Wednesday, 1 October 2014

Your Heart is Precious

America must be a good place to live these days. Unemployment there has dropped to a six-year low. Also in France the unemployed can dream once again.  Statistics show that France had 11,000 fewer job seekers last month: the first decrease since October 2013. In my country, unemployment is going up, not down. The rate is around 10 %. Still, those 90 % are lucky to have work. Most of these 90 % are married and have children. A great number of them have homes of their own, many have cars, etc. It’s only those 10 % that are more or less suffering. Should they suffer? Should they accept their situation? Shouldn’t there be somebody to blame for their situation? The government, for example?
French President’s approval rating has reached record lows, and everybody is linking that to the President’s presumed failure to deliver on job creation and economic growth. Paradoxically, there are plenty of jobs in the U.S., and yet President Barack Obama  gets little credit for it from the public. Gossip has it that if the German economy has been so good, until six months ago anyway, it’s because most employed people there are somewhat underpaid. (A minimum  wage was introduced in Germany only recently.) Nevertheless, German Chancellor Angela Merkel’s popularity remains sky-high. In Ghaza and the West Bank 30 to 60 % of people are on the dole. The blame there is laid at the door of the Israeli Occupation. In Tunisia and Egypt the scapegoat for rising unemployment is the Arab Spring.

The blame game is part of human nature. We all blame others for our misfortunes. When there’s nobody specific to blame, we blame bad luck. But let’s be objective for a moment! The best intentioned, most competent government can’t guarantee jobs for all. The most compassionate, most patriotic business establishment in the world can’t guarantee lasting economic growth. There will always be a minority of “unlucky” people. Even highly educated people (doctors, engineers…) may be surprised not to find suitable jobs. (See my article Salam Layla 5 .) Even governments of developed countries plead with other governments of developed countries to do better for their national economy. The French want Germans to do more for German economic growth. The Germans want the French to do more to reduce their budget deficit. The U.S. appeals to Europe to do more to get out of recession.

In my country, we often hear business people, economic analysts, and even government officials, say that if tens of thousands of our youth can’t find work it’s because their training is inadequate for business. People with degrees in Islamic Studies, History & Geography, Arabic language, Philosophy, etc., have nothing to do in the business world. They only wasted their time at Faculty. Business wants competent people. It wants engineers,, managers, specialized technicians, etc. If you have a degree in the Arabic language, why don’t you be a poet? You’d do well to sell potato chips to kids in front of schools by day and write poetry and love stories at night.
A relatively recent problem for our government is that although it urgently needs thousands of teachers, including teachers of languages, History & Geography… to work in public schools, it simply can’t hire them because it can’t pay them. Most people, including myself, believe that the Government is acting in good faith. But it’s a problem of money. A much bigger problem for the Government is that, if nothing is done urgently, by 2021 it will become impossible for the State to pay retirement pensions to former State employees. This is not my personal view. This is being said by government officials, union officials, economists… Another problem for our government is that our traditional economic partners, namely Europe, are suffering. That translates for us into less tourist money and less remittance money from our fellow nationals living in Europe…
So what to do? Will you study what business wants so that business will be pleased with you? Will you sell chips by day and write poetry at night? Will you join sit-ins in front of Government buildings to pressure the Government to find you a job? Will you wait for economic recovery or better economic growth? Will you use heroin or cocaine to forget all about these problems? Will you turn to religion? Can you wait more and be steadfast when religion asks you to do so? Can decide for yourself ? Can you defy all people around you? Can you trust yourself? Do you trust yourself in the first place?
This is a very serious problem. It’s very serious because you don’t have all the tools to deal with it. Even very highly educated people who find very demanding, very challenging job adverts in prestigious magazines, such as The Economist and TIME, and reply to those ads and pass all interviews and are accepted and do start work with good salaries…., they don’t know what may happen to them in the future. Nobody knows what the future holds. All the education and skills you got, that’s the past. You may still have to worry about marriage, if you’re not married yet, or about your children, if they’re still young, or about your health… and all that is in the future.
You may have good insurance. That insurance will only solve the money side. Insurance will not replace a lost eye, a lost breast or a lost limb. Insurance will not solve the immaterial side (feelings, affection, mental strength…) And all that is in the future. The best economic minds of the world were unable to anticipate, let alone to avert, the 2008 Financial Crisis –are you sure your mind can anticipate (and avert) bad things for you? If your mind can’t, your heart may be of some help. Are you prepared to “save” at heart as you would save at a commercial bank?
This is one of several approaches, though. It may be not as easy as other approaches. You could leave it as the last resort. You could give it up in the middle of the process. But it all begins with a choice, with a decision. Normally, before you choose or decide anything you need to know about it in advance. That’s your legitimate right. The Koran, not me, explains to you your rights and obligations.
In the Koran’s eyes, the best and most precious part of you is your heart. 
Unfinished yet.

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?”       
        “Muhammad.”      
    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!”       
      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!”        
     “Alright.”        
      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.         
         “Alright.”       
      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!”

 Mohamed Ali 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?       
        “Gladly!”             
      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?”        
         “No.”        
         “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?”     
         “No.”     
         “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?”     
          “Everything.”     
          “Such as?”     
        “Well, I studied the Quran, the Haddith, the Tafsir, the Arabic language, History, Arithmetic– everything!”       
           “Great!”       
          “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?”       
         “No.”       
         “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?”        
          “Anything!”        
         “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:         
          “Love!”         
          “Are you in love?”         
          “Yes.”         
          Hassan gaped, and then fell silent.

Mohamed Ali LAGOUADER








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.

Mohamed Ali LAGOUADER


 



Friends of God


Could I have known of God had He not made me ? What do I know about God ? Very little, indeed. Yet, I know He could have stayed ‘alone’ and not bothered to make anything. He was God, magnanimous and magnificient, free and self-sufficient. But He was too beautiful not to be known. He was too generous not to share His beauty. But with whom ? He was God and nothing could be like Him. Nothing could match up to Him. Nor did He need anything or anybody. It’s by the grace of Him that He made the world to share not only His beauty but also His bounty. He made Heaven, beautiful in every sense of the word. He made it not for Himself. (He didn’t need it.) He made it for Man. And why Man ? (Good Jinns too are entitled to Heaven.) Well, only a man can know God ! The whole world, including Jinns, could worship God in the most perfect way. But only a man can know God –even if his worship is flawed. Even if his knowledge is limited. The Koran says : "Of knowledge ye have been vouchsafed but little." (Al-Isra : 85) "Though mankind and the Jinn should assemble to produce the like of this Koran, they could not produce the like thereof though they were helpers one of another." (Al-Isra : 88) Yet with this little amount of knowledge a ‘God-knowing’ man can come close to God (spiritually). God said : "Neither My Earth nor My Sky has been vast enough to hold Me, but the heart of My believing slave has !" In the Koran we read : "He ( Solomon)  said : 'O chiefs! Which of you will bring me her (Queen Balqees)throne before they come unto me, surrendering?  A stalwart of the Jinn said: I will bring it thee before thou canst rise from thy place. Lo! I verily am strong and trusty for such work. One with whom was knowledge of the Scripture (i.e. a human!) said: I will bring it thee before thy gaze returneth unto thee." (An-Naml : 38-40) That’s why it’s the Jinns who are supposed to follow humans (human Prophets) and not vice-versa. "And when We inclined toward thee (Muhammad) certain of the Jinn, who wished to hear the Koran and, when they were in its presence, said : Give ear! and, when it was finished, turned back to their people, warning. They said : O our people! Lo! we have heard a Scripture which hath been revealed after Moses, confirming that which was before it, guiding unto the truth and a right road. O our people! respond to Allah's summoner and believe in Him. He will forgive you some of your sins and guard you from a painful doom." (Al-Ahqaf : 29-31) No wonder, then, when we remember God’s breathing into Man of His spirit ! "When thy Lord said unto the angels : lo! I am about to create a mortal out of mire. And when I have fashioned him and breathed into him of My spirit, then fall down before him prostrate." (Sad : 71-72)  Yes, when a man is a true slave of God (i.e. humble enough to learn more), he can ‘see’ how beautiful God is, how bountiful God is. Such a man could see that Hell is too good a place for disbelievers. He would easily understand the verse:  "For those who disbelieve and debar (men) from the way of Allah, We add doom to doom because they wrought corruption."  (An-Nahl : 88) A God-knowing man, even if he were the poorest man on earth, would see hismelf the richest. Such a man, even if he were the most wretched of the earth, would consider himself the happiest. Such men are few in number, but have always existed. Be they Jews, Christians, Muslims –they’re quite the same. They’re knowledgeable people and they use their brains and hearts to know God more and more. And the more they know Him the more they love Him, the more they fear Him. Neither poverty nor illness, nor any misfortune befalling them, their family or anybody else, would affect their love for God. In fact, they see themselves as the least worshipers, as the least likely to deserve a place in Heaven. Not that they are fools or worthless. They are smart and successful. The Koran says : "Hast thou not seen that Allah causeth water to fall from the sky, and We produce therewith fruit of divers hues; and among the hills are streaks white and red, of divers hues, and (others) raven black;  And of men and beasts and cattle, in like manner, divers hues? The erudite among His bondsmen fear Allahalone." (Fatir : 27) The erudite see what other people don’t. They see God in everything. They see Him in the rose and in the thorn, in the darkest hour and in dawn. And they’re always eager to know more. "And Allah brought you forth from the wombs of your mothers knowing nothing , and gave you hearing and sight and hearts that haply ye might give thanks.  Have they not seen the birds obedient in mid-air? None holdeth them save Allah. Lo! herein, verily, are portents for a people who believe. And Allah hath given you in your houses an abode, and hath given you (also), of the hides of cattle, houses which ye find light (to carry) on the day of migration and on the day of pitching camp; and of their wool and their fur and their hair, caparison and comfort for a while. And Allah hath given you, of that which He hath created, shelter from the sun; and hath given you places of refuge in the mountains, and hath given you coats to ward off the heat from you, and coats (of armor) to save you from your own foolhardiness. Thus doth He perfect His favor unto you, in order that ye may surrender (unto Him)." (An-Nahl : 78) These men’s fear of God and their love for Him merge into one beautiful feeling of awe of God’s beauty and bounty. And thus they would strive to live up to God’s expectations, knowing that "Allah tasketh not a soul beyond its scope." (Al-Baqara : 286) God  says : "Lo! We offered the trust unto the heavens and the earth and the hills, but they shrank from bearing it and were afraid of it. And man assumed it. Lo! he hath proved a tyrant and a fool." (Al-Ahzab : 72) A God-knowing man is  aware of  what he was made for. And what does God want after all ? Gratefulness towards Him and solidarity with people ! And that’s what God-knowing men strive to do.  Yet, these men have a self-contradiction ! While they long to meet God –which can only happen after death–, they would love to live on and on to know more and more about God. These people see the world in perpetual motion while others see it as static. They see how, whatever Man does, it’s God who will lead him as He pleases. They see how God would even use earthquakes and wars and all sorts of calamities to remind Man of Heaven when Man does not want to see anything but the life of this world. They see that despite all these calamities life remains beautiful ! People find time for joy even in war times ! Ask any woman about labour, she’ll say awful. Ask her about the first smile of her baby, she’ll say something else. A man who knows God sees the baby’s smile before the baby is born ! And because a man who knows God is like anybody else –a human being– God made Angels to kneel to Man, and made the earth and the skies and even Jinns to serve Man.The Koran says : "And verily We tried Solomon, and set upon his throne a (mere) body. Then did he repent. He said : My Lord! Forgive me and bestow on me sovereignty such shall not belong to any after me. Lo! Thou art the Bestower.   So We made the wind subservient unto him, setting fair by his command whithersoever he intended.  And the unruly, every builder and diver (made We subservient),  And others linked together in chains, (Saying) : This is Our gift, so bestow thou, or withhold, without reckoning." (Sad : 34-39) Also about Solomon: "And there were gathered together unto Solomon his armies of the jinn and humankind, and of the birds, and they were set in battle order."   (An-Naml : 17) The funny thing is, if you ask a 'God-knowing' man whether he knows God, the only answer you’ll get from him is a smile ! If you wish to know more about these blessed men, read about them in books –for you may never come across one. Such books are available in English. Just look for them, and read them to see how a man could become a friend of God.

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Man, man, man––what about women? a woman would ask."The Messiah, son of Mary, was no other than a messenger, messengers (the like of whom) had passed away before him. And his mother was a saintly woman. And they both used to eat (earthly) food. See how we make the revelations clear for them, and see how they are turned away!" (Al-Maidah : 75)

Mohamed Ali LAGOUADER