These two brothers spindly, asleep they remain
To wake for employment that comes with the rain;
Together they sleep and together they rise,
And all that they sweep expeditiously dries.
The Greater Struggle
As soon as you feel good about yourself, know that the devil has got you, because he is made from fire and he understands the nafs better than you.
-Shaykh Mohammed Amin Kholwadia
When I read in the news last week about the inflammatory Defeat Jihad ad campaign hitting New York City buses, I couldn’t help marvel at how poorly Muslim thinking and preoccupation is represented in the media. It made me ponder the widely known story whereby the Prophet (peace and blessings of God be upon him) once welcomed home troops returning after an expedition. “You have returned from the lesser struggle to the greater struggle”, he is reported to have said to them. When the companions asked him what he meant by the “greater struggle”, he clarified: “the struggle against (the desires of) oneself”.
This story is so widespread and so well diffused into Muslim discourse that it could very well be one of the most cited traditions (hadith) in our times. It is all about the battle with the nafs, the “urging self”. Libraries of Islamic literature are filled with books written by masters of the subject such as Imam Ghazali, sermons abound with the idea, poets have wrought verse about it for centuries. Even I felt compelled to craft a riddle on it two weeks ago. (Seriously, take a look! 🙂
To better understand the idea of the greater jihad, I’d like to lean on what I think is one of the most beautiful modern day lyrical poems in the English language on the topic – Yusuf Islam’s Angel of War. Mr. Islam takes the idea of the greater jihad and embellishes it with the mundane vocabulary of warriors and warfare. But to the seasoned reader/listener, every verse has a remarkably subtle reference to the nafs.
The poem reads as a dialogue between a hypothetical angel of war and a young man who Mr. Islam aptly refers to as a soldier boy. That the poem was cast into song in the tune of his original number, My Lady D’arbanville, dating back to his days of rock-stardom, is no mere coincidence in my opinion, but certainly inconsequential.
Oh, angel of war, what am I fighting for?
If death comes tomorrow, inform me before
Inform me before
Oh, young soldier boy, I’ll tell you what I know
If peace is your wish, to battle you must go
To battle you must go
Oh, angel of war, please, make it clear to me
Which is my side and who is my enemy?
Who is my enemy?
Oh, angel of war, within myself I see
The battle has started, what will become of me?
What will become of me?
Oh, young soldier boy, you’re wiser than you seem
Look into your heart and keep your motives clean
And keep your motives clean
Oh, angel of war, what weapons do I need?
Lest I may perish, that I may succeed
That I may succeed
Oh, young soldier boy, if you protect the poor
Let truth be your armour and justice be your sword
And justice be your sword
Oh, young soldier boy, the war that you wage
If it’s for your ego, it will die in rage
It will die in rage
Oh, angel of war, how can I tell for sure
Pride’s not the reason that I’m fighting for
That I’m fighting for
Oh, angel of war, when I look at me
I’m fearful to confess, the enemy I see
The enemy I see
Oh, young soldier boy, now you can go to war
I’ll see you tomorrow and a boy you’ll be no more
A boy you’ll be no more
Here are a few insights I have gleaned from this poem.
- “O Young Soldier Boy” could be anyone, and is meant for the reader/listener to identify with. Its repetition in every verse is almost taunting, but is clarified in the closing couplets.
- “If peace is your wish, to battle you must go”. This is the overarching theme. If you seek peace then you must wage war. But as the following couplet goes, against who? “Who’s my enemy?” That does not come out until the penultimate couplet.
- Truth as an armor… for the soul. And justice as a sword… for how can justice smite unjustly.
- The closing couplets confirm that one remains a boy – a soldier boy – for as long as one has not recognized that one’s self, one’s nafs, is one’s greatest enemy.
This sort of self-control and introspective battle-readiness is related in countless stories of the prophets and in the biographies of the pious predecessors. Two powerful examples follow.
The First Example
The story of young Ali, the prophet’s cousin (God be pleased with him) when he accepted a duel from the massive Amr son of Abdi Wud is a glowing example of self-restraint that was witnessed by hundreds. The duel begins with Amr and his companions mocking Ali on account of his short stature and youth. It is a classic David and Goliath duel. Ali wields the Zulfiqar to eventually overcome the giant, and straddle his chest. His dagger is inches from being thrust into Amr’s throat when Amr, in a last show of defiance, spits into the younger man’s face.
Now, picture this: you’re surrounded by enemy soldiers even as you duel the strongest of them, while your own remain watchful beyond a broad trench. You are young and strong and the obvious underdog in this poorly balanced match. But then you subdue your adversary by skill and agility, and find yourself the victor in the duel. And then the defeated man insults you, hoping it will bring you to expedite his death.
But what does Ali do?
Ali restrains his dagger, gets off the giant’s chest and steps back. When Amr asks him why he had not slain him, Ali responds that had he slain him then, it would have been out of an anger he felt towards Amr, and not out of love for and service to God.
Now that is the greater jihad. This of course upsets Amr even more, so he picks up his sword and attacks Ali again, and so the story goes. A poetic rendition of the entire incident is here if you like: https://khamuk.com/2012/11/blog-post.html
The Second Example
The ultimate story is that of the Prophet Muhammad (peace and blessings of Almighty God be upon him) when he visits the leaders of the city of Taif seeking their support in his mission. It was a difficult time in the Prophet’s life. His only supporter and protector, his uncle Abu Talib, had died earlier in the year, and his other pillar of support, his beloved wife of twenty-five years, Khadijah, had died a couple months later. His companions in Makkah were being sought out and harassed for professing their belief in one God. The poorer among them were tortured, many killed without restraint.
At this time, the prophet hears that the people of Taif may be sympathetic to his cause. So off he goes to meet with them. They swiftly reject him, but they don’t leave it at that. As he exits their city, the leaders send word to the children and youth playing about to band together and stone him even as he departs the city. So the prophets runs. But he is unable to dodge the rain of stones flying into his face from every direction as he makes his way through mobs of deriding youth, shouting and flinging rocks at his person.
When he finally gets out of stone’s throw, he sits down on a rock and wipes away the blood and sweat dripping down his face. In that moment of weakness and grief, the Angel of the Mountains comes to the Prophet, and asks his leave to bring the two mountains on either side of Taif together that they may crush the city and all within it.
The prophet’s response is packed with a subtlety befitting one who has vanquished his self at many levels. He informs the angel to leave them be, as he sees the possibility that their children may one day believe (and that did come to be). And then he raises his hands in supplication to God and says, “My Lord, if you are not upset with me, then I am alright with what you have decreed”. Now that is an introspective war waged against a nafs already at peace and in full submission. Make whatever sense of that as you may.
And that is the greater jihad in the deepest sense of the term. The peace that we seek (whoever and wherever we be) does not lie in defeating jihad. Rather it stubbornly lies in understanding and embracing it.
As for the misguided engaged in the mindless slaughter of innocents all around the world, whatever faith or ideology or political force they claim an allegiance to, it is time for them to look hard at themselves, into themselves, and to take in what they see.
Oh, angel of war, when I look at me
I’m fearful to confess, the enemy I see
The enemy I see.
I’m fearful to confess, the enemy I see
The enemy I see.
There is a Face I Long to See
There is a face I long to see,
I pray that it will turn to me
The day I dread but hope to free
My lowly soul.
There is a voice I long to hear,
I pray that I will find it near
The day I lose my own to fear
I can’t control.
There is a hand I long to touch,
I long to touch it very much
To drink from it my fill as such;
And I’ll be whole.
There is a man I long to meet,
I long to sit beside his feet,
In timeless moments to repeat
For evermore.
SallAllahu ‘alayhi wa sallam.
Thursday Riddle (September 25, 2014)
Waves to me; rapidly dies
Between the stars beyond the skies.
A Simple Sermon
I made the Friday prayers today at the Rolling Meadows mosque, and I have to say it was an excellent experience. At a time when sound khutab are hard to come by, it was revealing to me that a Friday sermon can achieve its purpose on the back of either or both of two things:
- the merit of the message in the khutbah and/or
- the merit of the khateeb’s (sermon-giver’s) sincerity
I thought today’s sermon at the Rolling Meadows mosque was a glowing tribute to the latter. A brief explanation is due here.
When the unassuming Imam stood up and conveyed in the most mundane tones, a simple and mundane message, nobody knew ( I certainly did not know) how worthwhile the next few minutes of our lives would be.
“Remember Allah”, he said. And then a plethora of “the season of the Hajj is upon us”, and “men and women of every color and race and age and intellect will gather together in the worship of one Creator”, and such. Nothing earth-shattering for the regular listener, no hyperbole, the only semblance of any depth coming from a not-so-eloquent narration of a recorded conversation that occurred between a pilgrim and the esteemed Imam Junayd al-Baghdadi.
And that was it! So what am I raving about!?
I once heard Shaykh Amin say (and I paraphrase) that the whole point of the Jumuah khutbah is to take a break from the dunya and immerse oneself in Allah’s remembrance. That alone is the goal of a Friday sermon.
What made that happen today is a bit hard to explain, unless your imagination can fill in the gaps in my shoddy explanation here. At every mention of “Madinah”, “forgiveness”, “Hajj”, the khateeb choked up with tears. Tears. Now you know that nothing washes away dirt like tears, and if you don’t know that, you don’t know “dirt”.
So, if you do not possess the scholarship to break new ground in your khutbah, then please, please, do the next best thing (and may be you’ll even top the scholars). Pick the most simple reminders you can serve to Muslims, and (this is important) say it like you feel it. Mission accomplished in sha Allah. But then again, what do I know?
Oh, right! I know “dirt”.
——————————————————————————————————————–
They’re coming to you now, my Lord
Believers everywhere,
Responding to Ibrahim’s call
That once did pierce the air;
They’ve spent their wealth and shed the threads
That set themselves apart,
And donned the simple shroud that suits
A true believing heart,
They’ll watch their actions in these days,
To hurt no gnat or fly,
And let the dirt without erase
The dirt within must die.
And tears, Lord, the tears flow
Like rivers on a land
That’s parched and thirsting for a show
Of Mercy that is grand.
So take them all on Arafah
And let upon them rains
Of love to wash their sins away
Till none of sins remains.
And we afar, can only hope
The goodness of those slaves
Will bring us strength to grasp the rope
That lifts us from our graves
And huddles us in throngs behind
The man you hold so close:
It is a high we long to find
Upon a day of lows.
Thursday Riddle (September 18, 2014)
Taller than mountains and wider than skies,
Yet never been seen, well hidden from eyes,
Survives on appeasement and plentiful lies,
And all the corruption that it justifies;
It seldom obeys, most often defies,
Repressed by the best who inhibit it’s rise
Through stratagems wily and formulas wise,
A noisy companion that nags till it dies.
The Kindness of Zak Lombardi
My second Zak Lombardi installment. Thanks, AM, for the motivation :-).
Little Zak Lombardi
Was always late for school,
Was exceptionally tardy,
Though he followed every rule.
He remembered now the words
Of Miss Benson yesterday
As he smiled up at the birds
That he spied along the way.
Yes, today Zak would be
Right on time to catch the bus,
He would give old Miss B.
Not a chance to make a fuss.
But then just as he got
Right about to cross the street,
Zak Lombardi came to spot
Granny Williams on her feet.
And she held in her hands
Many bags that were filled
To their tops with the groceries
Determined to be spilled.
As she stumbled on right past him,
And he ambled as he did,
Little Zak had a glimmer
Of what makes a kindly kid.
Sure the walk five block south
Would not make Miss Benson glad,
But a taste in his mouth
Said it won’t be all that bad.
So around turned Lombardi
Took the bags with a smile
And that pleased Granny Williams
The entire half a mile.
There always will be choices
That, my friend, you’ll have to make,
But a chance to be kind
Is the one to ever take.
Thursday Riddle (September 11, 2014)
Born of cowardice and shame,
Blackens hearts that love to blame;
But when borne by pure intent,
Deftly uttered where it’s meant,
Softens hearts and binds them true,
To outweigh the good you do.
Thursday Riddle (September 4, 2014)
Four brothers kingly unsurprisingly
Unite their four kingdoms as one;
Each joins with their subjects, all end up divided,
Desired by some, while by others derided,
For hours and hours of fun;
Haytham’s Catch
A long time ago, before there were trains,
Before electricity or aeroplanes,
There lived at the top of a mountain along
The shores of an ocean, a family strong
Of eagles: a father, a mother and child,
Three proud and remarkable creatures of wild,
That well loved each other, lived happily on,
And so did it happen one morning at dawn.
You see, the young bird, Haytham was his name,
He’d learned how to fly, but didn’t know game,
And thus he set out with his father this day
To listen and learn and to follow his way.
They flapped and they glided away from the shore
To where little Haytham had not been before,
And when they looked down, they spotted a pod
Of dolphins that swam in formation unflawed.
“Will that be our meal?”, Haytham had to ask
So eager to start on his morning time task;
“Oh, no”, said his father, “That creature you spy
Is too large a beast to carry and fly.”
And so they turned shoreward and saw the sun fold
The waters in mantles of yellow
and gold,
Then dove down together and scouted the beach
And noticed a crab on a rock within reach.
Asked Haytham, “Will that be our meal?”, as he eyed
The two muddy pincers that opened up wide,
“Another day, Haytham”, his father explained,
“For more must be learned for more to be gained.”
So westward again they flew over sea
And slowly descended till Haytham could see
The sizable quarry his father had sighted
Oblivious to the attention invited.
And then in that moment, the two eagles parted
For Haytham remained while his father departed:
His young eagle senses had grown to such heights
That all he could think of was locked in his sights.
So down Haytham swooped with both wings upturned
Immersing his talons that swiftly returned
With halibut catch so patiently earned,
Then upward he soared with the knowledge he’d learned.
There is but a Haytham in every child
With body and strength that the Fashioner styled,
We only need guide them to where they may find
What tends to the spirit and waters the mind.
To lead is to follow; to follow the blind,
You follow in silence and lead from behind.