Living in two worlds in Damascus

In Damascus, one can look at both worlds (Dunya - earthly life – and the Hereafter) at the very same time. This city is structured in a way where you can indulge in the most mouth watering of food varieties, at the same time spend hours of solitude at the mosque, in pure harmony.

Sufi disciples here might spend the afternoon at an extremely relaxing coffee shop, have a cup of tea with Damascene sweets, then walk back home to recite their Zikr (remembrance of God) in great solitude.

The Sufi disciple is usually a walker who passes through tough trials to get rid of the love of Dunya from his/her Heart. But once that is done with, one is allowed to go back to Dunya and live the good life that God has given us permission to live.

In Damascus you have everything in great moderation: A life of entertainment that seldom rubs shoulders with sin (unlike other capitals of the Arab World that have gone the extra mile into obscenity)… a life where the love of religion does not go into fanatism but stays within the bounds of “love.”

Head covered women in Damascus are different from women in other parts of the world… they are strong women with the freedom to live life fully, while keeping their hearts (and looks) within the codes of Islam. They walk around, go to souk, work, stay home, write, attend concerts, dine out, dance and live life without the heavy iron hand of fanatic extremism at their throats.

In fact, conservative Muslim families over here are miles and oceans away from anything resembling hate. You seldom sit with a conservative family that makes you hate the day you were born from the excess of preaching (whereas that’s exactly what you go through in Wahhabi-ruled societies).

Go to Jordan and sit with a conservative family and prepare yourself for suicidal thoughts at every interval. Go to Saudi Arabia, and within 2 minutes you’ll be chalking with the suffocating extremism.

In Syria, even the most conservative of families live within very relaxed atmospheres of moderation. It’s very difficult to describe what this means, without experiencing it first-hand… but all one can say is… no matter where you are, in coffee shop or mosque in Damascus, you are free to breathe, and you are grateful that God made it possible for something like this to exist.

Jesus descending Damascus at Umayad Eastern Minaret

Damascus, Sufi heart of the world, is where Prophet Jesus (Isa) Allayhi al-Salam, will appear towards the end of time, according to Sufi literature.

Ibn Arabi, the famous Sufi Sheikh whose tomb is located at the foot of Jebal Qasyoon, makes numerous references to this narrative in his book The Meccan Revelations (Al-Futoohat al-Makkiyya).

The belief that Prophet Isa is going to appear in Damascus during the reign of Sayyidna al-Mahdi Alayhi al-Salam, is based on many Ahadeeth (narratives) by Prophet Mohammad Salla Allahu Alayhi wa Sallam.

The end of time according to Sufis – and some Christian sects – is just around the corner. There are “signs” that are observed that are believed to announce the beginning of the end: such as great turbulence in the world, injustice, lack of ethics on a wide universal scale, materialism, bloodshed, etc.

Heart is the place of Light (Noor). It is the knower. That’s why Ibn Arabi says, “Ask your Heart,” because Heart can tell Truth from Illusion. The clash happens when “mind” gets in the way and disturbs the knowledge of the heart.

When it comes to belief, one’s heart needs to be purified from the clouds of mind

Materialism in this age and time makes it difficult for people to believe without physical evidence. That’s why believers are usually those who think outside the box. They don’t follow mentally-accepted parameters to decide on whether something is real for them or not. They follow the difficult, uncharted route of Heart… where there are no land posts, no signage, no maps.

Hats off to the believers who suffer on the path to Allah… those who cry their nights looking for a sign to calm their hearts’ fiery desire for Truth, who wait for Yaqeen (knowingness) to knock on their door and lend them peace… for they walk the untrodden paths, learn the untold knowledge, and stick to what Prophet Mohammad described -  in a Hadeeth that roughly translates into:

“The holder of religion at the end of times, is like the grabber of hot coal.”

May our vision be of Truth, may our Heart see with the light of the Prophet, and may we rest in peace in Divine Knowingness.

Ode to Allah

When we were little kids, believing in Allah was such an easy thing to do. He was with us all the time. If we started eating we were reminded to recite His Name to bless the food; if we wanted to tell our classmates we were telling the truth about the fact the teacher was planning a pop quiz, we swore by Allah’s name; if we intended to go to sleep, we marveled upon Allah’s beautiful day.

There used to be a sense of surrender that flowed into our lives easily. We were not fanatics, we did not hate other people; in fact we celebrated our love for Allah with our Christian childhood friends with the same feverish enthusiasm. We recieved gifts at Christmas and were reminded God is Love at every turn, as we chewed on Turkey and held hands with our Thanksgiving company and prayed to Allah. Allah was there all the time, very much integrated into our every step of childhood.

We were reminded that if we showed talent that it was a gift from Allah, and we had little egos, and much belief in the fact that yes, our talents were Allah’s… and no one ever accused us of being weird or fanatical about it.

But in adulthood, mention Allah twice during the day and you’re eyed with suspicion, especially if you don’t look quite “the type.” These days Allah is reserved for people who look Allah-inclined… Alas!

Allah is the love of every race, color and kind; He is not reserved to a certain “look.”

The right for women to choose from a Sufi perspective

 

When mothers rule

The right to choose from a Sufi perspective

Motherhood in Sufism has a distinct set-up that varies greatly from what I like to call “TV-branded popular Islam.” In the Naqshbandi path, thriving in Damascus and the path I personally follow, motherhood overrides fatherhood; it has greater jurisdiction over siblings, futures and marriage. A mother’s role in Arab societies is usually boiled down to being the secretary of the general manager (i.e. the husband), but in Sufi tradition, she is “the” captain of the ship.

As the world assigns two days in March to observe the feminine icon (Mother’s Day and Women’s Day), stories of interesting mothers flood to mind. Before going into that, one cannot help but note that matriarchal societies are usually remembered as societies that exist outside the Arab context. Feminine personalities who have helped shape Islamic tradition have been removed out of the historical narrative by the patriarchal “Wahhabi” stream, which inarguably positioned women as children makers with voices, bodies, hair, and existence the Devil likes to use to tempt men. This said, women who used to sit with Prophet Mohammad – in the same mosque and room with men – to learn from him at the dawn of Islam, have been eclipsed in school text books, TV religious programs, and everything that communicates the current image of Islam.

In Sufism, however, the historical narrative of what women have done and can do is completely different. Regarded as an underground movement in the Gulf in particular, Sufism is a healthy, over-ground activity that takes place in Syria. Here, women are treated differently. I don’t have textbooks to support this argument, but I have my mother’s family to testify for it. Part of a long lineage of Sufi mentors, my grandfather is an all-Syrian Sheikh whose mother, grandmother and great-grandmother happen to be strong, independent women who have dared to frequent the mosque to debate in-depth Islamic topics with “peer” scholars and Sheikhs, during times (such as the Ottoman rule) when every woman in Syria had worn three folds of black veils to conceal their faces.

His wife, my grandmother, may she rest in peace, was a self-taught poet, writer and thinker. Everyone in the family used to come to her for council, may she rest in peace. She was not a terrifying, terrorizing woman, as some might think, seeing how pivotal her opinion was in shaping the destinies of her children. On the contrary, she was a soft-spoken, shy, and quiet woman dedicating most of her time to reflection and “Zikr” (daily Sufi ritual involving the silent remembrance of God’s names).

As it turns out, my grandmother isn’t the only one. I have very recently learnt that Sufi women in the Naqshbandi path have matters related to marriage placed entirely in their hands. From the Naqshbandi perspective, final approval of a potential husband is a matter that two people in the world have the right to consider: the mother and her bride-to-be daughter. If the mother likes the groom, and her daughter is helplessly in love with him, then the wedding is green-lighted regardless of the father’s opinion, or the tribe’s. The father, naturally, has to accept the decision his wife and daughter make, and if he doesn’t, they can go for it anyway.

I asked my Sufi Sheikh the other day, “what if the father isn’t Sufi and is against the marriage?” He answered, “If the girl’s heart wants the man, and if her mother’s heart feels right about it, the marriage takes place regardless of the father, because at the end of the day, the girl will be getting married, not her father.” When I looked puzzled, he explained, “a mother’s heart can tell if it’s a good match. She knows her daughter better than anyone, and she can always rely on her heart to get her the right answers.”

I cannot help but wonder why Arab women would import Western-made theories on feminism when they had this to bank on!

 

This article was published in Forward Magazine – March 09

Damascene dizziness and Sufi ‘Aaaaahs’

 Prophet Zacharia is described as an ‘Aaah-er’ in Quraan. God calls him “Awwah” – he sighs a lot. Sighing is the function of Heart. When heart is longing for The One, one sighs and sighs, and when one’s heart is really troubled with the pull of longing, one’s mouth keeps on calling out with Allah’s “Aaaah” sound.

Aaaaaah, ya Allah, Aaaaah.

Zacharia was “Awwahon 7aleem” (an Aaah-er and beautifully patient). He recieved God’s favors after demonstrating a lot of longing and a lot of beautiful patience in waiting for God’s response. Unwavered faith in Allah is disconnected from the shakles of Time.

So, Aaaaah ya Allah, Aaaaah…

Learning from the Damascene Sufi

The Damascene Sufi is both bitter and sweet, he salutes you with a lot of love and understanding, but when you cross him, he breaks you in two.

Sufism is a path of pain and delight, mostly referd to by the Sufi tradition as al-Jalal wal Jamal. A seasoned Sufi Shiekh can inflict both on his mureeds to rid them of the rubble in their Nafs (ego). There are 5 stations for Nafs, the last of which is the most enlightened. The lowest form is al-Nafs al-Ammara bil soo2 (ego that tells its owner to commit wrong-doing). To reach the 5th level, one would have had to walk on broken glass and coal in defiance of Nafs’ desires.

Those desires transcend mere love for carnal pleassures and chocolate, desire is a very complex matter, it involves desire to harm, desire to be seen, desire to want, desire to be recognized as a seasoned Sufi, desire to control, desire to steer, desire to defy God’s Will, desire to desire, desire to go astray.

There are times when I close my eyes and so desire I never got here, if I had known life without all the trials I have been through, without having gotten into Sufism. Do you feel guilty when you reach this rock-bottom self monologue? Oh, well, you reach it many times along the way, that’s when your Nafs (a level of it) is dying. It is giving out its last breath, so it starts regretting whatever got it to this point where it is forced to let go of the things it has been carrying around for so long.

Becoming selfless, becoming “nothing” is what the Sheikh (Sufi mentor) wants you to be, and when you become nothing you become everything, because instead of your will, there’s God’s Will, and instead of your life goals, there is God’s mission for you to complete.

I cry nights from the pains of tests that shred me to peices; I cry out for Allah as my Nafs grips hard on desires long overdue, and lets go only when it has consumed its last bit of energy, its last bit of fight. I have died a million deaths, a million times, and everytime you think you’re done, and then find out the road to purity is steep, it is dotted with filters of every kind, starts out with filters with big holes and ends with miniscule ones that the eyes can barely see. The pain is one, though.

Pain comes from hanging on, clinging, getting attached… It’s not the test that pains us, its our inability to let go of concepts in our heads, expectations, wantings…

As I let go of you my Damascene Sufi, “I” enter my coffin and bid my dreams good-bye. Oh, my Shiekh Nazim, I am tired and worn out, this testing breaks my bones.

Thursday rushing into Friday’s arms

Thursday is a man that is in a rush to marry Friday. Friday is a confident woman who knows that Thursday will come rushing into her arms every week end. Every week, Thursday casts a spell on people so that they don’t do what they need to do to keep them  focused on Thursday’s love story.

On Thursdays, you wake up with less energy and you can tell Thursday is using everything in its power to convince his beloved Friday that he is not busy with anything but her. She, Friday, is the center of Thursday’s universe, that’s why Thursday never feels complete, he is always half a person, a man always on the lookout for his other half.

Friday knows her beauty comes from the passion Thursday has for her and his anticipation to unite with her as mid night approaches. Without Thursday’s full focus on her, Friday won’t be so alluring; without him she won’t shine.

That’s why the midnight that brings Thursday into the arms of Friday is a special midnight, always and forever, it feels like peace.

Finding the perfect recipe for short lived happiness

It’s not the chocolate Witabex bits, nor is it the Gitanes cigarette kick that just happened, it’s detachment that brings about the dizzy sense of happiness.

The little pleasures life can offer are intensified by our ability and readiness to savor the moment, uninterrupted by life. To enjoy a long night of waking up every few hours to gulp down a few chocolate bits, one needs to come from a place of absolute surrender to Fate, an extremely difficult thing to do when one is used to wanting to be in control of one’s life.

Control is a myth. We control nothing. If one realizes that, one becomes high on life. This feeling gets enhanced with chocolate and cigarettes. The sensation of “high” intensifies when one is detached.

Detachment makes you see life from a bird’s eye view. You start seeing people and places with a different sense of enjoyment. Maybe a little bit of flue and coughing can add to the amounts of serotonin that your mind is producing. You actually veer over the verge of craziness when days like this kick in; craziness in the sense you feel like doing and saying crazy things.

I stood outside watching the pigeons fly over Damascus old city center, most of them were white. I never thought it was possible to watch white flocks of pigeons, but it happened. I smoked my cigarette and asked Allah for guidance: What shall I do with this day? And then I realized, there is no such thing as doing. Just float, take a break, be serotonin.

Detachment, stick around buddy!

The Arab man’s schizophrenia

When I was kid, I met many Arab thinkers, writers & intellects, owing to the fact my mother & uncles are writers & poets. It hit me at a very early age that the man behind that great novel, poem or art work is a man of not too many principles… He writes about ethics, love and the wonder of living when in reality he is far removed from anything noble or courageous… or Great.

One of the major poets in the Arab World, who happens to be known all over the world, was in a party organized in his honor some years ago. He wrote some of the Arab World’s best poetry, a man of deep sensitivity to life’s challenges, beauty and mystery. After gulping down the second glass of scotch, he started hitting on every moving female in the room, cats included. What a sad spectacle!

This schizophrenia is mind boggling. What a man writes does not reflect “who” that man is. The question is: Who writes? His soul???

The same goes to one of Egypt’s most known caricaturists, may they both rest in peace. Great art, but a dysfunctional person… I know artists usually pride themselves for being free from conformity, but does that entail adopting sleaziness as a life style?

Musicians too have that aura around them that proves to be false once you dance a little bit closer to the fire. They project an image of sensitivity, love and liberty… the minute you rub shoulders with them you find out that all the theoretical things their music is all about, is indeed theoretical. There is great hollowness behind great expressions of music, articles and art!

In this time and age, creative men are a danger to humanity (LOL). No, really, they are. A man who lives in the realm of thoughts, ideas, dreams, art and music is a man who is not aware that his daily life is void of all of the things he philosophizes about. Instead of spending time building character, he simply imagines it. He deceives himself into thinking that the minute he “expresses” great ideas, he automatically “becomes” them. He preaches Love when he might be the worst sadist you could bump into with a heart of stone. He preaches loyalty when he has no clue that loyalty transcends the cheating part into other landscapes that he never even ventured into. He is satisfied with where he is standing because he has a good picture in his mind about who he is – a two dimensional picture that is shaken and torn at the first test of time.

Men with great charisma, who inflict dizziness on the female kind, are dangerous species. They base all their interactions with you on the false aura they create around themselves, on illusion. They make you swoon under the influence of words they like to use frequently: “freedom,” “love,” “liberty.” You fall in the God forsaken trap, then the aura starts to disperse. You are left with the naked truth biting at your fingers for having been so stupid to fall for it all.

Where is the noble man of great heart and faith? Many men think if they are ego centric, charismatic and proud of themselves they are automatically at the footsteps (or peaks) of Greatness. Greatness has nothing to do with words, parades, popularity or achievement. It has nothing to do with status, ego or the way we project ourselves to the world. Very recently a man of super huge ego told me he had gone through many trials in life that made him ego-less. What kind of a mirror do people look into before coming up with conclusions of the sort about themselves?

The ego is a very tricky, slippery place. Sufis take their mureeds down untrodden paths to harness the ego. Once you’re done with earthly ego – that holds dear status, material achievement – you are now ready to taste the fires of freeing yourself from the shackles of spiritual ego. It’s not an easy journey, getting rid of earthly ego (of desires, false senses of security,  paradigms of thinking that have the Self as the center of the universe), one is ironed day in and day out with the coals of self-importance, spiritual & intellectual alike.

Bowing to Allah as a selfless person, clean from any thought, any possession, any attachment, is the very reason why one cries at night on the pillow. Allah, you alone can bring me salvation, you alone can guide my soul, you alone can free me from me. You alone can free me from everything that is not You. Amen.

To Gaza, soul of my father

I hate politics. But this one is for you, father. he called last night, an unemotional man who has always mastered the art of self control. This was the first time his voice revealed pain, I almost cried. Well, I did, after he hung up, of course!

• How are things in your homeland, daddy?
• Many died in the air raid [on Gaza]. Your uncle held a wake for them a few days ago.
• Where were they?
• Some where praying in the mosque. Some where in their houses. May God help them. Do you remember Gaza? You must remember it, I took you there many times as a child.
• Yes, I do. I didn’t like it much when I was a kid. I’m sorry, but I didn’t.
• [mumbles]… Gazans are a great people. What they are enduring is… heart breaking.

So… my dad’s heart is broken. So is mine. We love what our loved ones love. He spent many years fighting for a proper higher educational system in the university he presided over for so many years in Gaza. We barely saw him as kids, as he commuted frequently between our residence and his beloved, Gaza. One time he was away for I don’t know how many years, locked up in Gaza, since Israelis refused to grant him pass back home on the other side of the Bank. I remember running to the door to greet him, he looked so distant, I didn’t know him, he didn’t quite know me.

He was born there, I wasn’t. I spent most of my childhood relating more to my mother’s roots in Damascus, and hated going to Gaza. We used to get VIP treatment at the bridge every time we went owing to dad’s academic position. In old times, academicians were treated with respect… until the day came and we were told no more VIP room for us, we were all potential terrorists. My dad threatened to fax Harvard University, all the academicians he knew in the world, if they dared insult us. An Israeli officer with a beard told him: Dr…. I am a professor too, sir, but those are my orders.

Like everyone else, we took off our clothes and shoes. My father and brother went to the men’s section, I was led away from them. I remember panicking over the fact I was left alone with a female Israeli soldier. She was trying to be nice to me, but I felt so ashamed and exposed standing there half naked and crying: where is my father? where are you taking me?

What kind of a “state” that strips people of clothes to enter territories it has occupied! As a kid I started hating going to Gaza. But we continued going there, until one day my grandmother called my father and told him:

• You are no longer my son if you refuse to bring the kids and sleep over at my house tonight.
• Ya 7ajjeh, what’s wrong with you?
• I had a bad dream and I want you to leave your house (the uni president’s house near the sea in Gaza), and come spend the night over here.
• It’s just a dream, ya 7ajjeh, the children are OK.
• I swear to Allah the Almighty if you don’t come spend the night here, you’re not my son and I don’t know you.

My father is grandmother’s eldest, she used to swear on his life, and so with that kind of threat, he couldn’t ignore her irrational request.

So, we took our pajamas, and went to sleep at grandmother’s house inside the city of Gaza, a bit off the sea (a beautiful blue sea it was).

Next morning, we went back home, to find shrapnel, bullets, hand grenades… the house was a mess, the windows were shattered, everything inside was burnt. Neighbors gathered around dad, they were screaming details of what had happened the night before… they told him a helicopter flew over at night, several masked soldiers went down on hanging ladders and worked their machine guns, leaving holes in the wall… they threw hand grenades inside, creating havoc and panic around the neighborhood.

My dad, being a freedom fighter who feared God only, wanted to send a message that said: I am not afraid (apparently he was used to this kind of stuff).

He brought in new furniture, put up new windows, and once the house was kind of livable, my brother and I were kept inside as a sign of defiance. We were locked up inside the only room that didn’t breathe smoke, guarded by my many male cousins for a month.

For a month we didn’t see sun light; food was brought to us by a cousin I grew up to hate (kids don’t know the difference between being protected, or being locked up, it was jail all the same to us). I remember our lunch was 7alaweh & bread every single day of the month (they were afraid we might get poisoned – I still think it’s lame). We had people from friends, family & the university sleeping in the garden at night to guard the house. They all cringed every time a helicopter whizzed by.

Dad had received a letter saying we were going to be kidnapped if he continued his non sense with the university, the university which triggered the 1st Intifada and lost many martyrs (knew about this in recent years only). I remember we weren’t allowed to go to the bathroom only very occassionally, I didn’t see my dad, only that cousin who heard us scream inside: Get us out!!! MAMAAAAAAAAAAAA.

My mom was on a UN mission around that time around Gaza, so somehow she gained access to us after 2 weeks. She came in and helped me up for my 1st bath in 2 weeks. I don’t know how old I was back then, but since I needed mom for a bath I guess I was pretty small. I kept on weeping as she gave me the best bath in my life, telling me that everything is OK. She told me she was in interrogation somewhere but her UN passport made things easier for her and she managed to come over to stay with us.

Forever scarred. I grew up to hate Israel and that Gazan cousin who slept outside our door and didn’t let us out when we spent days and nights crying out loud: Get us out of hereeeeeee… I want mamaaaaa! The shutters were always down. Once we were crying so loud that our cousin came in & opened the shutters for half an hour so we could see sunshine.

As family, we never spoke about that incident. Did they think I will forget? Anyhow, a few years ago, I sat with my father and told him… “Remember the assassination attempt?” He smiled embarrassingly. “Why didn’t you take us to therapy afterwards? No one spoke about it to us as if it never happened. Have you any idea how many nights I spent in nightmares? I was one of the smallest kids around with insomina!”

• He said: “That’s the nature of the struggle. That wasn’t the first time, but I thought it was better not to burden you with it all. I thought you will forget.”
• Burden me? I was there. I still hate that cousin who only fed us 7alaweh and bread.
• He is a good hearted man, he still asks me about you. He loves you so much. He was so careful because he feared for your life.
• Well, I don’t love him & he over did it. No one explained to us why we were locked up for a month. A month!!!
• 3 weeks.
• All the same. I am glad we finally spoke about this, though. I think you can understand why I’m not such a fan of Gaza. You know my brother remembers nothing of what had happened?
• I know. Don’t remind him. Let’s not talk about this again.

I am sorry Gaza for all your pains. On first day of this year, I spent a whole day at the Sufi Zawya praying for you, my relatives, uncles, aunts, and most of all, my father; the man I would die for. If he loves you Gaza, then I love you too, for you are his soul.

So… when people talk about peace. When people talk about forgiveness, they speak from their… because when a “state” decides to kill a university professor along with his family, it is a state of evil. I shall die with this conviction. May God burn you in hell Israel, and may all the false peace treaties and trickery and darkness you spread around come back to haunt you.

Ila Jahanam wa bi2sa al maseer.

* This is a true story. The narrator of the above is still alive & continues to hate talking about patriotism & politics.

Slow burning & the ironing of ribs…

This body we carry around is such a vehicle. It has its own set of really sophisticated detectors; it produces tears when our heart is touched by something sorrow-brining or joy-filling, two emotions on opposite ends of the spectrum. It gives us burning sensations when we feel great joy, or great annoyance, or great anticipation. What is really impressive is that it uses the same set of symptoms to indicate a host of contradicting emotions. Our knees can become jelly-like when we win a prize, go on stage to sing, receive really bad news, or get an unexpected bouquet of roses.

The burning sensation that eats away at our nerves, making us cough nervously and ready to shoot ourselves, can be brought about by many stimuli… it can be triggered by intense locked up emotions that you fight all day long so you won’t express them impulsively, colossally, crazily. I know people with great ability to bear the heat of anticipation, love, emotions, joy, sorrow; they aren’t the “burnt onion” kinda folk.

On the other hand when one’s onion is the type that can turn into charcoal the instant love starts forming in the horizon… expect a lot of suffering. Suffering is not limited to bad things in life, suffering is a word that signifies an over-activity of emotions taking place around the body, the ribs included (Um Kalthoum was right when she sang: Yakwee Adlo3ee – ironing my ribs). When suffering hits the heart that’s when we enter the red zone, but if it’s still in the ribs, bones and flesh, then it’s orange, or yellow, depending on the intensity.

We suffer when we fall in love because we aren’t trained to take high temperature. If we were built from something other than flesh (like Light, for instance), I think our ability to sit calmly inside the fire of love, like Prophet Ibrahim, would have been double fold (“Ya naru kooni bardan wa Salaman 3ala Ibrahim”). I admire people who burn and brace themselves and carry on with life without any sign of fatigue. The “khroo2” (weak) type, like this writer, melt under such pressure and start walking into walls (fooot fil 7eetan).

When fire starts burning the flesh of the impulsive type of woman with onion-ready-to-turn-into-charcoal temperament, then expect a lot of suffering. You try to relieve yourself from some of the internal steam by filtering through some messages here and there, not as an attempt to win over your beloved as much as an attempt to stop yourself from exploding.

I don’t know if the slow ironing of ribs can be captured on x-ray… Ya Mogheeeth.

Men who have 3-meter thick walls around them…

There is a certain breed of man who is locked within a thick, 3-meter wide wall; bullet proof, water proof, everything proof, that you cannot reach that man easily. Why am I complaining? – I am a good example of the same kind of wall-locked woman.

But it is quite interesting and challenging to see the “protection” mechanism at work. The worst kind of man (romantically speaking) is the man who maneuvers from behind barricades. He comes out to meet you when you’re totally un-interested, and runs back in at the faintest sign of interest. Very tiring in deed, very tiring.

He communicates with you using everything, but straight-forward language, as medium. He knows (and that’s the part I hate) that you are picking up on all the sign language he is using; he plays with your heart’s strings from a distance, making sure it beats a little bit for him, but without putting himself in a compromising position where he has to reveal himself, and open his heart and get involved and fall in love, and … eventually get hurt (or hurt you). I know, it’s the getting-hurt part that keeps them hiding inside their shell. 3adi.

The merits of straightforwardness

A few days ago I met a Sufi man, not for the first time, he happens to be in my community of Sufi chanters, regularly attending Zikr (Sufi gatherings and Hardas). He shocked me with his straightforwardness, although what he said was something I knew already. Hearing it out loud was something completely different.

The veils inside

It’s very interesting to see how there is a wall between what we think about inside our heads and hearts (we are veiled & divided), and the expression we create into the universe. Some thoughts dwell inside our hearts and minds for decades but saying them out loud can make them lose their meaning, or maybe shock us a bit, or take them from the safe realm of being inside our “Secret” (sirr) and out into the desecrating world we live in.

Some people treat love this way, they cherish you so much that they don’t let you know – unless after they lose you – and of course when you realize how great their love for you has been while they have been making you walk over broken glass and coal, you start appreciating your training in the field of communication. Communicators are people with such a great blessing, not all people have that talent, my heart goes out for the ones who don’t (myself included)!

Benchmarking love

What the Sufi man did was create a new benchmark for my expectations from men; a very high, unreachable one. He vocalized the impossible; I am positive no other man would be comfortable enough with his soul to say what he told me – it’s totally out of this world. He is a Sufi Sheikh with whom I have frequent conversations, we have great rapport, and understand each other without even talking. Sometimes he reads words right off my mind before they reach my tongue.

What he told me made me realize that there are at least 3-meters of wall & clay and steel around the man I am faintly, barely, occasionally, distantly, and  patiently “flirting” with… if this description applies (talk about great fun!). It’s the thickest wall I have every bumped into in my whole life… so thick one really wonders… is there something going on or what is this exactly.

Raising the white flag on you, my Damascene gazelle.

Fate & the asking of Hearts: Ibn Arabi reveals…

Many recent conversations I had with people I’ve known for a month or two, spoke to one time or more, or met for the first time, were about general info: how come you decided to do this or that? or change this? or be here…?

Many questions are answered this way: “It’s Fate. It just happened and I don’t know how. I was planning on going one direction and God steered me into another and here I am.”

When you give an answer like that people think you’re avoiding the “real” answer and stare at you blankly as they wait for the real answer to come. What you just said simply doesn’t register; it’s like when people don’t really listen when they ask you: how are you today? And you say, “good, it’s been busy, but all is well.” If you ask them next day about the answer they got, odds are they’ll stare at you blankly because they weren’t supposed to remember in the first place!

Back to the Fate remark. So you say it was Fate, you get the blank stare and the usual, “yes, buss, ya3ni, how come you did so and so?” Meaning, “we live in a world of cause-and-effect and each one of us has a life that is more or less steered by someone else who has got a plan lain out for him/her – like parents, family, siblings, fears, society, restrictions, social codes, relatives – so how come you are making decisions on your own, and what made you make those decisions, and based on what?”

Their “buss ya3ni” also implies, “don’t talk to me about Fate, that’s philosophy, come down to earth and talk to me in simple cause-and-effect terms and don’t stuff the conversation with the unknown, or the beyond… let’s touch upon the external shell of things and let’s not delve into things unfashionable like talking about our lives from complicated spiritual viewpoints & contexts.”

You pick up on the underlying message, you revert back to your subconscious for more answers and you find out that the answer is: “It’s Fate. I didn’t really plan it, although I wanted it, I didn’t work for it although I sent that application or made that call, I didn’t pursue it, in fact I was pursuing something else when Fate steered me into taking those actions, those decisions… how did Fate do so? By planting in my heart the true desire for them.” Well, gladly those words never came out of my mouth; I think this would be a great departure from coolness if I ever did – lol.

Follow your Heart

Someone recently said to me, “follow your heart.” I wanted to say, “I am following my heart,” but it sounded too lame so I didn’t utter those words. Fate & Heart are very close brothers. Heart is where destiny leaves its messages, if we listen carefully and follow the Heart’s true calling, we fulfill destiny’s call, if we don’t, we suffer. One learns this the hard way. Every single time one ignores the Heart, one ends up hurting oneself. Every time one follows one’s Heart, one is relieved from the fires of not living within integrity, true spiritual integrity.

Living within integrity seems to be more than just living within the ethical codes one believes in. There is the spiritual integrity that comes from one living in perfect harmony with one’s Heart and inner calling. That’s the integrity that brings about the thing people look for in magazines, jobs, trips, romances, love stories and friendships: Peace.

Peace becomes a frequent visitor when one is living within spiritual, Heart-grown integrity. Nights become sleep-ful when one is waking every day to a life lived within what Heart wants and truly desires. And this is not some theory about mastering one’s life, their are experience-rs who have tried it, tasted it and known it.

Ask your Heart – “Istaftee Qalbak”

In Sufism, Ibn Arabi (Qaddasa Allahu Sirroh Al Kareem) says that what God throws in the Heart is what one must revert back to, listen to and follow. He writes in one of his two books, “The Meccan Revelations” and “Rasa2el (Letters of) Ibn Arabi,” that the Heart is the place where God plants His Will. Therefore Ibn Arabi advises souls, “Istaftee Qalbak,” (ask your Heart).

Do you have any idea how hard it is to ask your Heart? Your Heart; not ask yourself, or ego, or thoughts. Ask your Heart. You Heart does not include mom’s opinion, nor what Opra says, nor what media in general agrees on, nor what most marketing books say is true, nor what your peers believe is what is best for you, nor is it your own perception about your own destiny and occupation, nor is it about your great desire for that man/woman that comes from somewhere other than the Heart, nor is it about what history has proven to be the promise of those who look and live like you, me, us.

Asking one’s Heart is about putting aside all paradigms, taking off all cloaks, all hatred, all desires, all thoughts, all anticipations, all plans, all pressures, all pasts, presents and futures. Asking Heart is about not knowing, not controlling, not demanding, not steering… it’s about total surrender to that message in the Heart, which might be totally out of this world (if one happens to have a narrow view on life).

Asking Heart (Istiftaa2 al Qlab) is about being free from everything, everyone, every “reality” (for realities are not Truths), it’s about reaching a level of consciousness where there is La Ilaha Illa Allah (there’s no god but Allah). Expectations, desires, ego chatter, plans, opinions (etc) are gods. In one’s Heart, when all of those “aghyaar” (Sufi term meaning “others”) are left outside the sacred room of the Heart, the Truth reveals itself, and Fate unfolds, one’s true calling is vividly heard and you start following your path.

Hats off to those who follow the Heart, who are brave enough to do so, who don’t fear anyone, who boldly step into the unknown with great faith in their Heart’s calling and greater faith in the source of that calling, Allah, the Most Beautiful, the Most Generous, the Most Merciful who’s set up on His Throne (Al Ra7man 3ala al 3arsh iStawa…).

Sisters in the smoke & the Syrian cigarette

The smoking sequel goes on. Moral of the day: Don’t fear falling back into old habits, for they may take you down new paths and journeys (I’m not encouraging smoking, just making it kosher for the day).

The day (22.12.2008) when I collapsed into my need for a cigarette, I had to take mom somewhere boring (some book signing event), so I had the car to myself for half an hour. After having to smoke my first cigarette – due to unbelievable joy that visited me from the great unknown that morning, I took the car for a ride around Damascus’ busy streets.

I went to Mazzeh, and hurriedly parked the car anywhere, anyway arbitrarily in the street, where a few passers by eyed me, having stormed out of the not-too-well-parked car to buy a pack of fags – no pun intended – and a lighter from Hamada. Then of course, from the supermarket next to it.

Mom hates the smell of cigarettes (let alone the not-so-good news of the habit kicking back into my life), so I opened all the windows and drove away to savor my 2nd cigarette that day.

Since the last time I worked a lighter was almost 2 years ago, I broke the one I had just bought while nervously trying to produce fire (FIRE!!), so I slowed down, with music blasting, windows open, with a red nose (because of cold and addiction) and was totally zoomed in on trying to create a spark from the broken lighter in my hand. I kept on creating blue spark after another in hopes of creating any glimpse of fire, to no avail.

I was dying for a cigarette when an angle passed by in the shape and form of a middle aged woman. She passed by and saw me crazily struggling with my lighter, a cigarette in my mouth, parked the wrong way on a busy street, with flash on, absolutely unaware of my surroundings. She kept on walking and looking at me, we caught eyes, but I didn’t really “see” her – then she took a few steps back and said, “you need a lighter, I understand, we are sisters in the smoke, we understand and feel with each other, ya 7araam (oh, poor you), there you go,” and she lit her lighter for me, extended her hand through the window across, I stretched myself over to the passenger’s seat next to me and received her timely rescue very gratefully. She made sure my cigarette was doing alright, then backed off and bid me good bye.

I was taken by this woman’s great understanding and compassion for me. This is Syria. People pick up on your need, feel it and act on it. This never happened to me elsewhere. But in Syria, people feel with you, they have great empathy for each other. I am glad I smoked that cigarette, it allowed me a nice interaction with a nice lady. Thank you, mysterious lady!

El mohem, I puffed away, losing most of my senses in the act, driving speedily, with hair flying all over the place, windows open, cold air whipping against my cheeks, other male drivers maneuvering to cut me off (because that’s exactly what I was doing to them – we call that “batwaneh” in Jordanian dialect – from “between,” and which is called over here “mta7asheh” or “zig-zagging”).

And then it hit me… what am I doing? This is so un-Sufi; this reflects adolescence on wheels! I immediately went into another trance of thoughts, of hours of reflection on my self accusation, what is Sufi and what is not, and whether I was being judgmental or not… and that’s another story altogether. The important thing is my first pack of cigarettes ever in Damascus is sitting next to this keyboard, waiting for me to pay it a visit…