of the matter. The first loans to Africa, Asia and South America came from the World Bank and foreign governments, targeted at development projects and the expansion of capital goods imports. Such loans were tied to relatively low interest rates. It is ironic that the newly oil-rich Muslim countries of the Middle East should be responsible, even if indirectly, for much of today’s crisis.
In the 1970s, commercial banks inexperienced in dealing with poor countries found themselves holding excess capital from OPEC’s oil price partnership and thus provided variable-rate loans based on market rates. Interest rates followed market fluctuations and, largely as a result of the U.S. Federal Reserve tightening monetary policy against inflation in the 1980s, they quickly rose from negative to positive levels. Consequently, as debt repayments suffered, the commercial banks withdrew from further lending to protect their own interests. The result of continued high interest rates, combined with a decline in commercial bank lending, was the paradox that the recipient countries were paying out more finance servicing payments than they received as borrowing.
The Jubilee Debt Campaign as it is now known is demanding an end to the injustice of what has been termed the Third World Debt Crisis. Admirable, indeed, but is it not time that we addressed the issue at the heart of this crisis? The movement’s name derives from the Hebrew Bible, for the jubilee was a time when debts would be forgiven. In The Times in 1998, the late Roman Catholic Archbishop, Cardinal Hume, wrote, ‘the prospect of reducing the burden of debt has profound theological resonance.’ A step further could have equally heartfelt significance, for in this crisis there is an inkling of an issue that was always treated with due concern through the ages by Church theologians.
Judaism, Christianity and Islam have much in common. One example is a prohibition on the consumption or charge of interest. Traditionally in all three faiths to make a transaction involving interest was considered a major sin. The law in the Pentateuch states that an Israelite may not exact interest from his poor brother on a loan given to him (Exodus 22:25; Leviticus 25:36). In the Psalms it is written that one who does not put his money out to usury will remain unshaken (15:5). In Ezekiel, a righteous man is one who ‘never lends either at discount or at interest, but shuns injustice and deals fairly between one person and another’ (18:8); a loan in interest, meanwhile, is considered amongst a list of abominations (18:13).
Similarly, Christians made reference to the Gospel of Luke which advises believers to lend without expecting a return (6:35). The Encyclical of Pope Benedict XIV of 1745 states, ‘The nature of the sin called usury has its proper place and origin in a loan contract.’ He goes on, ‘One cannot condone the sin of usury by arguing that the gain is not great or excessive, but rather moderate or small; neither can it be condoned by arguing that the borrower is rich; nor even by arguing that the money borrowed is not left idle, but is spent usefully…’
As for us Muslims, the Qur’an states, ‘Those who devour usury will not stand except as stand one whom the devil by his touch has driven to madness. That is because they say: Trade is like usury, but God has permitted trade and forbidden usury …’ (2:275). Our blessed Prophet, peace be upon him, confirmed this when he said, ‘A dirham which a man knowingly receives in usury is more serious a sin than thirty-six acts of adultery.’
It should not then be difficult to appreciate how a disassociation from interest would have the greatest theological resonance. Yet in reality we find quite the contrary, for most people are ignorant of this tradition. Although a distinction between usury and interest was rejected by both Luther and Melancthon, Calvin’s separation of the two gradually gained acceptance amongst both Protestants and Catholics. Thus today, in a global economy based on interest, few would even give the matter a second thought. Indeed this is surely the time that our beloved Prophet Muhammad spoke of when he said, ‘A time is certainly coming to mankind when only the receiver of usury will remain and if he does not receive it, some of its smoke will reach him.’
It is time that we stopped skirting around the issue. It is not just the debts which are unjust, unpayable and which are killing too many people, as the Drop the Debt campaign argued. All of us would do well to support this admirable and worthwhile campaign, but we should recognise that it is only part of the solution. If we—believers of the Abrahamic faiths—really want to change the system we may have to concede that it is time to stick Calvin’s separation back together again and that maybe, just maybe, the ancients had it right after all.
Note: This is a copy of an article I wrote for The Muslim Weekly, 14.03.2005.
Okay, so I am writing again already. Prompted by the first comment left by yet another “anonymous” under my last post, something needs to be said about media-induced distress. I cannot say that I have no sympathy for sufferers of this ailment; indeed it would be hypocritical for me to deny the anxiety stirring power of the media given the subject of my articles at the height of the cartoon fracas. I was, however, stunned by this comment:
“Why am I reading, and will continue to read, your blog? Because I now view all Muslims as terrorists with one goal; and that is to kill non-muslims. I know my view is being warped by the news media, critics, etc. so am trying to understand why…”
I cannot claim to be fanatical in following the media, but I do get a fair exposure so it is difficult for me to comprehend how anyone could come to the conclusion that “all muslims” are terrorists from this source. Is reporting really that bad? When the earthquake happened in Pakistan, I recall that a number of Muslim charities received very good publicity. Similarly their role in the relief efforts in the Darfur region of Sudan and, more recently, the famine hit regions across East Africa have received a fair amount of attention. On the other hand, much has been said about Muslims as victims of conflict and crisis worldwide. So what is it that blinds people to this reporting?
When my mother was a hospital chaplain some years ago, she used to come home telling us about “a lovely Muslim Doctor” who would come to pray in the chapel every day. When I became a Muslim myself, she asked me, “But what about the terrible way Muslims behave?” What is it that skews a person’s viewpoint despite their own experience? My grandmother once touched on this, telling me that as a child she was told never to trust Jews and Catholics; but when she finally met people of these two faiths she considered them some of the most wonderful people she had ever met. She told me this after meeting some of my Muslim friends at my wedding. They were lovely, she told me, despite what people say about Muslims.
It is interesting because I don’t take this blanket derogation of Muslims away with me from the media. In fact I am conscious that many Jews consider the BBC anti-Semitic because of its reporting from Palestine, many Black people claim it is racist, members of BNP call it anti-white, all while it is labelled Islamophobic. Furthermore, I never found myself thinking that all Irish people or all Catholics were terrorists at the height of the IRA bombing campaigns. I find it impossible to comprehend that one could be so heavily swayed by the news media. Thus, if this is a genuine occurrence I can only conclude that my own viewpoint is affected by the conscious decisions I have made.
The first such decision was to remove the television from my home. My wife and I made this decision around November 2001, primarily because we found ourselves wasting so much time in the aftermath of the attacks on America, coming home in the evening to watch the Six O’Clock News, Channel Four News, the Ten O’Clock News and Newsnight. We realised that our need-to-know attitude as actually false, for in reality we only come to know what editors choose to tell us. Life without television means that I am often out of touch with the latest trends, fashions, music, products, cars and conversations. Big deal. On those occasions when I am visiting friends and the television is on I do feel there is no need to feel regret.
Naturally I don’t have access to a hundred channels of satellite TV, indeed I never have. My newspaper when I choose to buy one is The Independent. I would never buy The Sun, The Mirror, The Daily Mail, The Express or any other such paper. Conscious choices. On the Internet, it is a cursory glance at the BBC on my arrival at work in the morning, perhaps occasionally The Times, The Guardian and The Independent as well. I used to spend a long time scanning all sorts of sources, but again I realised it served no purpose. Consciously I chose to fast my media consumption. My one weakness is Radio 4, which I tend to have on in my car in the morning and evening and to which I listen at home.
A number of my friends have given up the media altogether, recognising the addiction for what it is. It is unnatural in any case, says one of them, for even a century ago our predecessors would have known little more than what was happening across the county. Important news would get through eventually, but decisions were not required based upon the breaking news. It is not healthy to have so much information bombarded at us day and night, he argued; quite an irony given that he works for the world’s largest satellite broadcaster. Other friends go on media-free retreats and come back telling us how refreshed they feel. As for me, I find my TV-free home a true sanctuary, an abode of peace (Darussalam).
Those suffering media-induced distress may find comfort in treating the addiction, fasting for a while, turning off the TV and closing the papers. Some drink green tea to detoxicate their bodies others fast the daylight hours. A similar prescription can certainly be written for the soul.
Alas, there are other sides of the legacy. The society in which we are brought up, the education system and the impact of the media all affect one’s outlook. Some aspects which I am acutely aware of include cynicism, scepticism and suspicion. There is a degree to which these aspects can be healthy, but they can also affect one negatively. Recently we have been watching the DVD of a “great” debate between Dr Naik and Dr Cambell on the subject of scientific accuracy in the Bible and the Quran (note that I put great in quotation marks, indicating cynicism already), which we were given as a gift. I find I cannot watch such debates, for I find myself disputing the claims of the Muslim as well as the Christian, I note that I find fault with the conduct of the participants, I find myself saying, “Well I’ve never met a Christian who says that.” I end up being told to seek refuge in Allah from Shaitan the accursed.
Modernism, I suppose, makes us look at the world differently than did our predecessors. I am very much aware that the way I think and act is far removed from the ways of those who passed before us. Even if I try to practice the Sunnah, it will be severely wanting in comparison to the generations past, for I have been conditioned by my environment to the extent that things once viewed as extremes are now the norm and things once seen as normal are now considered wild aberrations. From an article about Muhammad The Messenger of God I read the following the other day:
The contemporary mind seeks for causes to ‘explain’ phenomena and, having discovered how this or that came to exist, forgets to ask why it came to exist. For the traditional Muslim, on the other hand, a person, a thing, or an event in what it is because God has looked upon this possibility hidden in His treasury — as yet unmanifested, unexpressed — and has thereby brought it out into the light of existence: ‘His command when He intends a thing (to come into being) is only that He says onto it: Be! And it is’ (Q 36:82).
Very true indeed.
I once knew a fellow who explained that the reason he was not taking his shoes off to pray on the dusty carpet in the basement of his bookshop was that we should differentiate ourselves from the Jews and the Christians. I had heard other justifications for shoes-on-carpet before, but I thought he was confused. I pointed out that in this country certainly, Christians don’t tend to take off their shoes when they go to Church; at home too, they do not remove them at the door. Far from differentiating himself from the Jews and Christians, he was differentiating himself from those who differentiate themselves.
I am thinking about the question of differentiation because I have been pondering over recent days the legacy of my Christian upbringing. I think the initial response of the convert is often one of rejection. Certainly in my case I took various positions, led by a series of lectures I attended in those early days, which I now regret to some extent. The celebration of birthdays is a case in point. I was told that this is haram and so I built up yet another wall between myself and my family, refusing to accept well-wishes and gifts. I look back on that now with some derision, taking a more magnanimous stance, but the damage is done. We live in a society in which families spend less and less time together, but the birthday provides the perfect opportunity to reconnect, to get together and share a little love. Indeed it provides the opportunity to say that we care, to say thank you, even to acknowledge our place in the world. Conversely, what is the benefit of rejectionism? It does not serve any religious function; if anything it creates conflict with other imperatives (creating anger, conveying ingratitude).
In any case, there is a more pertinent question here: how much of this rejectionism is just skin deep? Much of who I am, how I act and what I think are a legacy of my Christian upbringing. I am not ashamed of this and do not think I should be. This upbringing taught me good manners and modesty after all, both of them perfectly admirable Islamic characteristics. And there is more; concerns about global justice and social responsibility come from this root, and I am thinking here of the Drop the Debt campaign and Fair Trade in particular. As a Muslim who believes that fairness and social responsibility is part of our religion, I buy Fair Trade products, but I still acknowledge the root of this concern. I buy my fish from an independent supplier and my milk direct from the producing farm via Abel & Cole. If I buy chocolate, I check that it’s from a source which pays cocoa farmers a fair wage. And I’m proud that my adopted town is known as a Fair Trade Town. All of this is a legacy of my upbringing.
Yet my upbringing has done more than affect how I act: it can be seen in my thinking. As a Christian I was raised on the parables and reported stories of Jesus’ life in the four gospels. The commentary provided by Paul’s epistles seemed less important in childhood as it becomes for the adult faithful. Jesus’ exhortations to the Pharisees to observe the spirit of the law not just its letter is no doubt reflected throughout everything I write. The gospel accounts do not call for the law to be abandoned — although Luke tells us of the infamous dream in which all foods were shown to be lawful in his contradictory Acts of the Apostles — rather there is a call to appreciate its purpose. Unconsciously I see this affecting the way I live. For example Muslims are taught to respect water and indeed there are rules about how water is used. In the spirit of this, I find the idea using heavy bleaches in the toilet abhorrent; I know it doesn’t make a difference in the big scheme of things, but my conscience drives me to choose biodegradable products. Likewise, Muslims are taught to be careful of the tongue, so in this spirit I consider it applicable to what I write.
I do not consider Islam a negation of my upbringing, but a continuation of it. Indeed, retaining that which is good, I consider it a perfection of it. I think it can be useful to acknowledge the legacy of our upbringing and to be truthful too; a lot of the rejectionism I see around me is surely just skin deep.
Whilst sitting at my desk composing my last post a minute ago, two computers on in front of me (my book is on the laptop, but I had writers block, so I switched on my ancient whining monster to check my emails), I was just thrust back to Istanbul. On both computers I have Islamasoft’s Athan Software. Please don’t tell me that it is not the real athan, just electro-magnetic signals, because I already know this; I have it because it reminds me to leave these sentences behind. The sound of the athan is also beautiful and I like to have beauty in my home. I was taken back to Istanbul because the clock on my laptop is a minute behind the other one that updates to the atomic clock every time I go on line. So the first athan started, drifting from the speakers by my feet as if somewhere in the distance. And then the built-in sound on the laptop began half-way through. It was angelic and I could almost hear the foghorns on the Bosporus.
I think a lot of what I am writing about at the moment must be standing against me. There is a theme running through a lot my pieces, I know. That sense of disillusionment. Without a doubt it plays into those other topics I have written about, particularly the need to express gratitude. More and more I am recognising the extent of my ingratitude over recent years and I am really full of regret.
I have just been pondering on this because I have been asked to design a website for a particular organisation, but I found my initial response largely negative. Although I have long had a love for graphic design, I felt this was a task that I could not fulfil. Why? I suppose it was disillusionment again.
Between October 2001 and December 2003 I ran my own little business providing freelance publishing services. During that period I put together a number of websites and designed various books. All great opportunities; so why this negative disillusionment?
It’s a good question. I now work in a Primary Care Trust, spending my days toiling with metre-wide spreadsheets and Access databases. I find the work quite dull for it does not draw upon my creative nature at all, but it pays the bills I tell myself. This is the contradiction. I crave creative opportunities and yet fear drives me away from accepting jobs every time they are presented to me. What is this fear? Perhaps the fear that I will not do a good job, perhaps the fear that I cannot meet the high expectations of my clients.
In truth, I do not believe the origin of this disillusionment lies with my clients, although I may have projected this sense onto them in my mind; I believe it lies with dissatisfaction with myself. I have huge regrets. Some stem from my arrogance, some from incompetence, some from just being out of my depth. Yet all of these jobs were such great opportunities. My response should have been Alhamdulilah. I should have engaged with them in humility for the sake of Allah, but instead there is this sense of disillusionment.
There are sides of myself which I dislike immensely. Contempt and anger are some of them. Un-Islamic traits. Last night I saw it in myself as I drove my car; impatience, irritation and ingratitude. It is at times like this that I realise that the only cure for me is remembrance of Allah. I have much to learn and a great distance to travel. It is very sad: I have been Muslim seven and a half years, but it is as if it hasn’t been any time at all. What progress have I made? I think I can only weep.
It is a question which I have written about many times before, but one which seems to recur almost in a cycle, returning every three weeks or so: to write or not to write? The latest turn—having only just reconciled myself—arose when I read a comment on this site about the role of the people of knowledge. As I have noted repeatedly, we are a people commanded to speak good or stay silent, thus I wrestle with myself regarding this passion of mine. I love to write, for it brings me joy and relief; indeed it is a tool of counsel, clarifying thoughts that were at first confused.
As I reconcile myself to this passion, I consider my writing a gift from Allah. Some are given the eloquence of the tongue, others the hand of the calligrapher. Some are given great strength and energy, others compassionate gentleness. Everyone is given their gift, to be used to glory of their Creator and His way. And yet, that question recurs. Is it a gift or is it a test? Is it a tool to be used to benefit my faith or is it a distraction that replaces God-centeredness with the ego? Constantly I ponder this question.
From where does this dilemma come? Is it the legacy of the culture which first nurtured me when I was new to my faith? Throughout the Muslim lands we find the most beautiful mosques, flowing calligraphy, stunning tiles, works of poetry and literature, but my new faith seemed to look on these with contempt. In my mind, it became an almost Protestant Islam, painting over a rich tapestry of history with rough whitewash. Presenting an acultural view of life and religion, all those achievements of the ages were presented as nought; indeed they were viewed as the going-astray of the believers. So the architecture of Alhambra was seen as decadence and the scientific endeavours of Bagdad were viewed with ambiguity. Thus when I visited a Muslim country for the first time—Turkey in this instance—I viewed the great mosques not with wonder but with a kind of dismissive derision instead.
I believe this is a question which continues to trouble me and it is no doubt the root of that other question of mine: to write or not to write? For I have an ambiguous relationship with the arts, with those nuances of the human condition. On the one hand my faith inspires me with beauty, whilst on the other better believers state that true knowledge is our only armoury. Thus I am caught between the desire to put my talents to the service of my faith and the fear that they may rather lead me astray. The result is that I do nothing.
But why so much thought and so many words? Since early childhood I constructed tales in my mind, though I was never inspired to put pen to paper. Throughout my youth I was the laziest of boys, never exerting myself in anything other than daydreams, but upon leaving school and moving on to sixth-form college I had a wonderful English tutor called Eleanor Marsden who encouraged me like no teacher had before. My writing was poor, but nevertheless she nurtured this nascent interest and I am in many ways indebted to her. Two years later I completed a lengthy novel, tapped out over about six months of constantly sleepless nights. It was an immature work with few stylistic qualities, but it laid the foundation for everything I have done since. It made me want to write. It was followed by a diary of two months spent in Tanzania. Then, at university, The Neurocentric began in the pages of the student magazine; rantings that somehow fed my search for God’s pleasure. Those angry protestations of a weary agnostic, damning the believers for the faith they refused to share. And there was the rewrite of that novel of mine over the summer holidays, shifting the plot along with my thought patterns away from race and onto religion. My style had developed significantly—though looking back on it now, I see it was still hugely wanting—and the plot was more mature. It was a piece of work I never completed for by the following summer I was a Muslim, shunning this creative life.
Why so much thought and so many words? I suppose it lies with a renaissance in that desire of mine to write. Four years ago I finally began thinking about that novel again, three years after pushing it all aside. I pondered it and, realising that the impetuous for that particular story had long since passed, I decided to start afresh. Three and a half years ago, the work got underway. Sadly that question—to write or not to write—has disrupted this work all the way through. I completed the first chapter in Turkey early on (but subsequently scrapped it) and the second chapter neared completion the following summer. Yet all the time I meander between the two states. I began the first chapter once again around November last year—but I only manage to write for about eight hours in a month—starting with a spurt and then giving up once more as the disillusionment strikes yet again. I have had two novels on the go since the new Gregorian year: one that is already complete in my head but which needs to go down on paper, the other still coming together in my mind. Both of them urgent, and yet nowhere near completion. And now there is a third one just beginning.
To write or not to write, that is the question. Muslims are beginning to recognise the power of the media and are thus starting to engage it. Newspapers, magazines, the internet, even satellite TV are now within the Muslim’s grasp. My sights are set lower perhaps, but I see a vacancy for a Muslim Dickens in this land of bookshops and literature read on the tube. The question is: will I ever reconcile myself to this passion?
I am grateful to Allah, my Creator and the Creator of all things, that He granted me a home in a small market town in a steep-sided valley. I am grateful to my Lord for granting me this humble dwelling on one side of the valley, overlooking the fields of cows on the other side and the woodland beyond. I am grateful that He enables to buy fresh vegetables from the market in the centre of town every Saturday and that He provides fresh free-range eggs from a local farm via a shop five minutes away from the market stalls. I am grateful that He granted us a home we could afford, protecting us from the interest-based economy. I am grateful to Allah for granting me my loving, caring parents and I am grateful to them – although they may not think so given that I chose to walk this path, not theirs. But I am grateful. I am grateful for their unerring provision, the clothing they provided me in my youth, the education they furnished me with and the meals they prepared for me day after day. I am grateful that they sent me to Sunday School and took me to church, and instilled in me my moral compass. I am grateful for Stepping Stones when I was a child. I am grateful for all these things, and I thank Allah for granting them to me. I am grateful to Allah for granting me my wife, who supports me and encourages me, and cooks delicious Turkish tucker and doesn’t do a bad Englishi either. I am grateful to my Lord for granting me someone who understands me, who comforts me when I’m down and kicks me when I’m lazy, and I’m grateful to her too. I’m grateful to my Creator that He enabled me to make seven delicious scones this morning and I’m grateful that he decreed that my wife would not be angry with me about the burnt shortbread biscuits. I am grateful that Allah granted me the friendship of Abdul Haq who has recently moved to Bahrain; he is a great support to me always and a true friend indeed. I am grateful that He granted me the wise counsel of Abdul Baasit who has never over the seven years I have known him failed to ask after my parents, about their health and welbeing. I am grateful that Allah has granted me the ability to write and I am grateful that He has given me a creative nature. I am grateful that He granted me the opportunity to work on numerous books even as I tried to get out of each of them as they came along. I am grateful that God has granted me employment in an extremely pleasant country town, even though I often moan about my work ungratefully. I am grateful that I am able to walk past the ancient houses every day from my car to my desk and that in the summer I can ascend the hill between fields of barley to walk beneath the leafy canopy above in the forest at the top, or stroll beside the river running behind the highstreet. I am grateful that I can sit it the park amidst the scented flowers in my lunch hour and munch on my sandwiches. I am grateful that I am near enough to home to be able to pray in my local mosque at lunchtime in these winter months. I am grateful to my Lord for decreeing that my sister visits me in my little house on the hill whenever she is in the county. I am grateful that Allah has granted me good health. I am grateful that my Lord has granted me the companionship of fellow Englishmen also following this path, who smooth the way before me. I am grateful that Allah granted me the friendship of my older Somali companion Abdi, who has a special place in my heart although I have not seen him in almost four years. I am grateful that he studied Development Studies and Geography at the same time as me, sharing his expertise in the field of practical development. I am grateful that He granted me the friendship of my older Turkish companion too, who invited me to his home when I studied in Stirling and inspired me with his culture so that I prayed to Allah that He would be grant me a life like his, and lo He granted me a wife from that same land who prepares Turkish breakfast just like the one I tasted in that house in Scotland. And I am grateful to Allah for his immense signs, for although my friend had never met my wife, when he visited us in Ankara we discovered that he was a close friend of my wife’s closest friend. I am grateful to Allah for granting me bounties greater than I can measure. I am grateful that He granted me so many friendships throughout my years and throughout this land and others. I am grateful to my Lord for granting me the gift of faith. I am grateful to the Most Merciful for making me shy throughout my youth. I am grateful that He protected me from bringing harm upon myself. I am grateful that He placed in my heart the fear of my parents. I am grateful that He granted me warmth and gave me food. I am grateful that protected me from harm and has sustained my life long enough for me to begin to correct my conduct and start to purify my heart. I am grateful for the Letter of James. I am grateful to Allah that He inspired me to walk, walk, walk. I am grateful that He granted me my garden and the fruit trees within it. I am grateful for all these things and for so much more. I am grateful that He has granted me what wealth I have. I am grateful for the cheerful greeting of an old man I encountered in the street one morning. I am grateful for laughter and I am grateful for tears. I am grateful that Allah tested me in a way which made me appreciate his bounty. I am grateful that He makes my heart ache whenever I do wrong and that He causes tears to well up in my eyes when I stumble into sin. I am grateful that He sends critics to me who remind me of my shortcomings. I am grateful that I have a bowl of carrot and courgette soup waiting for me downstairs. I am grateful that He decrees that we receive two fresh trout and two bottles of milk every Monday, delivered straight to our door. I am grateful that blessing after blessing is bestowed on me despite myself and that Allah sends sign after sign, from the beauty of the dawn across the hill in the morning to the bright moon above us on a cloudless night. There is so much to be grateful for. I am grateful that Allah sent anonymous with his posting, which made me go off on a great tangent, giving thought to the beautiful chaffinch of all things, which made me think of the beauty of Allah’s creation, which made me think of his vast Mercy and Blessings bestowed upon us. I am grateful indeed. May Allah t’ala forgive me for every moment of sadness, for every moment spent with ingratitude. There is so much that Allah has poured upon me. I am truly grateful.
