Hajjnotes (5)

On the Qur’an (1)

  

وَنَزَّلْنَا عَلَيْكَ الْكِتَابَ تِبْيَانًا لِّكُلِّ شَيْءٍ وَهُدًى وَرَحْمَةً وَبُشْرَىٰ لِلْمُسْلِمِينَ  [Al Nahl 16:89]

(i) Prior to hajj, I had a great many good intentions when it came to the Qur’an: I will learn x and y; I will revise z. It was probably to be expected then, as with all good intentions, and certainly all my good intentions, that they did not come to fruition in quite the way I had planned. But that is not to say there was no fruit at all – perhaps not the exact fruit I wanted, or had imagined, perhaps not as much as I’d have liked, but certainly there was fruit. One of the sweetest fruit of all, one of the greatest blessings of having memorised even a portion of the Qur’an, is to be able to recite Qur’an during tawaf. I felt it to be the experience most similar to reciting Qur’an in salah at night in Ramadan, an effortless blend of recitation and reflection. I had been thinking about the verse: [Muhammad 47:24] أَفَلَا يَتَدَبَّرُونَ الْقُرْآنَ أَمْ عَلَىٰ قُلُوبٍ أَقْفَالُهَا - we ask of God that we are not from those people – and wondering about this description of locks upon hearts, and how this metaphor might be extended. It feels to me, as if sometimes there is something quite literally locked up, closed off, about our hearts, and they are tough and callous, dry; a barren land in which nothing can grow. And then sometimes there are particular periods of time or particular experiences which loosen the lock, or indeed completely break through it, and then something happens: the Qur’an slowly waters the dry land with the beautiful spring rain that grows, until something springs forth, some new life begins. Unfortunately, often – and this is even more germane as I write this, such a long time later – we allow the locks to be tightened again, sometimes they even rust into place, but still, you knew that you had a heart, and you knew the Words which it yearned for, and above everything, you knew it could be watered, and perhaps each time it was slightly easier when you slipped up, slightly less difficult to understand what you needed to do, even if it were equally difficult to do it. These periods of time include Ramadan and the days of hajj, and others of course, when the trials are layered on top of each other and you feel as if you are drowning, not remembering that a great deal of water is required for a good crop of rice, and indeed, paddy fields are quite flooded. It is God’s great favour then, that knowing we have neither the intelligence or skill of locksmiths, nor sufficient willpower or brute strength to break apart locks, He allows us these periods when our hearts can be more easily unlocked, and then watered by His words: making everything clearer, guidance, and mercy, and glad tidings, altogether; and it is He who clefts open the fruit stone, bringing life from dead. (2)

اللهم اجعل القرآن العظيم ربيع قلوبنا، ونور صدورنا، وجلاء أحزاننا، وذهاب همومنا وغمومنا.

 قَالَ عُمَرُ: أَمَا إِنَّ نَبِيَّكُمْ صَلَّى اللَّهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ ، قَدْ قَالَ : إِنَّ اللَّهَ يَرْفَعُ بِهَذَا الْكِتَابِ أَقْوَامًا ، وَيَضَعُ بِهِ آخَرِينَ 

 (3) - الترمذي

(ii) One time after Asr, I found myself penned into a female area somewhere in the masjid, and decided to sit awhile and recite Qur’an. I had some revision to get through, and was reciting surah Yusuf. There is something entirely lovely about having revised something well enough to recite it from memory such that there is little anxiety, or nothing of that slight tense feeling of being constantly just a little on edge in case you mix up verse endings; and then, then, you can relax and truly enjoy the words, delighting in the sweetness on your tongue. In the most perfect form, I think it is something that can be observed in other people, not only in the measured cadence of a voice, or the hint of a smile on a face, but it is almost as if that deep serenity seeps out of every pore and you can actually see and feel that this is a love requited, an old and comfortable relationship, developed over years, and now every second of it is being enjoyed, savoured even. That is something I can only aspire to - and may God give me that, and more - but even in my own novice, elementary way, I can occasionally feel a bit of it, or recognise it when I see it, (4) and I think there must be something innate within the people, the believers, that is drawn to that.

Next to me was an older Afghan lady. Now, I cannot speak Pushtu, and she could not speak any other language I knew, but she gestured to my mushaf, and, with a few common words, I understood that she was asking me if I was reciting from memory and if I knew it all (sadly not; I shook my head). But still, she was clearly pleased, and patted me happily. She then curled up onto the floor for a nap, but pressed her body very close to me, so close that I began to feel rather uncomfortable and wanted to move slightly. Then I realised that it were as if she wanted to stay in the glow of the words as they left my tongue and floated gently above her, even as she slept.  

Behind me, someone tapped on my shoulder, and I turned around to see several women dressed entirely in black, some with their faces still covered. The one who had tapped me was clearly very old; her niqab was pulled back and hung behind her head, her thin, frail legs extended and crossed loosely on the marble floor in front of her. Her wrinkled face was tattooed, (5) and the corners of her eyes crinkled further in a friendly smile as she began to speak to me. I couldn’t understand anything she said. One of the other women sitting next to her who was much younger and dressed in a more conventional Gulf-style niqab, was able to speak in some form of Arabic I could even vaguely understand, and translated for us. The old lady had asked if I could teach her Qur’an. She had never learnt to read and write, and she wanted to be able to read the Qur’an. They had come from Hadramaut to perform hajj. I was touched and humbled. This was someone who had grown old in Islam (6) –  I wondered what her life must have been like, how many children and grandchildren and even great grandchildren; how many years of days under the relentless hot sun, and dark, biting cold nights of the desert; how much hardship and happiness; how many times those hands had been raised to the sky before today, and how even God felt shy to leave her unanswered before she put them down. And she wanted me, a strange young woman from England, who could not even understand her, who could not survive a day in the desert, and was incapable of doing anything remotely useful at all when it came to real life, to teach her Qur’an. I was reminded then, that it is the Qur’an through which people are raised and lowered, and there are so many times when I have seen this clearly to be the case that I am absolutely convinced of its truth. (7) We ask God to make the Qur’an a proof for us, and not against us. 

    خيركم من تعلم القرآن وعلمه  

(البخاري)

(iii) One morning, in Madinah after Fajr, as was my habit, I waited till the sun rose and the people began to filter out, so I could move from the courtyard of the masjid outside to inside the masjid for a short while before returning to the hotel for breakfast. Having moved inside, I sat for some time revising. I noticed a lady sitting against a pillar to my side, and a few people moved towards her and gathered round her – they recited to her, while she corrected them, and then they moved on. I covertly – as I supposed – inched closer out of curiosity at this apparently impromptu study circle. Eventually the last person left, and she glanced up and caught my eye, suddenly asking me directly what I’d like her to listen to. I had not really prepared to be listened to, but did not want to let the opportunity pass, so clumsily shuffled closer to her, and chose something which I felt would be relatively easy (which turned out not to be, of course). Afterwards, we spoke briefly, and she explained that anyone could come on particular days of the week, within a period of time in the morning, and she and several others, would listen to them and correct them. I really felt the enormity of this task they undertook. God had chosen these women to be the best of His people, to learn and teach the Qur’an in the masjid of the Prophet, sal Allahu ‘alayhi wa sallam. Over the past few years, I feel in many ways I have come round in a circle, realising that the truths we knew in our childhood then discarded in our arrogance as we became older, were really truths, and everything else was mere illusion, delusion even. The men and women who taught Qur’an every day to children, for years, even when they were not admired or respected by the people, even when they did not impress with their speech or manner, were superior to all others: theirs was the glory, superiority, the most complete achievement and success. All others wasted their lives, irrespective of what they achieved of the world and how the people perceived them to be superior. Only very few people understand this; most of us don’t at all, or don’t really, even whilst we think we do.

وَلَقَدْ آتَيْنَاكَ سَبْعًا مِّنَ الْمَثَانِي وَالْقُرْآنَ الْعَظِيمَ [Al Hijr 15:87]

(iv) Prior to hajj, I had collected and printed out many pages of ad’iyah that I wanted to remember and use, mostly from the Qur’an and sunnah, but also a few from a book which had some particularly beautiful prayers from the Psalms. (8) I had intended to read them during hajj, but had not got round to going through them properly, and because they were not prayers I had used before in Arabic, some of the words were unfamiliar, and I needed to look them up in English. During the days of Mina, a few of us were asked to facilitate some Qur’an circles. My circle was focused on surat l’-Fatihah, mainly to ensure we could all read that correctly; and, slightly bizarrely, I found myself in the position of unwitting tajweed teacher. (9) One of the pieces of homework my group had was to spend some time thinking about the surah and to choose a verse, or point of benefit, that was important to them, and briefly share that with the rest of the group. This is what I remember most clearly from those few circles, and it was really moving to hear how particular verses resonated with, and had special importance for, different people. When I was thinking about what I would say, I kept thinking about the hadith:  والذي نفسي بيده ما أنزلت في التوراة ولا في الإنجيل ولا في الزبور ولا في الفرقان مثلها وإنها سبع من المثاني والقرآن العظيم الذي أعطيته (10)  I still had to go through my pages of the Psalms, and felt uneasy about not yet having made use of them. Then it occurred to me that however beautiful the words and sentiment, I already had something far above that – we, the ummah of the Most Beloved, he with whom prophethood was sealed, salAllahu ‘alayhi wa sallam, had the Qur’an, and its Opening, and no other people or prophet had that. My fingers separated the pages of the prayers from the Psalms, and I put them away in my bag, feeling more easy, lighter in my heart. I thought that God must have kept me from getting round to it so that I did not waste a minute during that time except in using the most superior of words, the Opening of His Book.  

والله إن لقوله الذي يقول حلاوة وإن عليه لطلاوة وإنه لمثمر أعلاه مغدق أسفله وإنه ليعلو وما يعلى، وإنه ليحطم ما تحته 

(الوليد بن المغيرة)

  

(v) I remember one day some time before hajj asking my sister for advice on how to prepare for hajj, and what reading I should do, and she told me to read the seerah, and explained how important it was to take the opportunity to review things I may not have read for years, and be able to link what I would see to the life of the Prophet salAllahu alayhi wa sallam. I never got through all the volumes of the books I wanted to; actually I never got very far at all, but I distinctly remember this quote of al Waleed ibn Mugheerah. (11) I have always found it slightly odd – how is it that this arch-enemy of Islam, could say something so true; and then later, how is it that he could say that and yet not submit? It was almost nonsensical. But let us think about the first question for a second – how could he recognise it; how could he feel it just so, taste its sweetness; how could he know? And then there are reports of the Arabs who heard just a few words of the Qur’an and submitted from that. It is said that the Arabs in jahiliyyah were closest to the fitrah; despite their faults, they had certain qualities that were not found in other peoples, more advanced and civilised cultures, and when they saw the truth, it was able to pierce through to the core easily, and they submitted. Most of us are far removed from this state, our fitrah is so corrupted we could not recognise the truth if it stared us in the face. And so it does: every day, repeatedly. So God gives you chances, and hajj is one of those. It brings you as close to your fitrah as you will ever get. It strips you of your clothes, your culture, your pretensions at superiority, everything – you are stripped and laid bare, literally, metaphorically, spiritually. It reminds you of the day when that will occur in its most complete form, but it also gives you the opportunity to experience something, to be something, you could not be at home. You drink water every day, but the first drop of water with which you break your fast is something else altogether – then you realise what water is, then you taste its sweetness. And yet every other day, it is bland, tasteless; you know – logically – that you cannot live without it, but you would not describe it as sweet. You needed to fast, to be in a particular state, to taste its sweetness. (12) And so the Arabs in jahiliyyah, even those that did not submit, recognised it; they who lived in the desert knew the taste of water. They tasted in it a sweetness even in their rebellion, and we only taste in it blandness even in our submission. (13)

  لَهُمْ بِاللَّيْلِ دَوِيٌّ كَدَوِيِّ النَّحْلِ 

فِي مَسَاجِدِهِمْ كَدَوِيِّ النَّحْل (14)دَوِيُّهُمْ 

(vi) During the days we were in Aziziyah, we stayed in an area where most of the hujjaj from India and Pakistan stayed. The first day, when we walked from where we were staying to Bin Dawood through the wall of heavy evening heat, thick air perfumed with choking car fumes, I felt strangely pleased to see all the buildings with Indian and Pakistani flags in the windows and outside; it felt homely somehow. There was a mosque a few minutes’ walk away which we prayed in; I can’t remember its name, but x affectionately called it the TB mosque, as a tribute to all the coughing one heard there, which still makes me want to laugh whenever I hear it. As with all awful, good (awfully good?) nicknames, it stuck. Most of the people who attended were from Kerala, and I remember [the shaykh] saying we needed to make sure we got to the mosque early as they were a very keen lot, and if you wanted a decent spot inside, you’d need to get there early. He was not wrong. The first salah, I was relegated to the overflow room, though I had been upgraded from the hallway so that was something of a relief. The coughing was everywhere: hacking, productive, intermittent, chronic, and if you closed your eyes, it sounded like a giant respiratory ward. However, (and, I say this as someone who has had the dubious privilege of working in one of the few areas of the UK where TB was always in your top three differential diagnoses, irrespective of the presenting complaint) (15), to reduce our TB mosque to merely its coughing, and dismiss its other aural attractions would really be rather unjust. It was a pleasure to pray salah behind the imam of course, but what I loved, really loved, was that sound you always heard when you went early at fajr – the humming of people reciting Qur’an. You could hear it from halfway up the stairs, as you climbed to the top and turned the corner, growing louder with each step, as you passed the shoe racks, until you walked into the cool hall, and the faint buzzing became clearer; and as you crossed the rows to reach a comfortable gap near the front where you could sit, you would catch snatches of verses that you could make out. Sometimes, when I am climbing up to our class at madrasah which is in the attic, I slow down outside each of the Qur’an classes just so I can hear that distinctive sound of children reading Qur’an for a few extra seconds. Every time I go back after a while, it is that sound which reminds me of everything I have missed, and my heart feels a mixture of regret and yearning: soon I will be from them again, busy, engrossed, in the production of the divine on earth. It is this sound that Ka’b said was described in the Torah as a characteristic of the ummah of the Final Prophet, salAllahu alayhi wa sallam, and it is that sound – that beautiful humming buzz of bees, a sign of the sweetness to come – that I would hear in the mosque every night. We ask God that all those who work hard not be deprived of the sweetness of their reward, honey and rivers of honey. [47:15] (16)

(vii) L. thinks that I disagree with her way of learning particular surahs in particular places or times in order to associate them with those memories. I don’t disagree with it precisely; or certainly, my fears for my own revision don’t mean I can’t appreciate the attraction of it at all. I do understand, in my own way, what it is to have the Qur’an beautifully plaited into beloved memories, to have a verse, or a voice, bring back a rush of emotions. I can’t quite describe how I felt the first time I heard sh. Al-Hudhayfi’s voice in salah in the Prophet’s mosque in Madinah – it was almost as if my heart would burst, and I wanted to fall to the ground and cry, and cry. I want to say this was because of the verses he was reciting, but it would not be the whole truth. The whole truth, as always, is much more than that. His voice was my first love. His measured, deliberate, recitation was, and is, what I would always return to over the years, how I always knew in my heart the Word of God should be recited. When I stood in salah and heard his voice, I was transported back through the years. Now I am a little girl again, in Ramadan, and we have done iftar; my mum is tuning her old brown world radio that she wouldn’t let anyone else touch in case we broke it. I might have wandered upstairs, and she would shout up at me, or have one of my sisters call me to come down quickly with my own mushaf so I could follow al-Hudhayfi when he was reading the first few ajzaa’ in taraweeh. I had finished surat al Baqarah, so I was absolved of all post-prandial chores so that I could read along and revise what I had learnt. In those days, we wondered at how he could read so slowly and not forget what came next, and we laughed at how, as we felt, he seemed to be more hurried and flustered when he was trying to read fast enough for public prayer in Ramadan; it seemed somehow not to behoove him to read like the other popular reciters or imams. (17) Mama’s radio was precious all year round, but during Ramadan and the days of hajj, it was priceless: it was our connection to the world of the believers. On Fridays, we listened to the Moroccan radio station, and recited along as they read together in their peculiar style. But really, it was the Saudi station that was always switched on in the background, the words of God and His Beloved salAllahua ‘alayhi wa sallam loved even when, perhaps even more when, we did not understand them. And that is where, as a child, I heard the talbiyah and takbeerat of the hujjaj in the days of hajj, long before I heard them, or said them, in person. Recently, I have been thinking a lot about how fortunate I am that the Qur’an is only associated with happy memories for me, and how sad it is that for many people, the words of God have become inextricably linked to upsetting or even traumatic memories and experiences. The blessings of God are too great to comprehend, but even to read or hear a verse, and it evoke a positive memory, much less that the memory itself help you remember the verse, is surely a great thing that we did not deserve, and is only one of God’s countless blessings, wa lillahi-‘l-hamd.

(viii) Once I was doing tawaf on one of the higher levels and as I came round, I saw a man who must have been a cleaner from the uniform he was wearing. He had a long beard and was wearing a topi, and I felt from his features he would have been Indian, or from that area of the world. He was sitting almost awkwardly, pressed against the glass, and facing directly towards the ka’bah. I was unaccustomed to seeing cleaners sitting there; I slowed down to look at him surreptitiously. He was holding a mushaf and completely engrossed in reciting the Qur’an. He had obviously positioned himself there so he could see the ka’bah as he recited. I wondered about him, as I often wondered about the cleaners. They worked so hard, especially those who worked outside in the heat, and it was such a physically demanding job. I don’t know how often they were allowed breaks (18), but felt it was a physically demanding job. What surprised me that this man was clearly using his breaks, or the times when he was not on shift, to stay as close to the haram as possible and reciting Qur’an. The other person I remember along with this was someone who was in our hajj group and her position during those days was at the entrance of our tent in Mina. Every time I would get up in the morning for fajr – and I would get up early in order to avoid the toilet queues – she would be sitting, reciting Qur’an, clearly having been up long before any of us, spending time with God whilst the rest of us slept in the dark. I felt that these people really seemed to understand something about time – that time not spent with the Qur’an is time wasted. They seemed to be not too concerned with resting, and perhaps they were in the enviable state where in their very being with the Qur’an, they found rest. May God increase them in their devotion, and us along with them.

(ix) The many miracles associated with the Qur’an must stem from it being the Word of God, fundamentally divine, recited on the tongues of men, loved with their hearts, embodied in their actions. It is always an odd thing with books – they can either delight or depress, enliven or deaden, cause joy to overflow, or allow pain to finally break apart that which has been delicately, desperately, held together. What you choose to read in a particular moment depends on a multitude of other things, (19) and sometimes, you make the wrong choice – perhaps you are left feeling even more sad, burdened, or frustrated at how ineffective some frivolous escapism turned out to be, or even worse – and this is always the case – it was simply that you while away your time, and any benefit is fleeting, forgotten before it is even realised. Yet this is not so with the Qur’an. One feels that so great a message, indeed the only news of any importance to a human being, must necessarily be completely overwhelming, but the Qur’an is guidance and mercy in itself, perfect for every occasion. The gravityof the news of what is to come is always accompanied by hope. In it is a grace and lightness which inspires even the most burdened heart, yet without a trace of frivolity; it relieves and comforts even the most pained heart, yet with the truth, not with fantasy. And always one is raised through it, with it, and becomes closer to the divine, and all that is associated with the divine. Our goal then, is to forge that tentative, ephemeral link into something stronger, more able to withstand the dark forces of misguidance and the relentless erosion of time. Then, and only then, can one be from God’s people, the special ones He has chosen to bear and embody His Word, those who mingle with angels, (20) bringing something of the divine into the terrestrial, that by clinging on to it, they might ascend to some celestial realm even before they are asked to ascend.(21)

وَهَٰذَا كِتَابٌ أَنزَلْنَاهُ مُبَارَكٌ فَاتَّبِعُوهُ وَاتَّقُوا لَعَلَّكُمْ تُرْحَمُونَ  [Al An’aam 6:155]

(x) There is no doubt that the Qur’an is barakah, and adds barakah to everything, and with it, through it, a great many things are achieved, and many great things are achieved; and with it, through it, one would rise to the highest heavens. Throughout hajj, and at regular intervals both before and afterwards, I was amazed at how the Qur’an was really responsible for all this. If it were not for a series of events and persons, all connected with the Qur’an, I would not have had the opportunity to do hajj. Often, you are shown the link between something to help you remain steadfast, and God does this from His mercy, knowing your weakness, but really, you do not, cannot, could not, understand the true reality of these links. Then I wonder: how much of the good that we don’t even understand in our lives is really all through the barakah the Qur’an, and how much of God’s mercy that we don’t even comprehend is really all through the barakah of the Qur’an?

(xi) To have preserved even a portion of the Qu’ran, to carry it with you, for its words to trip off the tip of your tongue must surely be the beginning of any relationship with it, the first step in the long journey that will be spent with it. One time in the haram, I was feeling tired and wondering whether I should go back to the hotel, or stay and complete another tawaf as it was fairly quiet and I was unlikely to get another such opportunity. I reasoned with myself that I ought to stay, even if I felt exhausted, and I could always just recite some adhkaar or think, or recite something easy from what I knew, as that was better than no tawaf at all. Ultimately, I decided on something I could recite without much active thought required, and so started reading from the first juz. I was in this state, slowly trudging along, almost not paying any attention at all, the number of circuits slowly mounting, when I happened to look up and glance to my left, whilst at the same time, I was reciting:

وَإِذْ يَرْفَعُ إِبْرَاهِيمُ الْقَوَاعِدَ مِنَ الْبَيْتِ وَإِسْمَاعِيلُ رَبَّنَا تَقَبَّلْ مِنَّا ۖ إِنَّكَ أَنتَ السَّمِيعُ الْعَلِيمُ –

And then I continued:  رَبَّنَا وَاجْعَلْنَا مُسْلِمَيْنِ لَكَ وَمِن ذُرِّيَّتِنَا أُمَّةً مُّسْلِمَةً لَّكَ وَأَرِنَا مَنَاسِكَنَا وَتُبْ عَلَيْنَا ۖ إِنَّكَ أَنتَ التَّوَّابُ الرَّحِيمُ - رَبَّنَا وَابْعَثْ فِيهِمْ رَسُولًا مِّنْهُمْ يَتْلُو عَلَيْهِمْ آيَاتِكَ وَيُعَلِّمُهُمُ الْكِتَابَ وَالْحِكْمَةَ وَيُزَكِّيهِمْ ۚ إِنَّكَ أَنتَ الْعَزِيزُ الْحَكِيمُ -  وَمَن يَرْغَبُ عَن مِّلَّةِ إِبْرَاهِيمَ إِلَّا مَن سَفِهَ نَفْسَهُ ۚ وَلَقَدِ اصْطَفَيْنَاهُ فِي الدُّنْيَا ۖ وَإِنَّهُ فِي الْآخِرَةِ لَمِنَ الصَّالِحِينَ -  إِذْ قَالَ لَهُ رَبُّهُ أَسْلِمْ ۖ قَالَ أَسْلَمْتُ لِرَبِّ الْعَالَمِينَ –  [Al-Baqarah 2:127-131]

And suddenly, I realised how utterly amazing this was – both what I was doing, and how Ibrahim and Isma’il laid the foundation of this, both literally and otherwise, so many years ago, and had asked God to accept it, and this story and their words had been preserved for us forever in the Qur’an, and also that to have memorised the Qur’an means that what you have with you, preserved deep within you, in your very heart, is something suitable for every occasion. Even if you are not able to consciously bring forward what you need for a particular situation, God will help you with that. I had never really thought about the enormity of what it meant, that these two men, who were undertaking an act that could only be for God (they were building His House!), the epitome of submission, were asking for God to accept it, asking to be of those who submitted, asking to be shown the rituals, asking for forgiveness – what complete and perfect humility and sincerity! And here I was, as a result of that, a believer, having followed the Messenger they asked to be sent, reciting the Book, completing the rituals, hoping to be purified, a follower of millat Ibrahim. Then what is there left to say except the words of our fathers:

رَبَّنَا تَقَبَّلْ مِنَّا ۖ إِنَّكَ أَنتَ السَّمِيعُ الْعَلِيمُ    – [Al Baqarah 2:127]

Toenotes

(1) I had actually written most of this before Ramadan, but rather than rush to finish it, I thought I would wait until Ramadan - month of the Qur’an that it is - was over. Also, I had been to The Qur’an Intensive and wanted to think about, and review, some things. The first thing you should read, if you haven’t already, is How to benefit from the Qur’an - I feel I understand it much better after Ramadan. Then you should listen to the Qur’an Intensive if you can make the time for four days because it will be really beneficial (otherwise, you can, err, wait for me to write up my notes :)). Actually, once I finish Hajj-notes, I am going to type up the Qur’an intensive notes because it was so good. And I know I keep saying this, and I know I’ve still not got round to doing the really important Banu I and culture stuff from two years ago or something, but if you make lots of du’a for Allah to ease my affairs, I might actually get round to it in your lifetime. Anyway, after Ramadan, things slipped out of control slightly, but here we are again, not so far from Ramadan again, wa lillahi ‘l-hamd.

(2)  إِنَّ اللَّهَ فَالِقُ الْحَبِّ وَالنَّوَىٰ ۖ يُخْرِجُ الْحَيَّ مِنَ الْمَيِّتِ وَمُخْرِجُ الْمَيِّتِ مِنَ الْحَيِّ ۚ ذَٰلِكُمُ اللَّهُ ۖ فَأَنَّىٰ تُؤْفَكُونَ - 6:95

And أَوَمَن كَانَ مَيْتًا فَأَحْيَيْنَاهُ وَجَعَلْنَا لَهُ نُورًا يَمْشِي بِهِ فِي النَّاسِ كَمَن مَّثَلُهُ فِي الظُّلُمَاتِ لَيْسَ بِخَارِجٍ مِّنْهَا ۚ كَذَٰلِكَ زُيِّنَ لِلْكَافِرِينَ مَا كَانُوا يَعْمَلُونَ - 6:122

(3) See here. The whole narration is actually really interesting. I have not heard anyone explain it better than sh Sa’id al Kamali,  and I have not previously understood the context better than after I took the Mu’allaqat class; only then I understood what he is trying to say. During the time I was taking classes, I had mentioned it/discussed it with a few different people, including some with a background in education and native Arabs, and they invariably thought it was an odd choice to study, or questioned why it was important, and felt that for example, it would make more sense to focus on studying hadith with sh A instead (which is of course, a subject in itself). However, they did not appreciate that I learnt things from those poems that went beyond language (of which, I must confess, I learnt very little, other than confirming my own absolute ineptitude when it comes to classical Arabic) – I learnt about jahili culture in a way which made me understand Islam; it changed the way I approached so much of the Qur’an, of seerah. Now I read Amr ibn Kulthum and how he talks about kings, arrogance dripping from each word, and then I think of these men who could not be ruled by kings, led by a mawla! This is the Word of God and these are the people who submitted to it. This is just one example of many where I suddenly felt I understood the significance of something in a way which I never did previously (granted I’m still waiting for an epiphany on Tarafah’s camel's tail [on the subject of hajj and camel epiphanies]).  

(4) Yes, I’m thinking about sh. Abdur Rashid Sufi… (I so dislike liking people too much, especially for their voice, but he just makes it very hard.)

(5) Apparently this is not uncommon in Hadramaut, as described here.  

(6) The sort of person who when you see, you are reminded of the ahadith regarding the person whose hair grow white in Islam, which make you proud to be from a tradition where even the signs of aging are venerated.  

  عن كَعْبُ بْنَ مُرَّةَ رضي الله عنه قَالَ : سَمِعْتُ رَسُولَ اللَّهِ صَلَّى اللَّهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ يَقُولُ : ( مَنْ شَابَ شَيْبَةً فِي الْإِسْلَامِ كَانَتْ لَهُ نُورًا يَوْمَ الْقِيَامَةِ ) . صححه الألباني في صحيح الترمذي .

(7) Recently, I have really been thinking about this a lot. The Hajj-Mahram, through some flash of blessing, has memorised the Qur’an, and I remember him telling me how once when he was revising in front of the ka’bah, a young North African man kept trying to speak to him in Arabic and couldn’t understand how he had memorised the Qur’an but couldn’t speak any Arabic (they communicated through Google translate). In Ramadan, he was asked specifically to lead at a particular mosque because someone had remembered him from last year, so he ended up leading different days at two different mosques, and said people would come afterwards and speak to him in Arabic (which he  has not studied) and even ask him questions on fiqh (which he also has not studied) thinking he was someone learned (how we laughed). He was invited to eat at the houses of people who were much more senior to him in age and deen and knowledge, and they respected him. This is entirely the Qur’an – that someone is respected through it far beyond that which they deserve. We thought about this in our family, and marveled at the ways of God, because were he at home, he would never have had the opportunity to lead in a masjid in Ramadan - the huffadh are ten a penny here, so they read in groups at homes if they want to practise in Ramadan, or just read alone. Also, it never occurred to me to invite someone to break their fast and honour them like that just because they had memorised the Qur’an, so I too learnt something, and was humbled by the humility of these Iraqis and Syrians who had left everything, but arrived on our shores with the love of the Qur’an deep in their hearts. (7n)  

(7n – nailnote [though sounds a bit odd; not sure if I quite like it?]) One of the really nice things I feel about Muslims, especially Muslims from traditionally Muslim countries, is that they almost always have this link with the Qur’an that connects them with everything connected to it. Just recently, I was working at –- and one of the Arabic interpreters I had not met previously did salam to me and I introduced myself. We spoke very briefly although he was not working with me that afternoon (I had a more exotic language!). He asked me if I knew who I was named for, which I always find a very odd question – I have never thought to ask that question to anyone in my life within 10 seconds of meeting them (or at all, in fact), but I am almost invariably asked that question every time I introduce myself to an Arab (Also, it’s a trick question because the correct answer depends on whether the questioner is sunni or shi’i [which I’m usually ok at, but I once had a shi’i registrar to whom I gave the wrong answer, but he seemed not to realise as he had simultaneously answered it himself, and carried on being really lovely to me because he thought I was a) Iraqi, and b) Shi’i. I quickly disabused him of the former notion {by always replying in English when he spoke in Iraqi dialect}, but by the time I realised I really should say something about the latter because it was becoming awkward, we had already spoken at length about Karbala and Najaf and various maqam tours, studying shari’ah in Lebanon, Ayatollah Khomeini’s grandad being an Indian from Lucknow {random fact I told him to seem clever and then instantly regretted because that was the extent of what I knew on that topic} and the {very shi’i-sounding} names of the females in my family, and so it was All Too Late. I then had to take drastic measures {like never using the mess again} to avoid him for the rest of my year in that particular hospital because he would keep wanting to be nice and speak to me and I felt quite guilty for unintentionally engaging in a deception which actually wasn’t my fault]). Anyway, the interpreter was really happy that I spoke Arabic in the way that people always are when someone speaks their language in a foreign country, even when it’s clearly not very well, and then immediately said, smiling widely, ‘Do you read the Qur’an? You must read the Qur’an, then?’ and he was genuinely overjoyed by this – I could see the happiness shining in his eyes. In actual fact, I probably had very little in common with this older Arab man I had met for a few minutes, but I immediately felt a great sense of affinity towards him due to his obvious love for the Qur’an, and plan to speak to him properly the next time we meet. And this is the Qur’an – it joins you to everyone who has a link with it.

(8) In English and Arabic here. 

(9) Dearest S, how you would have laughed (ok, you wouldn’t have laughed, because you’re too polite – I would’ve laughed shamelessly, in fact, I would’ve positively crowed. You would’ve averted your gaze and smiled slightly at the ground and laughed inside). I actually perfected my mudood and even counted surreptitiously on my fingers, and although it pains me enormously to say this, it was not so bad! I did not spontaneously combust, nor were the heavens cleft asunder. A couple more times praying salah behind that amazing guy in Fajr…I’m being slowly converted, arrrrrrrrghhh [6 counts]…

(10) رواه الترمذي

(11) I was searching the words of al Waleed’s quote in Arabic to copy here, and this really lovely clip came up –  May Allah grant us that!  And the problem with sh Said al-Kamali is once you start watching him, you have to keep watching all the things that pop up on the side, like this (I always loved this story and loved his dad who sold his house, but never knew it was that Hisham [though to be fair, it’s not as if I know him anyway]); and this, which will just make your heart stop and your hair stand on end.  

(12) And there is a lovely connection here between fasting and reciting the Qur’an, and also reciting the Qur’an whilst fasting, or in the month of fasting, and the discipline, where consciously depriving yourself of something purely for God, leads to a state which facilitates real understanding and growth and, ultimately, one hopes, intercession. I love this hadith:

الصيام والقرآن يشفعان للعبد يوم القيامة ، يقول الصيام أي رب ، منعته الطعام والشهوات بالنهار ، فشفعني فيه ، ويقول القرآن : منعته النوم بالليل ، فشفعني فيه ، قال فيشفعان

(13) al Mutanabbi: ومَنْ يَكُ ذا فَمٍ مُرٍّ مَرِيضٍ * يَجدْ مُرّاً بهِ المَاءَ الزُّلالا

(14) بَابُ صِفَةِ النَّبِيِّ صَلَّى اللَّهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ فِي الْكُتُبِ قَبْلَ مَبْعَثِهِ

سنن الدارمي -

 Irrespective of authenticity, I actually love these descriptions; they are so beautiful.

أَخْبَرَنَا مُجَاهِدُ بْنُ مُوسَى ، حَدَّثَنَا مَعْنُ بْنُ عِيسَى ، حَدَّثَنَا مُعَاوِيَةُ بْنُ صَالِحٍ ، عَنْ أَبِي فَرْوَةَ ، عَنِ ابْنِ عَبَّاسٍ رَضِيَ اللَّهُ عَنْهُمَا ، أَنَّهُ سَأَلَ كَعْبَ الْأَحْبَارِ : كَيْفَ تَجِدُ نَعْتَ رَسُولِ اللَّهِ صَلَّى اللَّهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ فِي التَّوْرَاةِ ؟ فَقَالَ كَعْبٌ : نَجِدُهُ مُحَمَّدُ بْنُ عَبْدِ اللَّهَ يُولَدُ بِمَكَّةَ ، وَيُهَاجِرُ إِلَى طَابَةَ ، وَيَكُونُ مُلْكُهُ بِالشَّامِ وَلَيْسَ بِفَحَّاشٍ ، وَلَا صَخَّابٍ فِي الْأَسْوَاقِ ، وَلَا يُكَافِئُ بِالسَّيِّئَةِ السَّيِّئَةَ ، وَلَكِنْ يَعْفُو وَيَغْفِرُ ، أُمَّتُهُ الْحَمَّادُونَ ، يَحْمَدُونَ اللَّهَ فِي كُلِّ سَرَّاءَ ، وَيُكَبِّرُونَ اللَّهَ عَلَى كُلِّ نَجْدٍ ، يُوَضِّئُونَ أَطْرَافَهُمْ ، وَيَأْتَزِرُونَ فِي أَوْسَاطِهِمْ ، يُصَفُّونَ فِي صَلََاتِهِمْ كَمَا يُصَفُّونَ فِي قِتَالِهِمْ ، دَوِيُّهُمْ فِي مَسَاجِدِهِمْ كَدَوِيِّ النَّحْلِ ، يُسْتَمِعُ مُنَادِيهِمْ فِي جَوِّ السَّمَاءِ

(15) Oddly enough, despite the intervening decade or so, I still remember the respiratory consultants from TB hospital. The first was a legendary figure coming up to retirement, from whom I learnt that medicine was above all an art. He would write in his clinic notes odd bits of details about his patients: drives red Ford Fiesta; going to see daughter in Australia; dog had puppies; and then when they came in with exacerbations of their COPD or pneumonias, he’d flick back in the notes for his illegible handwriting, and casually ask at the post-take ward round how the trip to Australia had been, and in between the coughing and gasps for air, they would absolutely beam. Needless to say, all his patients worshipped him. The second once stopped his clinic to give me a detailed explanation of the history of the Sri Lankan civil war because I’d asked him something, even drawing me out maps on his history sheets (I must’ve briefly understood that it was really complex, before promptly forgetting the details and going back to supporting the Tamil underdogs again [And this appreciation is clearly mutual because random Tamil fake taxi drivers in foreign countries seem to quite like me too – I shall always remember the look on the faces of F. and N. who, less impressed than me by the “Ah, we are the same then” reassurance, seemed more interested in subsidiary matters like making sure we weren’t being abducted to end up ensnared in some international human trafficking ring or chopped into small pieces and buried in someone's garden]). The last one randomly told me one day that real Arabs didn’t write their small ha ه in the middle of a word with butterfly wings, but rather with the downward indentation in the line. (I only do that in Urdu + comma thingie, and I never much cared for his views because I’m not an Arab anyway, much less a real Arab). I also learnt the word iltihab in his clinic, and learnt to ask all the old Pakistani women with COPD about their tannur habits in the village before thinking they were lying about their chain-smoking (although it is an absolutely rookie mistake to think the two are mutually exclusive).

(16) مَّثَلُ الْجَنَّةِ الَّتِي وُعِدَ الْمُتَّقُونَ ۖ فِيهَا أَنْهَارٌ مِّن مَّاءٍ غَيْرِ آسِنٍ وَأَنْهَارٌ مِّن لَّبَنٍ لَّمْ يَتَغَيَّرْ طَعْمُهُ وَأَنْهَارٌ مِّنْ خَمْرٍ لَّذَّةٍ لِّلشَّارِبِينَ وَأَنْهَارٌ مِّنْ عَسَلٍ مُّصَفًّى ۖ وَلَهُمْ فِيهَا مِن كُلِّ الثَّمَرَاتِ وَمَغْفِرَةٌ مِّن رَّبِّهِمْ ۖ كَمَنْ هُوَ خَالِدٌ فِي النَّارِ وَسُقُوا مَاءً حَمِيمًا فَقَطَّعَ أَمْعَاءَهُمْ - 47:15

The honey link has also reminded me of this beautiful Jewish ritual for when children start to learn Torah: The Sweetness of Learning. I actually love Eziekiel 3:3 – and this verse: How sweet are Your words to my taste, Sweeter than honey to my mouth! [Psalm 119:103] - the inspiration behind the name of course, (and slightly more romantic than lexical-gustatory synaesthesia).

(17) I had forgotten about this until just yesterday when my mum called me to watch the salah from the haram (now on her phone – how the world has changed), and was saying, “Your Hudhayfi has become old now”. (I said, smiling: my Hudaydhi? But I wondered that I was not displeased, as anyone else’s name in that place would inevitably have  made me, hafidhahullah).

(18) It’s probably good for me not to know more – I’m sure their contracts would be an affront to my trade unionist background. I saw a female supervisor appear to not let a female worker sit for a minute, even when there was nothing in her area to do and she looked really tired. Once I had a conversation with a heavily pregnant Sri Lankan cleaner in Madinah a few years ago who would not let me collect some masaahif and take them back to the shelves. She told me I was not allowed to help her even as an act of basic courtesy as that would risk her job, and she needed to work as far as possible close to term; not only would she not get maternity pay, but had to leave to give birth in Sri Lanka. It made me very sad. I hope she and her child are well.

(19) I was thinking about this recently when I had to use a train to attend a conference and was picking up a book for my bag. I always read several books simultaneously, so on the face of it, I could have picked any of them. But in the space of a few seconds, there was a multitude of factors that flashed in my mind – ranging from the purely practical (how big is the book, how heavy is my bag, do I need to fit in lunch, is the book lighter than my knitting), to the slightly more complex reasoning (how long do I expect I will have to actually read at the station/at the venue, what topic will I realistically be able to manage when I am brain-fried at the end of the day), to the even more thought-provoking (what will people who see me think of me from the cover/subject, what discussion with my neighbour will my book prompt and do I have a duty to choose judiciously in order to facilitate a particular conversation?) What is so disturbing is that this occurred almost subconsciously – I had to deliberately slow down my thinking so I could analyse what was happening. The implications of this are profound – I am vulnerable to an unconscious self-censorship that pervades all areas of my life (I already knew I did that for airports – I once paused a khatmah of The Wretched of the Earth specifically because I thought in the event I were stopped, France couldn’t bear it, and I hated myself for it). It also means that perhaps there is more vanity in intellectual pursuits than one might think – are books like makeup? (I’ve noticed I’m beginning to find it slightly distasteful when I see pictures and videos of Muslims, particularly in the West, in their libraries – is it so bad if it’s just a nice background? (and actually, of course it is!) Is it so bad if we, dumb consumers, like looking at spines of books making pretty, curly patterns in gold, if it makes you look more competent, if it makes you think it’ll make us think you’re more competent? [That has just reminded me of this - which is always worth reading again – actually the whole archives are worth reading – I am constantly in awe of his mind]).

(20)  عن عائشة قالت قال رسول الله صلى الله عليه وسلم الماهر بالقرآن مع السفرة الكرام البررة والذي يقرأ القرآن ويتتعتع فيه وهو عليه شاق له أجران - مسلم 

(21) روى الترمذي- عن عبد الله بن عمرو، عن النبي صلى الله عليه وسلم ، قال : " يقال لصاحب القرآن : اقرأ وارتق ورتل كما كنت ترتل في الدنيا ، فإن منزلتك عند آخر آية تقرأ بها "  and explanation.