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Friday, 1 March 2013

The Philosopher : Chapter One

He saw the children coming. But he drew water from the well and watered his mule. Then he drank straight from the bucket and washed his face. The children were soon standing in a half circle in front of him. He met their gaze, and his face creased into a broad smile.        
        “Are you from Azlu?” he said suddenly, glancing back at his mule.   
       All the children raised their eyebrows.      
       “I am hungry. Are you from Azlu?” he said again.     
       The children looked at each other and exchanged smiles.         
      “Who does that vineyard belong to?” he said, plunging his hand deep in his pockets, from which he took out a handful of coins.     
      The children beamed at the sight of the coins.       
     “Who can bring me grapes from that vineyard?” he said, jingling the coins in his hand. “I am hungry!”     
      “Tell us who you are and we’ll bring you grapes,” said one of the children.       
     “I am a hungry man,” said the man. The children burst out laughing as he went on, “My father is my mouth and my mother is my stomach.”        
      “And your children?” said another child, whose eyes were still riveted on the coins.       
      “All Azlu children are my children!” said the man. 
      “That’s why I am giving you this. Here!”        
      The children held out their hands as the man pressed a coin in each hand. 
     “Now, let’s sit down!” he said. And all the children sat down at once as if they had been told by their own fathers.        
     “I said I’m hungry,” the man said. “You haven’t brought me grapes, so I’ll start eating your hands!”        
     The children laughed again, but one of them sprang up and charged towards the vineyard. A moment later, he was back, holding a goodly bunch of grapes in both hands. 
     “Here!” he said to the man, who snatched the grapes and started eating them with great zest. “You know,” he said, chewing. “I’ve gone so many places, but when I saw Azlu, I said to myself there’s no prettier place under the sun.”        
       “Are you from Azlu?” said one child in a hesitant voice.     
      “What do you think?” replied the man, betrayed by the hot blush that spread up into his face.          "I have never seen you,” said the child. “But you speak like us.”       
      “I do speak like you,” replied the man, “but I’m not dressed liked you, am I? You are wearing white jellabas; I am wearing a yellow turban and a sky-blue gown and white slippers.”        
      “Yes,” said another child. “And you have a thick beard and a shaven moustache.”   “And you are a hungry man,” said a third child.     
       “So I look strange, don’t I?” said the man, handing the remainder of the grapes to one of the children.     
       The children nodded, and some of them chuckled. The man, whose eyes had been roving from face to face, as if looking for something, suddenly fixed his eyes on one of the children and asked him:  “What’s your name, boy?”    
        “My name is Hussein,” said the child bashfully.      
        “Who is your father?”      
        “My father is H’mad Amgoon.”      
       The man was startled. He looked as if he had come upon something he had been looking for. Amazed, the children just looked on as he suddenly sighed and said in a rather tremulous voice:              “Tell me, Hussein, do you know me?”        
        “No, sir.”        
        “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”         
        “Yes, sir.”        
        “Tell me their names!”         
        “Ahmed, Brahim, Hassan, Yezza and Fatma.”         
        “That’s all?”       
        The children let out a timid chuckle, but Hussein then said:       
        “I also have another brother who is absent.”        
        “Where has he gone?”        
        “I don’t know. I have never seen him.”        
        “What’s his name?”       
    A sudden smile illuminated the man’s face. And all the children listened in wide-eyed amazement as the man said, almost tearfully:       
        “I am your brother Muhammad!”        
        Hussein looked incredulous, though.       
        “Really?” he said with a blush. 
        “My brother Muhammad has got a nickname. Do you have a nickname?”       
        “Yes. My nickname is 'The Philosopher'.      
       Hardly had Muhammad uttered those words when Hussein sprang to his feet and broke into a run in the direction of his home, shouting:    
       “The Philosopher’s back! The Philosopher’s back!”      
     And in no time the whole village –men and women and children– emerged from behind the nearest houses and surged forward, with the little children chanting: “The Philosopher’s back! The Philosopher’s back!” Muhammad let himself go as he embraced his tearful relatives one by one. He even sobbed when his weeping father took him in his arms.      
      And they led him back home as they would lead a bride to her new home. His father’s house was larger than the local mosque, but there just was not enough room for all the people who came to give their best wishes for Muhammad’s return. Muhammad was then seated among the most important village men in the most beautiful room in his father’s home.        
       And he answered question after question even before tea was served.     
       “Where have you been all this time?” was one question.       
      “I was everywhere and nowhere,” was Muhammad’s answer.       
     “Didn’t I tell you?” said the first speaker, looking around the crowded room. “This man can’t give clear answers. That’s why Sheik Himi called him ‘The Philosopher’. He really is a philosopher, isn’t he? But–” He turned back to Muhammad and said, “tell us, Philosopher, what did you bring with you after all these years of absence?”       
     “Everything and nothing,” said Muhammad, without any note of malice in his voice.      
     “We understand ‘nothing’,” said the same speaker amid the audience’s laughter, “but what do you mean by ‘everything’?”                                    
      “I can show you ‘nothing’ by letting you look into my pockets and my bag, because you’ll find nothing in my pockets or in my bag; but I can’t show you ‘everything’, because everything is in my mind, and my mind is in my head, and I have only one head, so I can’t cut or break my head just for the sake of showing you that ‘everything’ is in my head indeed!”      
     “Please! Please!” said another speaker. “Let him be! He is free. If he has everything, that’s what we wish for him; if he has nothing, that’s his own problem. Now let’s drop the subject!”
       Muhammad glanced at his father and sighed. He knew from his father’s glum face that he was not happy. So he just hung his head and prayed within himself. Soon after, the first dishes began to be set on the low tables at the men’s feet. Muhammad looked at the dish in front of him and wondered when he had last eaten such thing: chicken with rice and raisins. He sat close to the table and began eating in silence, trying his best not to comment on what the men around him were saying.         

       As evening fell, the last visitors left, and so Muhammad found himself sitting alone in this large room. He could not leave the room. He felt ashamed. He knew that only his mother and two sisters and some little children –who most probably were his nephews and nieces– were in the adjoining rooms. He could hear their voices. But he could not go and sit with them. He dreaded embarrassing questions. So he just stayed with eyes riveted on the door and waited to see whether anyone would come to him and sit with him and talk to him. He waited and waited, while the noise of the few women and their children went on unabated in the rooms around. And suddenly a young woman of twenty appeared fleetingly at the door and flashed him a look of wonder. As if struck by lightening, Muhammad shuddered at the young woman’s look. A moment later, his sister came in smiling and said:      
     “Muhammad, why are you sitting there alone? Come! Come and sit with us!”    
   But Muhammad was too weak to stand on his feet. He opened his lips as if to speak, but remained silent.       
    “Oh, what’s the matter?” his sister grinned.     
    “I–I–I am sorry,” he said at length, “a young woman didn’t know I was here and she looked in and saw me. I’m sorry.”       
   “Don’t worry!” said his sister with a yapping laugh. “That’s only Itto, my aunt Khadija’s daughter. She told me. Don’t worry about that. Come! Come and sit with us.”       
     Muhammad struggled to his feet and followed his sister out of the room. She led him into a much smaller room, and she had almost to guide him like a blind man when he stumbled over the doorsill. His mother and sisters and three other women laughed quietly as they saw his eyes glued to the young woman in orange and green. He could hardly take his eyes off her when his mother called to him to sit by her side. And as he sat down, his mother said:      
      “I thought you would never be back. You were only twenty-four when you left us. Now you are getting on for thirty-nine. Your younger brothers have all got married. Even Hassan, whom you left as a child, got married three months ago. Only Hussein is not married yet, because he’s still too young. Look! Those are the wives of your brothers. And your sisters too are married now, and they have children… Now, tell us something about you. Where have you been? What have you been doing with yourself? Tell us, we are eager to hear from you!”     
     “What shall I tell you, Mother?” said Muhammad in a quavering voice. “You know, I was always keen on learning. I felt as if I were ill. Or mad, if you will. And I felt that the only way I could cure myself was through learning. So I learned everything I could learn here, and when I had nothing more to learn here, I went away, like a madman. I went from place to place looking for knowledge. I went after knowledge wherever I thought I could find it. I was always hungry for more and more knowledge. And day by day, month by month, year after year, I found myself going farther and farther away.”     
        “And where did your journey end?” said Yezza with a mocking smile.  
      Muhammad looked at her tenderly and said:      
     “My journey ended when I could go no further. I missed you. I missed the village. I missed its people. I missed my mother’s rice. I missed you all. And recently a friend of mine, who liked me so much, wanted to give me his daughter in marriage. And when I was about to say yes, because I liked that friend, and I knew that his daughter was young and beautiful and virgin when I was about to accept his offer, I realized that Mother would be very cross with me if I married a girl from outside of the village. So, one day, I rose very early in the morning and I left that place without my friend knowing. And here I am now again.”         
    “But you have come back empty-handed, I see,” said Yezza. “How can you marry while you have no money?”    
      Muhammad just hung his head in shame and fell silent.   
      “Have you said your prayers?” asked his mother.   
      “No,” he replied with a blush, rising to go out.     
      And he shuffled out of the room. As he got outside, he cast his eyes up and saw the three-day-old crescent standing alone on one corner of the sky, south of the village. He sighed, and cursed Satan. But Itto’s face would not leave his mind. Her dark eyes and eyebrows and little red mouth were there: inside his mind, before his eyes, and they were becoming clearer and clearer the longer he went into the darkness. They forced him to think of her.     
     Here was the mosque. Six men were lounging by its door. They were chatting, but now that Muhammad said peace be with you they all fell silent. Muhammad went into the mosque and found one man sitting in a corner and reading the Koran. Muhammad greeted him and started his prayers. And as he was praying, he found himself thinking of Itto still. Itto’s face would just not leave his mind.     
     He finished his prayers and went back to his father’s home. He asked his sister Yezza for a place to sleep. She told him to sleep on the carpet in the guest-room, the very room where he had first seen Itto’s dark eyes and eyebrows. He went in there and lay on his side and tried to sleep. But sleep would just not come.     
       In the morning, Muhammad was sitting with legs crossed when Yezza kicked the door open and came in holding a tray in both hands.    
       “Here’s your breakfast,” she said with a little smile.      
       As she put down the tray on the carpet and began to go out, Muhammad hailed her in a shaky voice:       
      Yezza stopped and turned round.       
     “Yes?” she said.   
     “Come closer, please. I want to talk to you.”       
     Yezza sat down in front of him and said:       
     “Here I am! What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”       
     “Is Itto married?”        
     “Itto? Why?”        
     “Is she married?”        
    “She isn’t. But why are you asking me about her?”        
    “I want to marry her– that’s why.”        
     “What! Are you crazy? Maybe you don’t know that Itto is the most beautiful girl anyone has ever seen anywhere. Men have come from miles and miles away and offered her father gold and silver and pearls and camels and all sorts of wealth and yet he has refused to give her to any of them. Maybe you don’t know that any man from this village who dared to voice his wish for her hand would immediately be turned into the village idiot. Itto is a woman only a fool would dream of. And tell me, suppose her father were willing to give her to you, what would you give her as a dowry?”       
       “My mule, that’s all I have!”     
       Yezza broke into derisive laughter. Then she said, rising to go:       
       “I thought you were serious. Have a nice breakfast!”      
       As soon as he had had breakfast, his mother came in and said:      
      “Good morning! All the village men have gone to market, why haven’t you?”   
      “I shall go to market next week, Insha Allah.”   
     “Alright. But please don’t leave this room until the men have come back from market! Don’t get us into trouble with the village girls!”       
     “I can’t stay here in this room!”         
      “Go to the backyard, then!”        
      And he went to the backyard and sat on a bale of straw and leant against the trunk of an olive-tree and faced the plain rolling down to the wadi. Soon he pictured himself leaving the house with Itto walking at his side, with her orange robe fluttering in the slight wind– walking slowly and talking in whispers as they went down to the wadi, and then making their way through that thick line of reed that almost hid the wadibed…      

          He remained there musing about his Itto, until his younger brother Hussein came to him and said that there was a man outside asking for him.       
        “Go and ask Mother if I could go outside and meet the man,” said Muhammad, rising to his feet.        
          Hussein disappeared for a moment and then came back with his mother’s answer.         
         “She says you can meet with him in the guest-room,” he said.         
      Muhammad did not know the visitor, but he instantly knew that he was from somewhere nearby, because he spoke the same Berber and he was wearing a white jellaba.       
        “I just came to ask you whether you have any knowledge of Arithmetic,” said the visitor, sitting down close to Muhammad in the guest-room. “I was at the market this morning and I heard about you, and I was desperately looking for someone to teach me basic Arithmetic.”         
         “Why do you want to learn Arithmetic?” said Muhammad.       
       “Well, to be honest with you, I have heard of an interesting job, and I can’t get that job if I don’t know Arithmetic.”         
         “Is it a job offered by a ruler?”         
        “Yes, if you wish,” said the visitor hesitantly.      
        “Where do you live?”         
        “I live in Tushki.”       
       “That’s not very far from here. But how much will you pay me?”        
       “Well, as I said, I only need to learn basic Arithmetic. And I am under pressure of time. All my efforts will have been in vain if I don’t get the job within two weeks. So I will only need you for two weeks.”         
          “Alright! But still how much will you pay me?”       
          “I’ll give you five dirhams a day and a chicken per week, as a bonus.”         
         “Done!” said Muhammad with a smile.        
          The visitor smiled blissfully and rose to go.      
     “I shall come to you as soon as the village men have come back from market,” said Muhammad in a satisfied voice.        
        “See you then!”         
        “Wait! Before you go remind me of your name…”     
        Muhammad showed his visitor out, and as he turned round and stepped back into the house his mother hailed him from a little way to his right, and when he stood in front of her, she said:           
        “Who was that man and what did he want?”       
        “That was a man from Tushki. He wanted me to teach him how to do calculations so that he could get a job, as he said.”         
        “How much will he pay you?”         
        “Five dirhams a day, plus a chicken per week, he said.”         
        “And you’ll take the job?”         
       “Why not?”       
     “Alright! You can go to him, but, take it from me, don’t tell your brothers about your pay, otherwise they’ll hold you up to ridicule!”         
       Muhammad smiled shyly, and moved on to the backyard. And there he stayed, thinking and dreaming, until his father and brothers came back from market. Then he joined them in the dining-room and greeted them with peace be with you and sat by his father’s side. His father smiled at him a forced smile, and said:          
         “Are you still tired?”          
         “I am fine, Father.”      
       “Tell me, Father,” said Hassan, one of Muhammad’s siblings. “Are you really going to sell the camel to H’ssein?”         
        “I’m still thinking about it,” his father began. “I’ve heard that–”              
         At that moment, Yezza brought in a dish of fish and set it on the table, saying:        
        “Now eat and talk afterwards!”      
         Muhammad moved close to the table and began eating in silence, while his father and brother resumed their talk about the camel.    
       Immediately after lunch, Muhammad rose and left the dining-room. He performed his ablutions in the backyard and then said his prayers in the guest-room and went out. He knew that Itto’s home was to the east and Tushki was to the southwest, but he did not know what way to take. He led his mule out of the stable and walked a short way as slowly as he could, just to make up his mind. In the end, he mounted the mule and headed southwest, to Tushki. The sun was in his eyes. The children who had first seen him the previous day waved to him now as he rode past the vineyard. The grapes in the vineyard were dark purple, almost the colour of Itto’s eyes. Those eyes were leading him now. They were teaching him new things; they were opening up a whole new world before him. But Itto herself was there: back, behind him, hidden from him– waiting for a ‘fool’ to take her away from her father…     
         These thoughts accompanied Muhammad all the way to Tushki. The man who wanted him was waiting for him in the doorway of his home. He greeted him with the warmest words and took his mule into the stable and came back to conduct him into a large room carpeted with a black-and-orange carpet. Tea was already there, and also cakes and almonds. And so Muhammad sat down and began his first lesson.     
        The birds were flying back to their nests and night was beginning to fall hen Muhammad’s mule headed back to Azlu, the village where Itto would soon go to sleep.     
         Would she think of him when she went to sleep? And why him? Didn’t she know anyone before him? They had seen each other only twice, twice on the same day. And then she was gone. Why had she stayed late that day? Why she of all other women?…     
       These thoughts accompanied Muhammad all the way back to Azlu.     
      Not a single human figure was around when he entered Azlu. Only a few late-roosting birds squealed overhead and a few roaming dogs barked here and there.     
         Muhammad’s family were asleep. And none of them rose when the chained dog by the front door shook the night with its wild barks. The door was closed. Muhammad did not dare open it, not from fear; but simply, he did not want to disturb anybody. He tied up his mule to a tree and took down the saddle and propped it up against the trunk of another tree and sat down on it. He looked up at the luminous crescent, then east– towards Itto’s home.      
        And there he stayed until dawn, when he rose and headed for the mosque. “Oh, if only the mosque was near her home!” he thought sadly.      
         On his return from mosque, Muhammad found his father sitting under one of the trees in front of the house. He greeted him politely and squatted by his side, and said:       
         “Father, I am free all morning. If you need me for any work in the fields, I can help you.”        
       “No, my son,” said his father, “I don’t need your help. Don’t help me! Help yourself! That’s what I want of you. You lost so many years on nothing, my son. You wasted your youth on nothing. You’ve been leading a wasted life. Now you are almost forty, with no home, no wife, no children, no lands, no money, with nothing. How long will you live on, my son? When will you start your life? Were you happy the other day when the village men made fun of you? They were right in asking what you had brought with you after all these years of absence. Is it reasonable what you did?”         
        “Father, I want to say something.” 
        His father said nothing, but listened expectantly.         
       “I want to marry Itto. That’s what I wanted to say.”      
       “What! Do you want me to become the village idiot? Listen and listen well! I warn you! Don’t mention that name again! Or else go back where you came from!”


Copyright©2006 by Mohammed Lagouader

The Philosopher : Chapter Two

Muhammad bowed his head and sighed, then he rose to his feet and moved on to where his mule was still tied up to the tree. He untied and mounted it diffidently and rode in the direction of the wadi.        
       “Where are you going?” his father said aloud.       
      But Muhammad just rode on, trying his best to hold back his tears. He went past the mosque and nodded to the Imam, who was sitting alone by its door. And on he rode till he reached the reed, then he alighted and let his mule graze on the little yellowish grass along the reed edge. He himself walked a short way along the edge, thinking. He stopped and turned towards the mule. For a moment, his gaze came to rest on the mosque, then he looked down and walked slowly back towards the mule. And there he sat down with his back to the reed and ran his eye over the rolling landscape before him. “I can’t find a better place to live for the moment,” he thought. “I should build a small home here. But where exactly?” He stood up and began to walk back and forth, passing the mule in each trip. Then he stopped and faced Itto’s home, which he could hardly see from there. He stayed standing up there until he felt tired. Then he shuffled up to the mule and pulled it gently towards a palm-tree, to which he tied it up. Then he moved a little way from the tree and lay on his back on a sandy spot. But it was not long before he rose, because the sun was becoming too painful for his face to bear. He untied his mule and dragged it along towards the mosque. As he approached the northern side of the mosque, the Imam rose and faced him.           
          “You look a little bit nervous,” the  Imam said. “What’s the matter with you?”        
          “I just wanted to sit with you awhile,” Muhammad panted.      
          “Oh, you’re welcome! Tie the beast up to that tree and come to sit by me.”      
          And they sat side by side with their backs against the wall.        
         “It’s hot, isn’t it?” Muhammad began.        
         “Yes, it is.”      
        “Tell me, Sheikh, when I came back I found out that many children had been born during my absence. I wonder whether anybody from the village has passed away since I left fourteen or fifteen years ago?”        
        “Yes, a handful of them,” the Imam sighed.        
        “Who?” Muhammad gasped.      
       The Imam named the dead in chronological order, and Muhammad held his breath up to the last name. And he could not help heaving a sigh of relief when the name he feared to hear was not among those enumerated by the Imam.      
       “To be honest with you,” he said at length, “I wanted to ask you about Dami.”        
        “Dami? Why?”      
       “Well, I know that she was about your age now when I left. So she must be old today. And I know that she was a childless widow, and she was a good woman, and she had a few plots of land and animals also. I was going to ask you about her because, honestly, I would like to have a small home of my own; but, as you see, I’m short of money, and I need a small spot to build a small shack on. I was there by the reed edge, and I thought of building a shack with pieces of that reed. But the problem is that I need a place. That’s why I thought of Dami.”     
      “I can now understand why you thought of Dami. You’re right in saying that she’s a good woman and she can help you. But why don’t you stay with your family? Your father’s home is one of the largest in the village!”      “I know. I know. But I don’t feel comfortable living under their roof. I would prefer a shack of my own close to the wadi. So, please, if you can, come along with me to Dami’s home to see whether she can give me a place to build my shack on, at least for one month or to, and, in return, I’ll be at her service. I’ll help her as much as I can with the field work and so on. Will you please come with me?       
      And they left the mule by the mosque and walked slowly to Dami’s. Dami lived next door to Itto. Only a field stood between the two homes. But Itto was nowhere to be seen when Muhammad and the Imam stood at Dami’s door.        
      It was the Imam who knocked. Dami, a tall woman in her late sixties, came out to open the door.       
      “Welcome!” she said. “Come in!”     
      “Thanks!” replied the Imam, without stirring from his place. “We won’t bother you much. We only came to you because this man, Muhammad Bin H’mad Amgoon, has got a problem and he needs your help.”        
       “Right! But come in!”       
      Muhammad and the Imam followed her across the small courtyard into a large room with a thatched roof.        
       “Now, what’s the problem?” said Dami, sitting down on the blue carpet.        
       “The problem,” said the Imam, “is that Muhammad wants to build a small reed shack close to the wadi, but he can’t afford a plot of ground to build the shack on.”       
       “Why do you want to have a shack by the wadi?” said Dami, looking at Muhammad. “Do you want to live with the djinns?”       
        “Oh, no, Mum!” said Muhammad with a smile. “I’m no less afraid of the djinns than you are. I only wish to be alone for some time. I came back only a few days ago, and I’ve found it quite difficult to get along with the village people. I need to be alone for some time.”       
        “Alright. Don’t worry! I’ll give you a plot of ground very close to the reed and not far from the mosque. But who will build the shack for you?”         
        “I’ll try to do it all by myself, or perhaps with the help of the Imam.”         
       “Right. That’s a good idea. If the Imam helps you I’ll pay him. Is there any other problem?” 
       “No,” said the Imam, who looked delighted with Dami’s offer. “That’s the only problem.”          
      “Yes, Mum!” said Muhammad happily. “That’s the only problem. And I’ll never forget your help!” 
         Dami smiled at him, and said:      
       “Now go and come back at lunchtime. You and the Imam will lunch with us. My adopted son, who is now out in the pastures, will lunch with you.”    
         “Thanks!” said Muhammad and the Imam in unison.       
        At midday, the Imam –who was also the muezzin– called to prayer. But nobody answered his call. “They only come for dusk prayers, when they have finished all their work,” he commented, waving to Muhammad to join him in prayer.       
        Immediately after midday prayers, Muhammad untied his mule and dragged it along, while the Imam walked at his side towards Dami’s home.       
        “Where’s the saddle?” the Imam asked as they started off.       
        “I left it at home.”       
        “And why are you bringing the mule with you– we’re only going to Dami’s?”      
       “I’ll go from there to Tushki. A man is waiting for me there…”  
        Dami, too, saw the mule and asked:        
        “Why did you bring the mule?”      
        “I need it, because after lunch I’m going to Tushki.”        
       “What do you have to do in Tushki?”      
        “Well, a Tushki man has hired me to teach him how to make calculations.”       
       “Really?” said Dami with a smile. “Can you then teach my son?”         
        “Of course, I can!”       
       “I’m pleased to hear that! Now let your mule graze over there and come in. You too, Sheikh! Come in! You’re welcome!”        
        As Muhammad, the Imam and Dami’s son began eating, Dami suddenly emerged from a side room and came towards them, smiling. She sat down close to Muhammad and said, holding out her hand to pick a grain of olive from the dish:      
        “Muhammad, I just came to see what you would be teaching my son. Will you please teach him something now, just for me to see?”      
        “Alright, Mum!” replied Muhammad affably. Then he looked at the boy and said, “How old are you, Issa?” 
        “Twelve,” said Issa timidly.       
        “Who told you?”       
        “My mother told me.”       
        “When were you born?”      
         “I don’t know.”     
         “Say: I was born twelve years ago,” Dami put in, looking gently at the boy.    
        “I was born twelve years ago,” Issa repeated after his mother.     
        “Now, Issa, suppose you had a cow that gives birth to a new calf every other year, how many calves would she give you in twelve years?”    
        Issa stopped eating and started counting within himself, using his fingers.     
      “Five. No– six,” he said at length.     
       “Good! Very good!” Muhammad exclaimed happily.     
       Dami smiled a merry smile, and said:       
     “I think he can learn. I’ll give him one dirham a day as long as he learns well. But tell me, Muhammad, you said you had that man in Tushki to teach, when will you be teaching my son then?”      
      “I’m free all morning, Mum; I’ll meet Issa every morning when he’s out with the herd in the pasture. Or maybe we could meet up at the mosque?”      
        “I think it’s better to meet up with him in the pasture. Please see to it that he learns well!” 
        “Don’t worry, Mum! I’ll do my best!”    
        After lunch, Muhammad took his mule and set out for Tushki. He took the path that ran only a few yards from Itto’s home. He glanced through the first, then the second window, but nothing was there to be seen. Neither Itto nor anyone from her family. All he could see was her white abode, with its tall trees and cackling chickens and silent dog.     
        And on he rode, under a blazing sun. As he neared Tushki, a light wind began blowing from the west, and from there, too, light clouds began sailing across the sky.      
        Muhammad was happy to dine with his client in Tushki, but he politely declined the invitation to spend the night there. So he took his mule and rode back to Azlu. He knew he had no home to spend the night in Azlu. But he could not spend the night anywhere but in Azlu.      
        And again he rode along a path from which he could see Itto’s home, looking dark– although the crescent above was luminous. So he rode on and on till he got to the reed edge. And there he tied up the mule to a palm-tree and looked for a spot to sleep.        
       At dawn, he was at mosque. The Imam, too, was there. And no one else joined them for dawn prayers. Nobody was stirring yet when Muhammad and the Imam walked down to the reed edge with the Imam carrying in a reed basket the knives, the saws and a can of milk. As they went past the plot of ground which Dami had given Muhammad, and which stood between the reed and the village graveyard, the Imam said, “I don’t think it’s a good place for you.” “I think it is indeed,” was Muhammad’s reply.        
        The sun was out when Issa appeared through the swaying reed, holding a small reed basket in one hand. Muhammad dropped the reeds he was cutting down and walked slowly up to Issa, who greeted him and handed him the basket, saying:       
      “My mother has sent you these grapes for breakfast, and she invites you and the Imam to lunch today.”   
       “Thanks! But where did you leave the animals?”     
       “My mother is looking after them; I’m going back now.”       
       “Alright! Thanks a lot. Tell your mother we’re coming for lunch.”       
     At lunchtime Muhammad and the Imam performed midday prayers at the mosque and then went to lunch at Dami’s. After lunch, the Imam returned to the wadi to continue work on the reed, while Muhammad set out for Tushki, taking the path from which he could glance into Itto’s home. Again, as he neared Tushki, a light wind began blowing from the west and light clouds began to appear across the sky.      
       The next day the light wind and clouds did not wait until the afternoon. They lasted all morning while Muhammad and the Imam were busy constructing the shack.     
        But when Muhammad and the Imam were heading for Dami’s for lunch, the sky was clear and the light wind was gone and it was getting increasingly hot.    
        While they were eating, Dami came to them and said, looking gently at Muhammad:     
      “Here are two blankets for you, Muhammad. They are a bit old, but they can do you well, I hope.”   
        “Oh, thanks, Mum!” Muhammad replied almost tearfully.    
       On the way back from Tushki, the wind was strong– so strong that the mule could hardly move on. And the sky was dark, with no crescent, no star. And yet, when he was entering Azlu, Muhammad could not but take the nearest path to Itto’s home. He saw her abode, and rode on to his shack.     
        The strong wind moaned round the shack all night, and so Muhammad could not sleep.     
       In the morning there was yet another problem, this time with the sun. On his way to the pasture where he was due to meet up with Issa, Muhammad saw three adults and five youngsters, and they were all blinking and sweating. He himself was sweating like a bull when he sat by Issa’s side on a sandy spot under an argan-tree. Muhammad was there to give his first lesson to Issa, and also to have a chance to look more closely at Itto’s home.  
       Despite the stifling heat, he stayed out there until lunchtime, but Itto was nowhere to be seen. He saw her father, he saw her mother, he saw her brother, but not her.        
       Even when he took his mule and set out for Tushki and went past her home, he did not see her.     
      “Enough’s enough!” he yelled at himself when he was back to his shack late at night. “It’s enough to drive you crazy! I left this land to learn more about the world, about life and about God. But now I look as though I don’t know anything at all!”       
       Sleep carried him away for a few hours, then he stirred and sat up. And he started thinking. He thought and sighed and thought and sighed until he suddenly burst out, “Do I love God or do I love Itto? I just want to know!”       
      The morning found him sitting again with Issa in a pasture not far from Itto’s home. He talked and Issa listened to him closely. But then Issa suddenly said:     
     “Why do you always sit like this, facing that home, and each time you look up over there you sigh? Why?”     
      “I like sitting this way,” said Muhammad with a blush.    
      Issa looked at him incredulously, but remained silent. Muhammad took a rather long look at the boy, then said in a hesitant tone:        
        “What’s special about that home, Issa?”        
        “A young woman lives in there,” Issa grinned.        
        “And what’s special about this young woman?”        
        “They say she’s very beautiful!”        
        “Who told you?”        
        “I heard some boys talk about her.”        
        “Have you ever seen her yourself?”        
         “She’s a neighbour of yours, though?”        
         “She appears to women only.”      
         “Alright! Now that you’ve told me all this, Issa, I think I should be sitting like this!”       
         And he turned his back on Itto’s home, which made the boy let out a loud laugh.     

         Both the Imam and Muhammad looked curiously at the man who had joined them in prayer.       
        “I am from Souss,” the young man explained in standard Berber.        
        “You’re welcome,” said the Imam.        
        “Thank you,” said the Soussi man.   
         “What took you to this land?” said Muhammad.  
        “Well, that’s a funny story!” the Soussi man replied with a smile.       
        “Let’s go out and then tell us your story,” said Muhammad.      

        All three sat down in something of a triangle on the northern side of the mosque. Then the Soussi began his story:   
        “Yesterday morning, I was waiting my turn in the barbershop at the market when you (he pointed at Muhammad) came and sat in front of me. I don’t think you remember me because you didn’t look at me in the first place. And that’s the first thing that struck me about you. Then I noticed that all those who were in the shop had something or other to say. Only you and I did not speak. If I didn’t speak, that was because I don’t quite master this land’s dialect. But I was amazed at the way you were sitting up there, silent and motionless as a dead body, sitting with downcast eyes, and waiting your turn patiently. I also noticed that you were dressed in a sky-blue gown, while all the others, including myself, were in jellabas. And as I was waiting, it occurred to me to give up my turn to you. And that’s what I did, but even then you didn’t look up at me. You only said thank you as you rose from your chair. At first I didn’t know why I did that, but then my surprise was great when I heard you say to the barber, “My moustache only.” At that moment, I made up my mind to leave the shop and lurk somewhere nearby to see where you would go and what you’d do next. My heart leapt when I saw you leave the barbershop. And then I followed you. You went to buy this jellaba you’re wearing now.”    
           “And then?” said Muhammad with a smile.      
        “And then I followed you as you left the market and walked rather quickly back to your shack. I stopped a good way from your shack and hid in the reed and waited to see what you would do next.”         
        “This is a really funny story!” said the Imam, looking once at Muhammad then back at the Soussi.        
         “Go on!” said Muhammad.      
       “Yes, and then I kept hiding and watching until you left your shack for the mosque. I didn’t want to join you then, because I wanted to know more about you. But then you came back to the shack only to take the mule and ride away. And I decided to stay in my hiding place until you returned. And during your absence I took my own mule to a place down the valley, and then I went up and picked my way through the reed, trying not to leave any tracks. Then I stood as close to your shack as I could; the door was open and I could see through it; and once again I was just as amazed at your shack as at you personally. I wondered why you had chosen to have that small shack out there. And I wondered why you had gone to the market on foot while you had a mule! And I said to myself that you must be either a fool or a good scholar. So I decided to wait and see, saying to myself, “If he’s a fool, I’ll leave him right away; if he’s a scholar, I’ll stay with him a day or two to learn something from him and then continue on my way.”       
          “Where were you going,” said the Imam curiously. 
         “Let him finish!” said Muhammad gently.    
        “Yes, and I waited and waited until you returned in the middle of the night. At that time I was shivering with cold, and I was horrified at the thought of being stung by a scorpion or bitten by a snake, and so I was about to come to you, but then I checked myself and decided to stay out there and wait until the morning.”     
        “Oh!” Muhammad exclaimed thoughtfully, bending forward and taking the Soussi in his arms.     
         Then both stood up and shook hands. Then Muhammad said:      
       “You wanted to know whether I’m a fool or a scholar, is that right? Well, believe it or not, I myself don’t know whether I’m a fool or a scholar. It’s you who’ll tell me what I am! But tell me, where were you going?”      
        “Well, I am a student. I was studying in schools in Fez. And I was going back home. I’m from Souss, as I said.”      
         “Great! What’s your name, brother?”      
         “My name is Hassan Tikiwin, and you?”      
        “And I am Muhammad Amgoon. You’re welcome, Hassan! But I’m sorry to say that I may not be able to stay with you all day. You know, I have a small boy to teach in the morning and an adult man to teach in the afternoon.”       
         “What do you teach the boy?” said Hassan impatiently.       
         “I teach him how to make simple calculations.”     
       “Alright! Leave that to me! You and I stay together in the morning, right? And when you leave, I’ll stay with the boy all afternoon. Would that suit you?”     
         “Let’s go and ask the boy first!” replied Muhammad with a broad smile.      
         And as they started off, Muhammad said:     
         “How old are you, Hassan?”     
         “I am twenty-four years old.”     
         “Are you married?”     
         “Why not?”     
         “If fact, I was going back home to get married and start my life as a teacher in one of the few Quranic  schools near home.”     
          “Who’s going to be your wife?”      
          “I don’t know, really. My mother will choose one for me.”      
          “When did you leave Fez?”      
          “About four months ago.”     
          “How long did you stay there?”     
          “I stayed there for about four years.”     
          “What did you study there?”     
          “Such as?”     
        “Well, I studied the Quran, the Haddith, the Tafsir, the Arabic language, History, Arithmetic– everything!”       
          “And what about you?” said Hassan hesitantly.       
           Muhammad sighed, and said:       
           “I too was in Fez. I too studied the things you mentioned.”       
          “Are you married?”       
         “How old are you?”       
         “I am almost thirty-nine years old.”       
         “Were you married in the past?”       
         “No, never.”       
         “Have you been here for a long time?”       
         “No. I came back only ten days ago.”       
         “From Fez, you mean?”       
          “No, from a place called Tamassna, do you know?”       
          “Yes, I have heard about it.”       
        “In fact, I didn’t come straight over here. I went further south to Ighmizen, where I spent more than six months. I left Ighmizen a little more than two months ago. Now, tell me, Hassan. You said you were going back home to marry and teach. What would you like to teach?”        
         “The same things I was taught!”        
         “So why did you stop here and wished to meet me?”        
          “I wanted to learn something from you.”        
          “Such as?”        
         “And what if I said I’m sorry I don’t have anything more to teach you than what you know already?”          
          “What do you mean?”          
           “Well, I have no books with me.”        
         “Maybe you don’t have them on paper, but you certainly have books in your mind, don’t you? You have certainly memorized things from the time you were in Fez or anywhere else, haven’t you?”          
           “Yes, I have. But the thing is that I hate to recite books.”          
           “What do you mean?”        
          “What I mean is this: I can discuss with you, but I can’t teach you.”          
          “Alright! Let’s have a discussion!”          
           “Not before we ask the boy! Hey, Issa!”         
          They talked to Issa, and walked back towards the shack. And they talked as they went along.         
           “Let me ask you one question, Muhammad. Why did you choose to live in that small shack? Don’t you belong to this village?”           
             “I am from the village. My family lives over there.”           
            “So why do you live in a shack?”           
             Muhammad laughed, then said:       
         “Tell me, Hassan, when you go to sleep, and you fall asleep, and start dreaming, do you know where you are sleeping? Suppose you were sleeping in a nice bed in a nice room in that nice house over there, and then someone came and moved your bed, without awakening you, and placed it gently in my shack, would you then feel any difference, before you woke?”         
         “Well, I don’t think I would,” said Hassan with a little smile. “But the problem is that you don’t have a nice bed in your shack, do you?”         
          Muhammad laughed again, and gripped Hassan’s arm, and said:                
       “Let’s stop awhile! Look here: imagine yourself in love with a young woman living in that house over there; imagine that the only time you could see your beloved is just after dawn, but still you can’t meet her or talk to her or even wave to her from a place as far as this; what would you do?”       
          “I would most probably come before dawn and sit somewhere around here and wait for her to show up.”         
         “Would you then bring with you a nice bed or armchair and ensconce yourself comfortably while you’re waiting?”           
           “Oh, no!” Hassan laughed.         
         “Suppose you had to do that––I mean, to come and sit down here, and wait––everyday, every week, every month– would you complain about that?”          
         “I might complain, but I would just have to grin and bear it.”          
         “For whose sake would you bear all that suffering?”          
         “For my beloved’s sake, of course!”        
         “So what if I chose to live in a mean shack and sleep on a rugged floor and bear my suffering patiently for the sake of He Who made me?”        
         Hassan kept quiet for a moment, then burst out:          
        “But why should you suffer while you can be better off?”      
        “I was longing to see my family again,” Muhammad sighed. “And, like you, I came back here in the hope of getting married with a woman from the village. I didn’t want to marry a woman unknown to my family, because I didn’t want to displease my mother. But on my return, my family were unhappy, because I had no money on me. I asked them to help me marry a young woman from the village, but they refused on the grounds that I had no money.”               
         Hassan looked curiously at Muhammad, then said:       
        “Then, why did you stay here? Why didn’t you go to another place where you could marry? I know that many men have got married even though they had no money?”         
           Muhammad sighed, then looked back at Hassan, and said with a sad smile:         
         “I wish I could!”         
          “What’s stopping you?”         
         Muhammad sighed once again, and said:         
          “Are you in love?”         
          Hassan gaped, and then fell silent.


Copyright©2006 by Mohammed Lagouader


Photo  2006


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The Philosopher : Chapter Three

It was getting increasingly hot as the morning wore on, but Muhammad and Hassan went on walking and talking until they reached the place where Hassan had left his mule on Saturday. The mule was tied up to a shrub. As Hassan squatted down to untie it, he said, pointing to the dry pebbles to his right:       
      “You know what? Three years ago, I remember, I was coming by here and I found the wadi swollen by rain, and I had to wait a solid month on the other bank before I could cross over to this side and continue on my way back home.”        
       “Yes, that happens sometimes,” said Muhammad, looking about.        
       “So you may have to move soon!” said Hassan, rising to his feet.        
      “It depends. Anyway, this is just the beginning of Autumn. The sun is still painful on the body, you see. In the afternoon it will be even hotter, and, by the way, you’ll have to be patient with the boy.”       
       “I’ll try! Now, let’s move!”      
      They went back to the shack, and there they stayed, talking about everything and nothing, until they heard the muezzin’s call. Then Muhammad took his mule and waved to Hassan to walk at his side up to the mosque.       
        The Imam met them on the northern side of the mosque.        
        “Will you do me a favour, Sheïkh?” said Muhammad to the Imam.       
      “I’ll do it provided you give me another chicken! By the way, the chicken you gave me last time was good!”          
        “You’ll have what you want, Sheïkh, but not now,” replied Muhammad with a smile.        
        “I was just joking,” said the Imam. “What’s the problem?”        
      “Well, you know my shack. I can’t entertain guests in it. Would you please give Hassan a home for tonight?”          
         “Gladly!” said the Imam.        
     “Thank you, Sheïkh!” said Hassan. “But I will either spend the night in your shack, Muhammad, or go.”       
         “Alright!” said Muhammad. “But you know when I come back from Tushki!”       
       “Don’t worry!” said the Imam. “Hassan will dine with me and then go and wait for you in the shack. Now, let’s pray!”        
         After the prayers, Muhammad went along with Hassan to the pasture where Issa was waiting in the shade of a tree. Hassan stayed there with the boy, and Muhammad mounted his mule and rode on. He stopped at Dami’s door. Dami came out and said she had no problem with Hassan staying with her son for that afternoon. Then she handed Muhammad a bunch of grapes and wished him good day.        
          Muhammad thanked her and moved off. He cast his eyes up to thank God as he put the first grape in his mouth. And then his heart jumped when he saw Itto’s father standing in the doorway of his home. And as Muhammad rode past that home, Itto’s father hailed him. Muhammad turned pink when Itto’s father stood in front of him.       
         “Why do you always come this way, Muhammad?” Itto’s father asked in a grave tone.          
         “That’s because I have something to do in Tushki,” Muhammad replied in a shaky voice. “And I sometimes come to Dami’s; and, as you know, this is the shortest way to Tushki.”         
         “Alright!” said Itto’s father with a sly smile. “I feared you took this path for another reason. I’ll see what happens next! Have a nice day!”       
          Muhammad tapped the mule and slipped the remainder of the grapes into his jellaba’s hood, and laid his hand on his heart.      
         “What’s the matter with you?” said the Tushki man as Muhammad alighted from the mule. “Why is your face so dark? Are you ill?”       
         “A little bit, yes,” Muhammad panted.        
         And in the course of the lesson, Muhammad hesitated and floundered and sighed and gasped for breath. And he left as soon as the lesson was over.      
         “You have always dined with us,” said the Tushki man. “What happened to you today?”                “Thanks! I’ll dine at home,” Muhammad replied, mounting the mule.        
         The sky was dark––no moon, no stars.      
        But there was light in the shack. Muhammad looked in and saw Hassan lying face downwards, sound asleep. A small lantern lay a little way from his feet. Muhammad turned round and looked down, thinking. Then he sat down just beside the door. Soon he dozed off. But only for a short while. His eyes opened and fell on a very dark space between the reeds. He kept gazing vacantly into space. Then he heard a light noise. Hassan rose and came up to the door. He looked down at Muhammad and said in a somnolent voice: 
          “You look sad tonight!” 
          Muhammad sighed, and said: 
         “Did you dine with the Imam?” 
         “Yes, I did,” said Hassan, taking a step forward  to sit  beside Muhammad. 
         Muhammad sighed and held his head in his hands and sighed again. 
         “What’s the matter?” said Hassan with a worried frown. 
         Muhammad sighed once more, and said: 
         “The Tushki man invited me to dinner and I said I would dine at home.” 
         “Are you sad because you didn’t dine or because you lied to the Tushki man?” 
         “I dined on grapes on my way back.” 
         “So you are sad because of the lie.” 
         “That’s absolutely it! I have become a liar!” 
         “You lied because you couldn’t stay in Tushki.” 
          “That’s right.” 
          “You couldn’t stay there because you wanted to come back as early as possible.” 
          “No. I came early because I couldn’t eat. Even the grapes I couldn’t finish them off.”     
          Hassan laughed, and said: 
         “I’m sorry I can’t help laughing, but what happened?” 
         This is what happened: the young woman’s father warned me against taking any path close to their home.” 
        “Now, I see! You are sad because of love, then!” 
         “Yes, I am sad, but I am happy.” 
         “What! Sad and happy? Explain!” 
         “I am sad because I can’t get what I want. I am happy because I can cope with my sadness.”           
        “Excuse me, but you’re talking like a philosopher. Would you please clarify that in my mind?” 
          Muhammad himself laughed now, then said: 
       “Well, it’s quite simple. I am sad because I can’t marry the woman I love. But despite my sadness I can laugh, I can walk, I can talk, and I can think. And when I think, I feel ashamed of myself, because I would then realize that I am thinking of someone who hasn’t given me anything. I think of the girl night and day, but she doesn’t give me anything. What about God, Who gave me life, Who gave me eyesight, Who gave me speech, Who gave me all the means to learn and think, etc, etc? The truth is that I am now thinking more of the girl than of God! Isn’t this reason enough for me to be ashamed of myself? And when I realize this and try as best I can to think of God –again– I just can’t do it. I would only find myself torn between the girl and God. I can’t help it. I wish I could forget all about the girl and think of God only, but I can’t. Every single day now I am becoming more and more aware of my contradictions. Every single day now I am learning more and more about myself. I’m becoming more and more aware of the world around me. Now, I not only see the world or hear it– I feel it. Now, I am more sensitive to beauty. Now, more than ever before, I would love to see the bright moon in the heart of a starry sky; I would love to see and hear birds twittering over my head; I would love to see water flowing in a river, with the green trees swaying gently in the wind on the banks; I would love to see trees in full blossom; I would love to see kids playing merrily on the ground around their homes; I would love to see late-roosting birds fluttering away to their nests. 
        “And again, I realize that those things are just what God wants me to pay attention to. You’ve read the Quran, haven’t you, and you know that God speaks about the earth and the skies, about the rivers and the seas, about palm-trees and grapes and olives and figs and birds and beasts, and all sorts of things. God wants us to think of those things. He wants us to think about them as a means to remind ourselves of Him. And so I find myself thinking once again of Him, although for a short while. Now, I think of God in a different way– say, in a better way. Still, I’m ashamed of myself. I know that my thoughts should go to God first. But what can I do? I am torn between God and my love.” 
        “You didn’t answer my question, though,” said Hassan in a tremulous voice.” How can you be sad and happy at the same time?” 
      “It seems you haven’t got my meaning,” Muhammad replied with a smile. “Let me put it this way. What’s my problem? My problem is that I can’t marry the one I love. Is that correct? I then ask myself: why? Well, when I think about it over and over again, I say to myself, ‘You can’t marry her because you don’t deserve her!’ But then I ask: ‘But she, does she deserve me?’” Muhammad laughed as he went on, “I know why I don’t deserve her; it’s because I think of her more than of God. And that’s what I shouldn’t be doing as a good Muslim. It’s God Who gave me everything. The girl hasn’t given me anything at all. And immediately, I start saying within myself:          
     ‘Khalaqany, razaqany, âllammany, hadany.’ ((God) made me; (God) provided me with the means of subsistence; (God) taught me; (God) showed me the right path.) 
 And as I say this again and again, my sighs cease, my heartbeat abates, and my whole body relaxes. And then I feel happy. I move from sadness to happiness. Is that now clear?” 
        Hassan, who was listening closely, lost in silent wonder, now let out a laugh and said: 
       “Yours is a really funny story!” 
       “And let me add one thing,” said Muhammad zealously. “I am not in a hurry to get married. I would suffer a great deal more if someone else came overnight and took my love away from me. As long as she is unmarried, I will do everything I possibly can to reach her. But I would never win her and lose myself. I heard people say that lovers sometimes do crazy things and some go crazy altogether. And that is scaring me. I fear I may make a crazy mistake. But then there’s something I always hold in mind. I want to live for myself, but also for others. Meanness is the worst feature of human character, and selfishness is the worst form of meanness. Mean people don’t want to suffer for others. I am just as willing to suffer for others as for my own sake. That’s why I’ll try not to make a crazy mistake!” 
      “Oh!” Hassan burst out. “I thought I had become something of a scholar; I thought I was learned enough to start teaching others. But now that I have met you, I think I should go back north to learn more.” 
        “And what about marriage?” Muhammad joked. 
        “I’ll wait like you waited!” 
         In the morning, Hassan was about to mount his mule and go when he said: 
        "Before I go, tell me, Muhammad, I've heard that someone called you 'The Philosopher'. Can you tell me why?" 
        Muhammad laughed heartily and said: 
      "It was such a long time ago! I was fourteen years old then. A man in his sixties used to go from village to village telling people what they should and what they shouldn't do according to the Quran and the Haddith, he said. He sort of issued fatwas, you know. And one day, I stood among the crowd who were asking him questions. And suddenly I waved to him and said I had a question.
       "What's your question?" he said. 
       "What do you do with the money you collect from our village?" I asked. 
       "Well," he said, "I add it to the money I collect from other villages!" 
       "And what do you do with the money you collect from all the villages?" I asked. 
       "Well," he said, "I buy the things I need to live." 
       "And why do you live?" I asked. 
       "That's enough!" he said. "You are a philosopher. May God curse all philosophers!"
       Everybody answered, "Amen!" 
      "And that's all the story!" 
      Hassan burst out laughing as he mounted his mule, and moved off. Muhammad kept watching him ride across the riverbed, then up the other bank. Soon Hassan went out of sight. Muhammad sighed. He stayed standing up there, wondering what to do. Should he go to Issa and risk a "scandal", now that Itto's father had warned him? Or should he go back to his shack and sleep?
        He went to his shack. He lay on his side. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. But then he opened his eyes. Itto was too big for his eyes to contain. Itto had filled his eyes to bursting point. That's why he opened his eyes. But Itto was not only inside his eyes. She was before his eyes, everywhere he looked. The shack was full of her. So full of her that he could not stay there any longer. He picked himself up and put on his scandals and shuffled up to the pasture where he would meet up with Issa. 
       Issa was there, waiting patiently. Muhammad sat by his side and joked with him before he began a new lesson. He talked and Issa listened, while the animals shuffled around, until someone stood just behind them. Muhammad flung up his head and saw two eyes full of hate. 
        "What are you doing here?" Itto's father said. 
        "I am teaching the boy," Muhammad replied in a broken voice. 
        "Teaching him?" Itto's father snorted. "Is this a school?" 
        Muhammad turned back to Issa and said in a low voice: 
        "Issa, please tell your mother I can't meet up with you here any longer." 
        Issa just watched in silence as Muhammad struggled to his feet and trudged away back to his shack. 
         At siesta-time, Muhammad mounted his mule and set out for Tushki, taking the farthest path possible from Itto's home. 
        He dined with the Tushki man, and joined him in prayer, then took his mule and rode back to Azlu. And he smiled as he rode on. He smiled because there was a full moon that night, and the moon was hanging motionless in the sky, just over Itto's home, in the northeast. It looked as if the moon was standing there on the watch lest anyone should come and take Itto away from him, Muhammad. 
        But Muhammad sighed. He knew he was only dreaming. 
        And on he rode. He went past the vineyard, and took a path from which he could see Itto's home. He peered at the home; he looked up at the moon, and smiled again, and rode on. And as he was halfway between the mosque and the graveyard, the smile faded at the sight of a fire just on the spot where stood his shack. The shack that once stood there was now in flames. Muhammad cursed Satan and jumped off and hastened to put out the flames. 
          The flames were put out, and the shack was now reduced to a heap of rubble. 
         Muhammad took his mule and rode away from the place, looking for a sandy spot to spend the night. 
         At dawn he went to mosque. He greeted the Imam, who returned the greeting coldly. As soon as the prayers were over, the Imam sprang to his feet and left, saying his wife was ill.
          Muhammad went from place to place along the reed edge, thinking. "Why don't I go back to Ighmizen and marry my friend's daughter?" he thought ruefully. "Go!" Itto's eyes challenged him. "What's stopping you?" But go he could not. He was now glued to this land. It looked as if someone had cast a spell on him. 
         At midday he went back to where his shack once stood. He sighed twice: firstly because he thought that Itto's father might have been behind this; secondly, because he saw his saddle lying beside the rubble. That meant that his family too were not willing to see him again. 
         After midday prayers, he fitted the saddle on the mule and set out for Tushki, taking a path from which he could not see Itto's home. 
         Three days later, he said farewell to the Turkish man and took his money and the chicken and rode back to Azlu. He glanced at Itto's home and rode on towards the heap of rubble, then rode away to where he could find a safe place to sleep. 
          At dawn he went to mosque again. He greeted the Imam and handed him the chicken. "No, I don't want it!" muttered the Imam, rising to go into the mosque. Muhammad put the cackling chicken down by the door and hastened to join the Imam in prayer. The Imam left as soon as he had said his prayers. "Alright!" Muhammad thought. "You are all against me. I will turn God against you! I'm not going to leave because you want me to!" And he burst into prayer till his beard was wet with tears.


Copyright©2006 by Mohammed Lagouader 



The Philosopher : Chapter Four

And then he picked up the chicken and mounted his mule and rode to market. As he set off, he wondered what to do with the sixty-five dirhams that warmed up his pocket. But as he neared the market, he found himself thinking of Hassan. 
         When he entered the market, a beggar in ragged clothes accosted him. "Here!" Muhammad said to him. The beggar gaped at the chicken which Muhammad was handing to him. "This for me?" the beggar exclaimed. "Yes!" said Muhammad with a smile. The beggar snatched the chicken and kept his fingers crossed for Muhammad, then moved away. Another beggar tripped up to Muhammad, holding out his hand. Muhammad smiled and handed him five dirhams. Then he lowered his eyes and moved on to the place where he had been heading. 
         He stood there, holding the mule and waiting patiently for someone to come and buy it. 
       He sold the mule and walked back to Azlu. "I am now free," he thought on the way. "I can sleep wherever I want. I won't be going to their no-go areas. But I won't go away from Azlu, either. Here I am and here I stay. I won't be begging anyone for food. The money in my pocket can carry me all through winter." 
        And he sighed. Itto's eyes had just broken in on his thoughts. So he thought of her until he suddenly burst out: ‘Khalaqany, razaqany, âllammany, hadany….’ 

       One Monday morning Muhammad was walking slowly along the reed edge. Suddenly, he stopped and pricked up his ears. “What’s this?” he thought while he listened in amazement. “Who could it be?” He walked on a little and stopped again. Strange sounds were coming from the place where his shack once stood. He immediately thought of Hassan. “But one man’s voice can’t make all this noise,” he thought. “These are the voices of many men, if I’m any judge.” And he walked on, quickening his pace as he proceeded. And the voices became clearer and clearer: they were men chanting: "Khalaqany, razaqany, âllamany; hadany…” And they were all sitting in a circle, with legs crossed and heads down, just beside the heap of rubble, and Hassan was among them. Muhammad’s eyes glistened with tears as he sat down with them and joined in the chanting. And all of a sudden, Hassan fell silent and raised his hand. All the others looked at him and kept quiet. Muhammad too looked at him, and when their eyes met, both smiled. “Here I am again!” Hassan began. “You’re welcome!” Muhammad replied in a broken voice, not knowing what to say next. Hassan took a long look at him, then said: 
         “What happened to your shack, Muhammad?” 
        “I came one night from Tushki and found the shack in flames.” 
        “Where did you go then?” 
        “I went from place to place along the reed edge, sleeping at a different place each night.”   
        “How often do you come this way?” 
        “Almost daily.” 
       “We came yesterday and the day before, but we didn’t find you.” 
       “You know, it has rained recently. My jellaba was then covered with dirt, so I took it off and washed it in the river, and I had to wait until it dried. The last couple of days were sunny, you know.” 
        “Why haven’t you built a new shack?” 
        “I can’t.” 
        “Why didn’t you leave the village altogether?” 
        “I can’t.” 
        “Why not?” 
        “You know why!” 
        “Yes, I know. And that’s what I told these men. Some of them said you would never be back. But I was quite sure you were only somewhere around. Now I am happy to see you again. And I have brought you these nine students. I told them about you, and they all wanted to see you. And others are coming. I hope you are ready for us.” 
         “I am pleased to meet you. But the problem is that I have no shelter.” 
         “These two men over here have money.” Hassan pointed at two men on his right. “They can pay for us all. We’ll see how we can settle that. Now, tell us, Muhammad, why do you say: “Khalaqany, razaqany, âllamany; hadany…”? 
           Muhammad smiled and said: 
        “Well, when I say Khalaqany I remind myself that I actually exist, and that I do matter in some way, otherwise God wouldn’t have bothered to make me in the first place, and since God made me as a person, as a human being, then I have to behave in the way God had meant me to behave, that is as a human being, not as an animal. When I say razaqany I remind myself that I needn’t worry too much about the future, because God who made me also provided me with the means of subsistence even before I was aware that people should work to be able to keep themselves or their loved ones. And since God did this for me in the past, then He can also do it for me at present and in the future. So I shouldn’t worry too much about the future. When I say âllamany I remind myself that this in itself is a great gift, because not all people are literate, and not all literate people put their knowledge to good use. So I keep reminding myself that God wants me to learn more and more about Him, about myself, about life and about the world. And as I think of this, I find myself reminiscing about the past: I recall what I was like and how I got to be what I am today. I remember the hardships I went through; I remember the happy moments I lived in the past; I remember the hundreds of people I got to know throughout my life; I think of those people: how they were happy or unhappy; I think about all these things over and over again, and try to soothe myself. And when I say hadany I remind myself that I have a path to follow; I have things to do and things not to do, and I wonder whether I am on the right path. And as I think this way, I blend past and present and future and try to see how I can best live the present, hoping that the future will be brighter. And that’s it!” 
           “And what about love, Muhammad?” 
            Muhammad sighed and said: 
          “You know the story of Yusuf (Joseph), don’t you? Yusuf was the most handsome man in his time. He lived a good part of his life in a palace. For you and me, that’s happiness. But then Yusuf had the misfortune to do many years in prison. He lost maybe the best years of his youth in prison. For you and me, that’s unhappiness. But then Yusuf was released and became almost king. For you and me, that’s happiness, isn’t it? Yusuf did suffer a great deal, but in the end he died a happy man. What more could you or I ask for in his place? All you and I want is to live a happy life. God says, Nay! There’s yet a much happier life, an everlasting happy life. Suleiman (King Solomon) had everything he wanted, everything a human being would ever dream of. So that’s happiness. What more could Suleiman have sought for since he had everything he wanted? Nay! There’s yet a much happier life, an everlasting happy life. And this life was not made for Yusuf or Suleiman only. It’s made for us all. Why should God give us another good life if we had a good life already? You know why? It’s because He is a loving God. It’s because He is a great God. It’s because He is a forgiving God. God doesn’t owe us anything. It’s we who owe God everything. We don’t give God anything. It’s God Who gives us everything. 
          “Unfortunately, we are quick to forget God. Maybe because we don’t see God. But we do see God’s creation, don’t we? When you see a beautiful woman, all you see is that beautiful woman. If you fall in love with her, all you think of is her. She’ll become everything to you. You’ll think of her; you’ll worry about her; you’ll wish her all the best in the world– and in the end she mightn’t even think of you. She might be thinking of someone else. You love her, you give her everything, and yet she thinks of someone else. Just like God: He loves you, He gives you everything, and yet you think of someone else. But when you say, as I do, “Khalaqany, razaqany, âllamany; hadany…”, you realize that you have been burning your heart for the wrong one. And as your realization gets greater so will be your love of God. You may forget your beloved, and maybe love someone else, –who knows?– but then your love of God gets stronger with the years. One day you’ll get married, and your wife will be by your side, and then there will be ample room in your heart for God. You’ll love God more than anyone else.” 
         “What do you think?” said Hassan, looking at the other students, who were listening intently. 
              “I think we were right to come!” said one of the students. 
             “I think we should go and bring our mules and horses from the funduq”, said another. “We have to build a school or at least a classroom here.” 
             “That’s right!” said Hassan, looking at Muhammad. “We will fight, if need be, but we must build shacks or even a big house to live in while we are here.” 
               Muhammad frowned. Hassan looked at him, and said: 
              “Don’t you agree, Muhammad?” 
              “I think it’s not easy to fight people here. I don’t know what happens next.” 
          “Leave it to us!” said Hassan, rising to his feet. “You can stay here, Muhammad. The students and I will go and meet the village people and see how we can fix the problem.”  
              Muhammad just watched agape as the students went in two rows behind Hassan, towards the mosque. 

             About an hour later, the students came down, chanting : “khalaqany, razaqany…” 
             Muhammad sprang to his feet and met them. They were all smiles. 
            “Your shack will be built again,” said Hassan with a smile. “And we’ll build our own shacks beside yours. And we’ll build a large classroom and a mosque.” 
            “But where will you build all this?” Muhammad asked, raising his eyebrows. 
          “Here!” said Hassan happily. “Didn’t I say we had two rich men among us? Then, let me say that the village people took us for fools. They don’t think we’ll be able to stay here for a long time, because it has already started raining, and if we don’t go soon, the rain or the flood will drive us away! That’s what they think.” 
           “So let’s start!” said Muhammad with a broad smile, turning towards the reed. 
           “We’ll fetch our animals first!” said Hassan. “Come along with us.” 
        And they all set off, with Hassan and Muhammad leading, chanting: “khalaqany, razaqany…” 

             A few days later, the number of students more than doubled and the shacks filled all the place between the reed and the graveyard. And so Muhammad began to worry. 

            One day, the Tushki man came and stood at the door of the large classroom (which the students called school) and said he wanted to sit with them awhile. Muhammad waved him in. As the Tushki man sat down, Hassan raised his hand and said: 
               “What do you think of rulers nowadays, teacher?” 
               Muhammad took the hint and smiled, then said: 
             "Look, brother! Rulers are just weak people like you and me. Rulers, too, suffer like you and me. They suffer because they do not always get what they want. We all –with a few exceptions– dream of wealth and fame and power and glory. And that's what most rulers are after. But then that's their own problem. I don't want to be a wealthy man; I don't want to be a famous man. I don't want to rule anybody. But I respect them because they have the courage to do things I can't do. It's not easy to rule a population. And I pity them, because most rulers stand to lose more than they gain. Rulers often change like the weather, and many lose their lives in the process.
            "And this is what fascinates me about it all. You see powers emerging, and others falling down. A kingdom rising here and a kingdom falling there. And each kingdom –be it small or big– has something to give, and once it has given that something it ceases to be. And I have noticed that the thing that all kingdoms share is –believe it or not!– knowledge. One nation or kingdom produces knowledge, and when it has no more knowledge to give, it falls down. And then comes another nation or kingdom and picks up that knowledge and takes it to other parts of the world, so that other nations would add to that knowledge. And you see nation after nation contribute to enriching our knowledge: of the world, of ourselves, and, most importantly, of God. And this is what will keep happening in the future: nation after nation will either produce more knowledge or spread it over the world through conquest, occupation or trade. And so there'll come a day when people all over the world will know God. Now, I feel that I know God already. So I needn't be a ruler, or go through all the process just to reach the same conclusion! All I hope is that our present kingdom will yield as much knowledge as possible or take it to the largest lands as possible. May God let it be so!" 
               Everybody said, "Amen!" Then Muhammad looked at Hassan and said with a smile: 
              "Do you have another question?" "No, teacher– not for now. It's lunchtime!" 
         At this there were gales of laughter. Then, Muhammad started saying, “Khalaqany, razaqany, âllamany; hadany…” A moment later, the Tushki man picked himself up and left, saying in a low voice: “Khalaqany, razaqany, âllamany; hadany…” 

            Late that night, Muhammad was lying on his side and thinking of Itto when he heard footsteps approaching the shack door. He looked up and saw Hassan smiling merrily. He glanced at the lantern, then back at Hassan, who stayed standing up at the door, his face aglow with pleasure. 
             "What's the matter?" said Muhammad. 
             "Abdelaziz and Ismaïl want to speak to you." 
             "Let them come in!" said Muhammad, sitting up. 
            "Peace be with you!" said the two students in unison as they sat down between Muhammad and Hassan. 
             "Peace be with you too! What's the matter?" said Muhammad. 
             "We want to help you," said Ismaïl. 
             "With what?" said Muhammad. 
              "With marriage," said Abdelaziz. 
             "Thank you!" said Muhammad. 
             Then there was silence. 
            "They will give you some money so that you can marry," said Hassan suddenly. 
            "That would make me glad!" said Muhammad with a smile. He was about to add something when a sudden thunder roared across the sky. 
            "Will you marry, then?" said Hassan eagerly. 
            "I would like to marry the one I told you about," said Muhammad, looking Hassan straight in the eye. 
             "And what if her father refused?" 
             "I don't know. It depends on my heart." 
             "Do you reason with your heart?" said Ismaïl causiously. 
             "I reason with my head, but my head gets at fault sometimes. My heart is not always right, but sometimes it is." 
             "So you have only one choice, I suppose," said Abdelaziz. 
             "So far, yes." 
           "You are our teacher," said Ismaïl. "And, normally, a teacher of your age should be married. Honestly, many students here have talked about this." 
          "I am not surprised, brother Ismaïl," said Muhammad gently. "But I have a problem. At present, I love a woman, and this woman is not married. And as long as she is not married yet, I just can't get her out of my head. Otherwise, I wouldn't have stayed here long after my shack had been burned down. I can understand you feelings. Please, try to understand my own!" 
            "So all we can do for you," said Abdelaziz, "is go to your beloved's father and see what he says." 
           "Go to my father first," said Muhammad with a smile. "And don't go all of you! Just one man or two would be enough. If my father grants you permission, then go on to the woman's father. And thanks in advance!" 
              "That's the least we can do for you, teacher!" said Abdelaziz, rising to go. 

            A light rain had begun to fall when Hassan put out the light and wished Muhammad good night. 
              In the morning, Muhammad was sitting alone in the reed mosque and reading the Quran in a low voice. He kept reading until tears welled up in his eyes. Then he closed the Quran and slipped it back on the shelf and went out. There were puddles here and there between the shacks. Muhammad stood looking down at those puddles, and wondered what would happen if the next days brought more rain or if the wadi brought over more water from far lands. What would happen to him and his students if there were a flood? He went on thinking as he shuffled around between the shacks. Then his thoughts shifted to Itto. His father had told Hassan and Ismaïl that he would be awaiting them at siesta-time. All the twenty-three students and himself would be there, in his father's home, and they would talk about Itto. Now the students were away at the market; he had stayed behind to keep an eye on the shacks during their absence. 

             On their return from market, the students were not only twenty-three, but forty! And they were chanting: “Khalaqany, razaqany, âllamany; hadany…” Muhammad was astounded. His hands trembled as he embraced the new comers. And suddenly, Hassan faced all the students and said: “We have an important appointment today.” (He suddenly raised his voice over the neighing of the horses and the roars of the thunder.) “It’s nearly siesta-time. Let two of you stay in here to look after the shacks and the animals. The rest of us will go and meet the man, I mean our teacher’s father. So be prepared, May God bless you!” 
             Muhammad looked at Hassan with glistening eyes, and said: 
             “I am proud of you, Hassan!” 
           Hassan rewarded him with a smile and ran to help with clearing up the mess caused by the mules, the donkeys and the horses that the new comers had brought with them. 

          And then the procession of students started off towards Muhammad’s family home, while heavy drops of rain were falling steadily and the thunder was threatening big rains. 
           The procession was quiet: no talking, no chanting. 

           And then the guest-room in Muhammad’s family home was packed with students, many of whom had no idea why they were there. 

            Tea was served, and Muhammad’s father faced Hassan, and said: 
             “It’s you who came to me earlier in the day, aren’t you?” 
             “Yes, I am!” said Hassan politely. 
            And now all the students listened intently as Muhammad’s father said: 
           “You came to me and said that my son Muhammad wished to marry a young woman from the village. You didn’t know whom you were talking about. This village is cram-full of young women and girls. And I would be happy to gladden my son by enabling him to marry any one of these village women and girls. But there’s one –and only one– that neither my son nor any man like him should dream of. And that’s the one you said my son Muhammad wished to marry.” 
            Hassan had just opened his mouth to say something when Muhammad’s father rose to his feet and left the room for a while. All the students turned their eyes to Muhammad, who was looking down. Then, all of a sudden, all eyes turned towards the door, through which came in a young woman with dark eyes and eyebrows. Some of the students gaped, then muttered, “Subhana Allah! Maasha Allah!” (Praise God!) The others were simply struck dumb. “This is the woman my son wants to marry!” said Muhammad’s father, standing beside Itto in the middle of the room, and signed to her to turn and face all the rows of students. Muhammad looked up at her, and their eyes met, and he kept his eyes glued to her as she turned this way and that, while Muhammad’s father went on, “This is the woman my son can never marry. Not that I don’t want him to marry her. But it’s her father who would never accept to give her to my son. Her father is free. This is his daughter; he is free to marry her off to a man of his own choosing. Nobody should blame him for that. It’s not because my son loves her that he deserves her. Love is something, marriage is something else. You can leave now, daughter!” 
            Itto shuffled out of the room while Muhammad’s father returned to his seat, facing towards Hassan. 
           “What do you say now, man?” said Muhammad’s father, looking at Hassan, who seemed to have lost his tongue. It was some time before he could speak. 
           “We don’t blame you, sir,” he mumbled. “All we want is that you grant us permission to go to the woman’s father.” 
           “I warned him first,” said Muhammad’s father sadly. “Today I have warned you all. You will only suffer if you go to her father. I won’t go along with you. I won’t grant you any permission. I will be very unhappy if you go to her father. I will become the village idiot if people know that my son is struck on Itto. But what can I do? My son wants me to become the village idiot for the rest of my life! Go if you want! I’m not stopping you!” And he burst into tears. Muhammad himself burst into tears as he rose to his feet and signed to the students to leave. 


Copyright©2006 by Mohammed Lagouader


My most searched piece:

Pardonne-moi, Ô Allah !


Mon cœur est trop petit pour toi.
Mon cœur est trop sale pour être ta demeure.
Mon cœur que se partagent l’argent et la foi
Ne peut accueillir le Seigneur !
Mon cœur qui s’enflamme à la vue d’une femme,
Mon cœur qui a peur de la mort,
Ne peut aimer celui qui a fait mon âme,
Qui a façonné mon être et arrêté mon sort !
Tu es trop grand pour mon petit cœur.
Tu es trop fort pour le plus grand amour,
Toi que je n’oserai comparer à une fleur
Ou à une belle chose de tous les jours !
Je peux mentir à une femme ;
Je peux lui dire les plus belles rimes.
Mais c’est ce que n’oserait mon âme
Faire pour te plaire, toi, le Sublime !
Tu n’as pas besoin de mes vers.
Tu n’as pas besoin de mes larmes ou de mes soupirs.
Et si je pouvais t’aimer, toi, qui m’as tout offert,
Ce ne serait que pour ton propre plaisir !
Je sais que tu aimes d’autres âmes que moi.
Je sais que tu penses à d’autres cœurs que le mien.
Mais je ne saurais être jaloux pour ça :
Si tu penses à moi une seconde, ça me ferait du bien !
Je sais que l’on vénère d’autres dieux sous d’autres cieux,
Je sais que l’on leur apporte toutes les offrandes ;
Je sais que l’or et l’argent enivrent les yeux ;
Je sais qu’on est faibles devant la beauté du monde.
Mais je sais aussi que je ne pense pas à toi tout le temps–
Moi qui prétends pourtant croire que tu es le Seul Dieu !
Et je sais que j’ai péché pendant trop longtemps,
Alors que dirais-je de ceux qui vénèrent d’autres dieux !
Est-ce que tu me permets de te dire : Pardon ?
Est-ce que tu me permets de te dire : Je t’aime ?
Ou est-ce que ce serait un mensonge cette demande de pardon ?
Ou est-ce que tu prendrais ce poème pour un blasphème ?
Ô Allah, pardonne-moi ! 

Some of the 71 comments:


paroles sensées ,sages !!!
trés bel écrit qui mérite un moment de recueillement
de reflexion, je repasserai le commenter plus tard
il mérite beaucoup plus ...
regard d'un croyant  lucide !!!
il ne s'égare point mais se retrouve
dans chaque acte accompli pour l'amour de DIEU
Merci pour cet écrit sublime qui en quelque sorte
réveille nos consciences et fait qu'on s'interroge
Qu'en est-il de nos oeuvres de nos actes ??

Merci du partage

Commentaire n°1 posté par nadia le 29/07/2010 à 16h26 
Masha'Allah c'est très beaux.
Commentaire n°2 posté par Houria le 29/07/2010 à 18h12
Je ne crois pas en dieu, mais je trouve tes poèmes très beaux.
Commentaire n°3 posté par Dany58 le 29/07/2010 à 21h29 
Je viens de lire ton poème, c'est super beau... Je reviendrai pour visiter ton blog et lire tous les poèmes... Félicitationz. Je te dépose ma corbeille de poutous ariégeois.
Commentaire n°4 posté par buzynette le 30/07/2010 à 11h06 
Ton poème est fort beau. Amicalement
Commentaire n°5 posté par miou14 le 30/07/2010 à 16h50 
Un poème plein de sensibilité, très bien pensé à quelques jours du Ramadan.
Belle soirée.
Amitiés Levalloisiennes.
Commentaire n°6 posté par Michel le 30/07/2010 à 18h04 
Ce poème je le trouve sublime et je le répète pour la deuxième pour tout ce qu’il reflète comme beauté spirituelle et tout ce qu’il enferme comme sincérité pour avouer ses fautes et implorer le pardon de notre créateur un cri …un appel
N’est-il pas notre meilleur refuge  notre meilleur protecteur soubhanou taala!!!
Nul n’est parfait dans ce bas monde tout être est faillible mais la miséricorde infinie d’Allah est une bénédiction car elle nous permet de nous repentir  et de remettre en question nos actes et mêmes nos intentions et que malgré l’ampleur de nos fautes nous devons jamais perdre espoir d’obtenir sa miséricorde si le repenti est sincère
SA générosité n’a pas d’égale...ne s'est-il pas attribué Les NOMS   AT-TAWAB  AL-GHAFFAR  AR-RAHMAN  !!!
Une Bénédiction dont il nous gratifie!!!!!
les versets que tu as cité dans( un peu de coran)témoignent de cette Génerosité et cette  Bénédiction
Merci pour ce partage fructueux
Commentaire n°7 posté par nadia le 01/08/2010 à 12h46 
Je ne suis pas de religion musulmane, mais je trouve votre poème trés beau
bonne fin de journée et bises amicales

Commentaire n°8 posté par nenette206 le 02/08/2010 à 11h30
je ne suis pas croyante,
mais quel joli poème,
quelle sensibilité,
merci de la partager
Commentaire n°9 posté par rejane le 07/08/2010 à 12h19 
Jolies lignes empreintes de croyance qui ne sont  pas miennes mais j'apprécie les jolis vers, @ bientôt , Romantic.
Commentaire n°10 posté par romantic le 07/08/2010 à 20h15 
Y aurait-il concurrence entre la femme et le Seigneur ?
Je ne crois pas, car si un désir s'élève en moi en voyant une femme, c'est bien le Seigneur qui l'a mis dans mon coeur, ce désir.... non ?
Mais j'aime bien tes poésies.
Commentaire n°11 posté par kasimir, dit pinson déplumé le 09/08/2010 à 10h32 
jolie balade que celle parmi tes mots!! Bonne semaine
Commentaire n°12 posté par alexounette78 le 09/08/2010 à 17h00 
Très beau poème écrit avec tant de coeur.
Commentaire n°13 posté par Rêver au Sud le 09/08/2010 à 17h07 
Très beau poème qui convient à tous ceux qui croient en Dieu. Tout le monde n'est pas capable d'écrire aussi bien, mais chacun peut reprendre ces phrases à son compte, elles sont très belles.
Commentaire n°14 posté par Benissa le 09/08/2010 à 20h27 
à ce poème on aimerait se référer peu importe la religion
peu importe la croyance
seul les mots vers un univers sans ....autre mouvance
que la foi en la vie
même s'il y a différence de religion dans ce poème il y a les plus beaux mots pour toutes les croyances
Commentaire n°15 posté par irene le 10/08/2010 à 19h38
Je suis sensible au charme de ta poésie.
Amicalement. Alain
Commentaire n°16 posté par ag86Quand le corps se fait prison ... le 10/08/2010 à 19h42 
Le Ramadan commence demain, alors ton poème prend encore plus de grandeur et d'interrogations - D'une belle sensibilité - merci pour ce partage - doux bisous - Rose
Commentaire n°17 posté par Rose le 10/08/2010 à 20h30 
Ton poème me touche beaucoup , il est beau. Que l'on demande pardon , c'est juste , nous ne sommes pas parfaits . Mais l'amour de Dieu est immense et grâce à lui nous arrivons à progresser et à être digne. Donc il faut faire confiance à sa miséricorde .Bonne soirée Andrée
Commentaire n°18 posté par Andrée le 10/08/2010 à 23h34 
euh............moi c'est plutôt dans le genre Torah:-)
Commentaire n°19 posté par michaeline le 11/08/2010 à 14h04 
J'ai visité ton blog il y a de belles poésies toujours basé sur l'Amour, je ne suis pas de la religion Musulman mais peu importe l'Amour a pas de frontière. 
Bonne journée
Commentaire n°20 posté par Noisette le 11/08/2010 à 14h22
Je ne suis pas croyante "Dieu" mais j'aime comment c'est écrit. Par contre, je trouve ça triste que tu semble trouver ton coeur trop "impur" pour être aimé... que ce soit de Dieu ou autre... c'est une chose que je ne comprends pas dans la religion comme la votre, se rabaissez pour honoré un Dieu... Pourtant l'être humain est merveilleux et un miracle en soi.
Mais bon, c'est très bien écrit et y'as des passages très touchant :)
Commentaire n°21 posté par Jane le 12/08/2010 à 04h47 
Votre poésie me plait tellement que je vous ai inscrit ce matin dans mes liens. Vous avez beaucoup de talent.
Commentaire n°22 posté par araucaria le 12/08/2010 à 16h03 
Bonjour Mohamed Ali. Je viens de parcourir quelques-unes de vos poésies et suis enchantée de ma visite, vos écrits sont superbes.
J'ai vu que vous êtes Marocain, j'aime beaucoup votre pays où je me suis rendue deux fois.
Commentaire n°23 posté par araucaria le 12/08/2010 à 19h30 
je ne suis qu'une mamie qui aime tout le monde !
joli poème 
Commentaire n°24 posté par la mouette le 12/08/2010 à 19h36 
A  mon tour,  je découvre un merveilleux poète , moi qui aime tant écrire, je conçois que ces vers chargés d'AMOUR  viennent d'un coeur pur et bon , je reviendrai  amicalement DANY
Commentaire n°25 posté par isdael le 14/08/2010 à 13h13
machaallah c'est bien !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Commentaire n°26 posté par fatima le 14/08/2010 à 19h29 
beau talent de poème, et avec un appel à Allah qu'on n'a pas toujours l'habitude d'entendre.
Vive l'amour !
Commentaire n°27 posté par Ava le 15/08/2010 à 14h36 
Quel joli poème et quels jolis poè-mes sur ton blog  que je découvcre..
Nous ne sommes pas parfaits  mais notre dieu   le sait  et nous pardonne  ..
bonne journée   ensoleillée .

Commentaire n°28 posté par marithé le 16/08/2010 à 13h50 
Musulman, chrétien ou juif, peu importe la religion; les mots sont universels et j'ai fait une merveilleuse balade au fil de tes poèmes !!!
Commentaire n°29 posté par Manon le 16/08/2010 à 14h16 
je pense que mon Dieu est le même que le tien, et je sais que ce qui pour lui compte, ce ne sont pas les références terrestres, les habits, les jeûnes, c' est plutôt ce que nous avons dans notre coeur, et le bien que nous faisons autour de nous.
Commentaire n°30 posté par trublion le 16/08/2010 à 17h57 
Tu écris vraiment de jolis textes. Merci.
Passe une bonne fin de soirée
Un bisou amical

Commentaire n°31 posté par Viviane le 20/08/2010 à 22h48 
...le language des fleurs est universel. Je crois que quand ton coeur s'enflamme en voyant une femme ce n'est qu'en accord avec Dieu.
 Commentaire n°32 posté par lady le 20/08/2010 à 23h16
demander pardon ne peut pas être un blasphème
bon dimanche à toi
Commentaire n°33 posté par mamalilou le 22/08/2010 à 00h39
Mon Dieu ne porte pas le même nom que le votre mais je pense que c'est le même pour tous
vous déclamez fort bien l'amour
merci et bon dimanche
Commentaire n°34 posté par Line le 22/08/2010 à 13h59 
Il n'y a point de blasphème à dire ce que notre coeur contient, surtout si c'est "Je t'aime"
au point de donner sa vie son temps, pour aimer humblement celui qui est grand... Amicalement Arlette
Commentaire n°35 posté par Arlette Philbois" Au bonheur des Mots" le 23/08/2010 à 12h58 
En ce mois de Ramadan, je viens visiter votre blog. J'y découvre votre foi et votre profonde humilité. Je me tiens ainsi toute respectueusement dans l'écoute.
Commentaire n°36 posté par Marianne le 23/08/2010 à 22h54 
Musique de l'âme que ce poème si humain et si sublime par l'amour qu'il révèle...
MErci pour ce partage.
Commentaire n°37 posté par marlou le 23/08/2010 à 23h33 
Dieu est pardon.
bonne journée et que Dieu soit avec toi
Commentaire n°38 posté par reinette le 24/08/2010 à 08h53
MashAllah un très beau poême
Commentaire n°39 posté par Faïza le 24/08/2010 à 12h26
merci beaucoup...
tes poèmes sont très beaux... félicitations
bonne continuation
Commentaire n°40 posté par flolipo62 le 24/08/2010 à 18h51 
bonjour Mohamed Ali, un très très beau poème qui vient du coeur, je pense que Dieu est le même pour tous car nous faisons partie de lui et comme tel, ce que tu lui dit du fond de ton coeur il l'entend et le ressent...les poètes sont le baume des âmes du monde, et s'ils ont reçu ce don c'est pour qu'ils puissent l'utiliser pour le bien des autres et de là, pour la vérité, la liberté et la solidarité d'expression,le tout enveloppé d'amour, celui que nous avons reçu en nous depuis l'origine des temps, merci pour ce moment passé chez toi , marisol
Commentaire n°41 posté par petite marie le 25/08/2010 à 22h36
Tu as de jolis poèmes
Commentaire n°42 posté par lenacarly le 25/08/2010 à 22h39 
 Je ne suis pas croyante mais je trouve très beau ton poeme.
Commentaire n°43 posté par Léa487 le 25/08/2010 à 22h41
bonsoir vous etes un poete  c est tres beau toutes ces poesies bonne soiree

Commentaire n°44 posté par mamigina le 25/08/2010 à 22h44 
 ....a une certaine époque j'ai écrit de nombreux poèmes ..........mais ma passion est plus pour les fleurs et tout ce que peut offrir la nature ...........je trouve votre poème superbe , plein de sensibilité , plein d'amour pour ce dieu qui vous a tant offert ......j'ai donc parcouru votre blog et lu quelques uns des autres poèmes , c'est vraiment sublime ..........je me suis aperçue que vous aviez mis quelques photos de vous , je présume , j'aime beaucoup la 2 et la 3 a partir du haut ......je vous dis simplement , merci pour ces si beaux poèmes  et continuez dans cette voie .......amicalement             ghislaine
Commentaire n°45 posté par ghislaine le 26/08/2010 à 12h57 
Ce poème ne peut être blasphème puisqu'il parle d'amour, sentiment universel, les yeux sont faits pour regarder ce qui est petit et ce qui est grand, la beauté n'est pas sacrilège, c'est un plaisir des yeux, c'est la nature qui nous l'offre, très joli poème, bonne soirée
Commentaire n°46 posté par Crepusculine le 27/08/2010 à 18h58 
Un très joli poème, vraiment. Bonne soirée.
Commentaire n°47 posté par MarieJeannetoutsimplement le 27/08/2010 à 20h12
Bonjour Mohamed:
trés joli poeme,merci de ce partage.
Amicalement Mamé
Commentaire n°48 posté par Mamé le 28/08/2010 à 14h30 
Dieu ds sa bonté aime TOUS les hommes ....VITA
Commentaire n°49 posté par VITA le 28/08/2010 à 14h50 
Bonsoir l'ami artiste Poète ,
Très beau poème , des vers , le mélange des mots qui s'emmêlent, pleins d'amour de pardon ... J'aime aussi écrire la douceur, la musique aussi doit être dans nos cœur de la douceur ,un regard de douceur, un sourire de douceur
Bonne continuation et je ne manquerais de vous visitez avec plus temps !
Commentaire n°50 posté par skya le 29/08/2010 à 13h18