We sat in the market square, 'neath the morning sun, in a canopied café, plastic chairs dotted round plastic tables, all of which had seen better days. An old Sufi approached us, grizzled beard, sun-scorched skin, wearing a grey jellaba and ancient leather sandals. The 3 opaque buttons at the top of his jellaba were scratched and pitted, one of them worn almost through, and virtually transparent, in stark contrast to his sky-blue eyes, which were bright and filled with life.
We had heard of him, the wise man of the mountain, who descended once a week into the village, not just to shop, but also to converse.
He came over to each of the four tables outside and greeted the few of us that were resting, sipped tea quietly after our mornings chores. He took a seat at the central table, and the waiter, a surly little man who had verged on the unfriendly towards us, came out with a steaming pot of dark tea, smiling.
“Salaam Aleikum Master!” he said, placing the tea down. With a flourish he placed the masters favourite mug on the table and poured him a cupful of the hot tea, the gentle aromas rising and perfuming the air around. We gravitated towards the central table, chairs scraping in the dust as people moved closer, the final few seats being taken by passerby who clearly recognised him, while the old Sufi lit his pipe, took a few puffs and began to speak.
“Let me tell you about friendship, about betrayal and trust.
May years ago I became friends with an interesting character, Abu Habibi. He completely captivated me with his outlook which was completely different to mine, but we had one area where we really struggled to find common ground.
You see he was friends with a member of a radical jihadi group, the Al Shabaab Martyrs, a Mullah called Abn Alfani, who he had met during his youth and spent a lot of time with. Although Habibi recognised that the form of Islam that the fake Mullah Alfani subscribed to was abhorrent, he still considered him a close friend and would often speak and correspond with him over a variety of subjects.
In those days I was a much younger man, and although devout, I was also guilty of many sins. But the greatest of these in the eyes of fake Mullah Alfani was to try and build bridges between people of other faiths. He seemed to have a loathing for all infidels, particularly those who followed the cross. I never met the fake Mullah, but Habibi would share snippets of their conversations, and would offer refer back to our conversations in order to give me the fake Mullahs point of view, despite it being clear that we did not share the same beliefs. The fake Mullahs path was one of blood and bones, which refused to recognise or engage with any path”
“ Ah I know people like this too, Master!” I exclaimed.
He shook his head sorrowfully.
“But of course, we all do, they still walk amongst us. As I got to know Habibi better, I began to get concerned about the extent to which Mullah Alfani seemed to influence him. Habibi still recognised that the fake Mullah was dangerous, but always reassured me in our conversations by saying that he could not possibly harm me because of my close friendship with Habibi. I believed this for it was clear that Habibi himself believed it to be the truth wholeheartedly.
And so we lived for a time, in a sort of uneasy truce in which I would loudly condemn the violence of radical groups, but was protected from their attack. This was all to change when the first IED exploded in my village. There was no warning or sign. The pomegranates hung ripe in the trees, covered by a light coating of dust from the dry air, and yet it was a time of plenty, of abundance, of happiness.
The peace was shattered by a massive explosion which left my friends wife and daughter widowed and fatherless. His car was blown sky high and his soul departed with a whisper, a whisper which clung to the land, pointing a finger of guilt firmly towards the fake Mullah Alfani and his group.
I heard the whisper and shuddered, as if knowing that this was just the start of a much darker time which would nearly see my own life ending.
Yet at the time, knowing not of this, I entered into a period of mourning, both for the dead (for there were many) and for those left behind. I also gave Habibi a candle to light in honour of the dead whilst I attended the funeral. To my absolute disgust, members of the Martyrs group showed up at the funeral and made it very clear that they had been involved in causing the carnage in the first place. Later Habibi was to tell me that the candle had fallen and been destroyed, although I suspected that the fake Mullah may have taken it and tried to use it to summon the djinn.”
“The Djinn, Master? Do you mean the spirits?”
“Yes, the spirits, which some would label good or bad, but which more often than not are as complex and unfathomable as people. The fake Mullah was known for trying to communicate with the spirits, and although it is clear that he spoke to them, it seems unlikely that they ever listened, let alone replied.
But so I questioned my friendship with Habibi. At the time many of my other friends would point to his closeness to the fake Mullah and warn me that he could be dangerous. At the same time, Habibis unique and brilliant manner of thinking and clear intellect simply made me want to converse with him more. Now I question if this was not somewhat perversely because there was a risk involved, that although I still believe his soul was clear, there was a chance that it was as dark and twisted as that of the fake Mullah.
The days shortened and the nights grew colder. Up in the high mountains the first snows fell and as they did, so the number of radicals swelled in number. They fled their mountain strongholds as every year, for the warmer and safer village. The mountain is no place for the weak-hearted to be in winter.”.
“But Master, now you live high on the mountain, all alone?”
Indeed, but my fear of death is vanquished. Now I am able to sit here alone on the mountain and welcome death as an honoured friend that I yearn to see. For friendship brings with it weighty choices and accompanies us in good and bad.
Despite the deaths and the clear increase in radicals in the village, I continued to speak out, to call for peace, for dialogue, for the sake of us all. I was warned, a target had been painted on me, and that it was of my own doing, but to be silent, to be quiet in the face of evil, is to commit the greatest sin of them all.
And so it happened. I was due to travel, far away for an extended period of time, and you must understand that in those days there was no guarantee of return. This has not changed now, but many of us falsely believe that we will always return. I remember noticing the wires, and a feeling of weightlessness as the explosion rippled through the car, buffeting my body and sending me flying. By the Grace of God I landed in some bushes, badly injured but still alive. Word spread that I had been killed, partly in order to protect me from further attacks while I recovered. Had I been killed? There are days that I wonder if I did die, and if everything from then on is simply an illusion. Have you realised that your life is a dream, an illusion? What sort of dream are you dreaming?".
A ripple of consternation and muttering swept through the growing crowd, listening to every word the master spoke.
"Close friends of mine pointed straight to the fake Mullah and to Habibi, for he had clearly had access to the vehicle prior to the bomb. Remains of the explosives were examined and identified as coming from the Mullahs group if not from the fake Mullah himself. Who had given the order to have me executed? Who had placed the bomb under my vehicle? Who knew what my movements were and how to best execute an attack?
Habibi was no longer the same after the explosion. I moved to a village some distance away and he made sure to never be in town when I came by. Never. Not once. He moved to a different address but never gave it to me. Despite this, he would still correspond, but would not say a word when it came to the Mullah, a wall of determined silence seemed to shut this topic down forever. Could I still be friends with Habibi despite everything that had happened? Could I be friends with Habibi even if they remained friends with the Mullah?
As I lay recovering (and it took me years to be able to move properly again, the pain is still there) I realised that I could not ask Habibi to break his connection to the Mullah. This had to be his decision and I would not influence him one way or another. No man has the right to determine who their friends are friend with. But neither could I stop challenging the Mullah and doing all I could to prevent him from gaining more radical supported with which to bloody the earth.
The next time the fake Mullah preached in the market, one of my followers alerted me. Still injured, it took me some time to limp, crutch in hand to the market and by the time I got there he was gone. But I still raised my voice, and addressed the crowd, warning them that the Mullah was a fraud, who prepared his sacred texts based on his own whims and desires and not on any attempt to help better his brothers and sisters. I cannot be silent, cannot quiet when my spirit calls for me to shout out.
The following week, a gilded manuscript was left in the market for the town criers to read out. It was from Abu Habibi, who had disappeared. He wrote not that he supported the Mullah, but that he did not see how he could be friends with me, and that he no longer had any interest at all in our conversations. I wondered if it was because I had spoken out against the fake Mullah? Was this connected? But then is not everything connected, always?
When there is no interest left at all, there is really no point in trying to further a friendship, and whilst Habibi will always remain in my heart as a dear friend, many of those around me still question his connection to the fake Mullah. The pain of losing the friendship was comparable to the physical pain caused by the explosion, but I learned and grew from this. Now I am less quick to smile, less quick to trust, to receive people, to host them. Yet here I live, high on the mountainside in a place where I trust, I smile and I host all the spirits of nature, the mountain djinn who have taught me so much."
"But master, have you given up on humanity, turned your back on us?" asked a young man, sitting at the table next to the old man.
"No, not at all, I have simply decided to focus my energy on other things. Like the way people say that the bees are vanishing. They are not, they are simply choosing to live in a world which is not inhabited by most people. I pass by unnoticed by most, not because I hide, but because their very existence is questionable to me. You choose what you allow to exist in your universe, and by nourishing and protecting the parts that are most sacred to us, our universe expands and engulfs those around us. What is the dream that you are living? Are you truly living it?
My friendship with Abu Habibi may have caused me great grief and changed the way I perceive the world, but is this not also a gift? And in changing my perceptions, am I not also enriched?"
Without another word, the Sufi master drank deeply from his cup. Leaving a few coins on the table, he rose up and walked swiftly away, leaving, as always, more questions than answers. I stayed and sat for a while, slowly sipping my own tea, and pondering on his words. Could hearing him speak have any effect on my own life?
