Azaan-e-Bilali

They say your voice penetrated the hardest of hearts, and made them weep. The Call, its words, that the Most Merciful put into the hearts of those eleven sahaba. The words, that you climbed onto a lofty place to repeat. You were the first person to call them out, they say, jumping at RasoolAllah (saw)’s instruction as always. He picked you, over the rest, ‘the leader of all muazzins’, he said and you continued to Call for him, where ever he went. It soothed him, and he asked you often. Your voice was deep, and loud and clear they tell me. And I wonder again, what it sounded like. I go through different azaans, the muezzins of my neighborhood, the best recorded azaans, from Syria to Egypt, trying so hard to imagine what yours must be like. But I can’t.

I can’t imagine the sweetness it contained from the tears you wept, when you were whipped in persecution. And you cried out Ahad in pain, with the same voice. And the khushu it contained, just like your wudhu and the nawafil you prayed after it. The same nawafil that you hoped were the reason to acquire your place in jannah, one step behind the Prophet (saw). “I heard your footsteps in jannah, Bilal’ he said. And you thought, with all your humility, that it were your nawafil that had earned you that place. Not your jihad, not the pain, or the tears and the lashing or your unflinching tawheed against it. Not your azaan everyday or being the favourite muezzin of the most beloved mosque. Neither your khidmaat of RasoolAllah (saw) nor the love in his eyes for you. You didn’t think that must be it. It has to be. And it was your ikhlaas that spoke, and said it could be your tahayatul wudhu perhaps? I can’t imagine the sound of that humility.

And they tell me you couldn’t call out the azaan, after your Beloved (saw) left the world. The words would not form and leave you loud and clear like they used to. Not without you being overcome with grief. They tell me you left Madinah, because it broke your heart to have that masjid and that city without your gentle Prophet (saw)  And the city craved to hear your voice, till the Prophet (saw) appeared in your dream, and said to you ‘O Bilal, how is it that you do not visit us?’ You rushed to Madinah the very next day. And they insisted, the people of the city, for you to Call them to prayer again. But you just couldn’t. Till the grandsons of the Prophet (saw) asked it of you, and Hassan and Hussain (ra) were much too dear for you to refuse. So Madinah heard your azaan again, one last time. And it brought tears to all who heard. They say you broke down in tears when you said “Ash’hado anna Muhammadur Rasulullah”. And so did the sahabah, at Baitul-Muqaddas -the only other time and place you called out the azaan after the Prophet (saw) was gone. At Umar ibn Khattab’s (ra) insistence, they tell us. I wonder, what it must have been like both those times. And all the other times before it. I really don’t know.

So I crave, from the depths of lost corners of my heart, to hear the Call in your voice. For it to echo in my ears, and not just as my imagination. To be able to reply to your Azaan and say Ash’hadu alla-illaha illAllah after you. It seems so distant and unattainable, and inappropriate because it mingles with the desires of the dunya in my heart..but I come back to it, again and again. The azaan-e-bilal (ra) and its shaan. One can only wonder…and crave.

May Allah (swt) grant us all who crave, the Toufeeq, just for the sake of that fleeting naaqis talab. And a heart that continues to yearn, for things it knows it deserves not.

staying on the path

Not to my surprise, the roads were iced over today, though Alhamdulillah some roads already received their  morning dose of salt. As I was driving along taking the kids to school, I was feeling especially grateful the other drivers were carefully driving in their lane. Anyone who has ever lived in snow can probably appreciate this feeling of gratitude.

There is usually a path right in the middle of a lane marked by the many cars which  passed before, and on the outside of those trodden paths is ice and/or snow, despite the salt applied. So going a little on the outside of the very middle of the lane can send one into the next lane, crashing into other cars, off the road, and even completely losing the entire road in adverse conditions.

And then it occurred to me that perhaps our deen is like this:  That we always have to be careful and stay in the straight path, right in the middle, not near the boundaries. Various conditions are always befalling us, but we can’t allow ourselves to slip and slide right off the path. This really might happen because sometimes we don’t even realize that we’ve gone so close to the boundaries that anything could come along and make us exceed the boundaries.

And just like a car, we’d go slip, sliding completely out of control. Where we’d spiral to is just not up to us and how or if we find our way back is just by the mercy and guidance of Allah swt.

And this path made in the middle of the lane is the path of our teachers, their teachers, all the way to the Nabi Kareem (Sallallāhu Alaihi Wa Sallam). This path was made so that we don’t lose our way. This path was made to eliminate the possibility of even going toward the boundaries of the deen. This path was made to protect us, and show us the right way.

And I am especially feeling gratitude for those who’ve previously tread this path, to make this path for me, for all of us, with their love for us, to guide us and prevent us from getting lost, from losing the path.  May Allah swt grant special treasures from his endless special treasures to all those who’ve come before us.  And send upon the Nabi Kareem special blessings and special peace, and to his family (radiyallah anhum), and the SaHaaba karaam, ajma’een.

Shaykh Kamaluddin Ahmed in Islambad Jan. 2012

Shaykh Kamaluddin Ahmed in Islambad Jan. 2012

Metaphors for life

Metaphors for life

contributed by:   sunklq, Second Year CIL Student, Lahore

GPRS? Cell phone? Map…Compass?

No; I needed ice, lots of ice.

The powerful sun of the Sahara glared as beads of sweat rolled down my neck. The water in my flask tasted thicker; I forced it down my throat, and thought of ice, lots of ice.

Lost in the Sahara, where temperatures reach a soaring 110`F, the most pressing concern confronting one is that of Life.

I had given up on helplessly running around in larger and larger concentric circles. I tried all directions, looking for some marker that would help me find my way back. Everything looked exactly the same: an undaunted landscape, blue skies, a fierce sun, and limitless empty space. Never had I imagined that my Camel trek would leave me lost in the world’s largest desert. I looked for some sign of Nomads, tents, camels…a desert oasis? How did the National Geographic people always run into one of those wandering Tuareg people ten minutes into their expeditions?

People back in the camp would obviously have realized by now that I was missing; helicopters would soon come looking for me. I darted a glance at the composed skies. There was absolutely no reason to panic…right?

Besides, what good would a cell phone be in the Sahara? What would I tell?

“Erm, I’m standing between two…well, now there are three – I’m standing next to three sand dunes; please come and pick me. If you make it in time, you might be able to see all three, or four, or five, or maybe none. Alternatively, you could follow the trail of my footprints; if the wind didn’t blow it away that is. Please be here soon; I’m starving. And don’t forget; please bring some ice for me with you”.

What a wretched place to be lost in! No foot prints, no markers, sand dunes keep changing places, and just when you thought you saw water, puff; a mirage.

I tipped over the last few drops of water from my flask and decided to sit down. I was thirsty and exhausted. The sun had turned into a pale yellow disk over the horizon and the desert had lost some of its intensity; I must have been missing for hours now. I closed my eyes; I needed to get my thoughts together. I was lost – in the Sahara; night was about to fall, I had no plan of action nor did I have any provisions. What must night be in the Sahara…how must it be to die in the Sahara? Panic-stricken, I opened my eyes.

Was this another mirage, or did I see something move? After hours of not even an ant! I stood up; I rubbed my eyes and rubbed them again. Sure enough I saw shadows – moving! Moving in my direction! The Nomads! They finally decided to make an entry, after I nearly settled with death in the desert.

Draped in deep indigo shawl-like turbans, veiling their faces and falling over their shoulders; two men, a camel, a horse and a dog. The strange assortment of help moved in my direction. So many images of veiled men from documentaries, magazines, movies…and yet there was something unfelt about this procession, as if the Sahara had been defied by loyalty, obedience and slave-hood.

Without waiting, without catching my breath I yelled in their direction and told them I was lost, as if it were obvious to any desert nomad that people not from the desert could only approach them for directions.

The procession moved closer and stopped a few feet from where I was standing. The man riding the camel moved in my direction till he could stare in my eyes through his veil. The dog, following his master, quickly moved forward and stood next to his red leather sandals, without a sound, as if not even breathing. I caught my breath, looked at the Blue Man, and gasped:

“I’m lost; can you please guide me out of here?”

He looked puzzled: “No, I don’t think I can. We are guided by the stars our self. Follow them”

 “I don’t understand…are you saying you can’t guide me?”

“…for I might stray,” he replied looking ahead.

The joy and hope that their arrival had bought felt extinguished. But I decided to push a little:

  “ummm, so how exactly do I follow the stars?”

 “Follow any one of them if you are lost”.

 “Clearly I am lost. But tell me, would they show me the right way?”

 “Follow any one of them and you will be rightly guided.”

There was a sense of finality to his last comment. The rest of his companions who had been waiting at a distance seemed to be shifting also. The dog however stood calmly, and the man on the camel continued to stare intently at me. I began to panic. If he all was going to offer were such winding hints and leave me, there was no way I was going to make it out of the desert. I decided to continue the conversation, but my mind had drawn a blank. The only thing I could think of was finding a way back home, but he already seemed to have settled any discussion along those lines. I desperately needed to say something, lest he leave:

“Is there ice in the Sahara?”

The words had hardly left my lips and I couldn’t believe I was such a fool. The only other thing on my mind and I blurted it. He was sure to lose his patience with me now. I closed my eyes to overcome the embarrassment, waiting for the procession to leave any minute. Breathe held, I tried to keep track of movement: rustling, scrambling…smashing? A chisel clanging? I opened my eyes:

“Salt from Timbuktu?”

The Blue Man moved towards me, and extended a handful of pieces of salt:

“No, ice. That is what you asked for.”

His companion who had been on the horse quickly re-wrapped the remaining block in a bright woolen blanket. The horseback was laden with several rectangular slabs, completely wrapped in intricately woven blankets.  I spread my hands to accept the roughly broken cubes.

It felt like I just discovered ice.

Without another word, the Blue Man gently began to move away with his camel, while his companion remounted his horse; the dog followed without needing to be told. I panicked:

 “Why are you leaving me?”

 “Our work here is done”

 “No… please wait, I need your help!”

“I have no need to wait; I’m an ice merchant; ice melts fast in the Sahara;” a sense of pleading in his tone this time.

 “But…”

“Have mercy on one who is forever at loss for his merchandise is perishing”

The ice cubes in my hands were melting through my numb fingers. I couldn’t help asking:

“Isn’t that a terrible life?”

He looked down from his camel: “No; it’s a good death”.

I wanted to penetrate his blue veil: “But how will those who come after you live?”

His beady black eyes met mine: “Rather, how will they die?”

He nodded. As abruptly as they had appeared, their procession was out of sight. The Blue Men of the Desert seemed to have said all that there should ever have been to say.

The red glow cast by the setting sun over the unreliability of the dunes had turned into an utter black. The temperature must have dropped to a -0.5 degrees. A wild, sand-laden Haboob was beginning to blow away the impermanence of the desert, wiping away with it even the possibility of unlikely footprints or a morning mirage. I shivered uncontrollably as infinite particles, glittering madly under the desert moon, engulfed me – a sandstorm of futility. Mountain like dunes would be blown away, to settle elsewhere. The Blue Men of the Desert, unaffected by the Sahara’s winds, were probably in some other corner of the desert, selling ice.

Lost in the Sahara, where temperatures reach a soaring 110’F, I discovered life.

Epilogue

بِسْمِ اللَّـهِ الرَّحْمَـٰنِ الرَّحِيمِ

وَالْعَصْرِ ﴿١﴾

 إِنَّ الْإِنسَانَ لَفِي خُسْرٍ ﴿٢﴾

 إِلَّا الَّذِينَ آمَنُوا وَعَمِلُوا الصَّالِحَاتِ وَتَوَاصَوْا بِالْحَقِّ وَتَوَاصَوْا بِالصَّبْرِ ﴿٣﴾

The Scribbles on the Heart

On my to do list today was scrubbing crayon marks off of my walls. My two year old thinks it looks beautiful, but I am positive my landlord will not agree. Eventually my landlord, the owner of my apartment, will come to know about how we decorated the place.

I didn’t mind the scrubbing because I was reminded of a few things like for example, it’s an amanah on me to leave my apartment as I took it or better at least. And that reminded me that in life we have a lot of amanahs on us, like when we borrow something it should be returned undamaged or how we should leave the bathrooms nice for the next person, every day things.

And during my scrubbing, I learned how to scrub the most effective way:  one small piece of scribble at a time, because when I tried to scrub the entire scribble, nothing was removed. And when I tried to apply more pressure to a large area, my arm would cramp up, and I couldn’t keep that up. So by concentrating on one small part of a scribble at a time, eventually my walls became clean despite there being really a lot of scribbling on my walls.

So as I was scrubbing and becoming happy, I started thinking that my apartment isn’t the only thing which I do not own and that I will have to return.  Allah swt is the Owner of my heart. And He will take it back from me at some point. I am responsible for keeping my heart  as Allah swt  gave it to me, clean and pure as when I was born.

Anyone can imagine how disheartening it is to receive something back ruined and blackened of one’s own possessions. And we can imagine how we would feel if we were the borrower who ruined someone else’s possession. We’d feel dread to return that thing, and when we did return it, our faces would be downturned, feeling humiliated.

So similarly, Allah swt would not be pleased to receive our hearts back ruined and blackened, and how would we even face Him?  Allah swt will only allow that which is pure into Jannah.

Alhamdulillah, our teachers have told us how to purify the heart in the most effective of ways, which is by the way, just like cleaning scribbles off of our walls. They have described this process better than I can explain, but, the idea is to focus on one bad habit at a time because if we try to write a giant list of things to immediately stop and expect success, we might find our efforts can’t be sustained, and we will feel defeated; we may completely give up. So, one bad habit at a time or take on one good thing at a time …one step at a time with consistent effort is the key.

I also realized that I was lucky that I got started cleaning the scribbling on my walls before it collected because who knows if I had waited, kept allowing the scribbles to collect, if I would have had time to get it all off before returning my apartment back to the landlord. I mean, when you have to leave, you have to leave no matter if you are ready or not.

And besides, my two year old gets fairly sneaky, and I get a little distracted at times. So between those two conditions, it’s possible that scribbles are likely to suddenly appear, almost from no where. So a clean-as-you-go approach is best iA.

And lastly, it was a good reminder to monitor the art activities in my house closer to prevent further wall decorating projects, initiated and managed by my two year old.  =D

Zaynab Academy Quilt

Assalaamu Alaykum wa Rahmatullahi wa Barkaatuh,

The CIL Online Class put their minds together to make a special Zaynab Academy quilt, not of fabric but of words pieced together to express their feelings after a few short months into the Amma year.  They did a beautiful job masha’Allah, and it’s the first of many more to come. insha’Allah

December 2011

 

Preparing for the day, a heart is busy in,

This and that, everything and nothing

As minutes roll by, a chanting from within

Joins the universe in exalting His name

Silent I stand, as His mercy descends,

With the spread of divine canopy

The angels’ wings sprout

Grateful, I bow my head in submission

To Him whom life is nothing without

Oh, all these spiritual bouts

Hum of what serenity is about

I crave for the company of these pure women around

Emitting such a noor that all day it surrounds

I am a wanderer hiding from the shadows and this darkness within

I know there is a luminous soul, lost somewhere, deep therein

This dream of being purified, this hope for a miracle happening

When the end comes, I see green pastures, my head bowed in a prayer

My lovely Jannah I seek thy admission,

O people O people, please make provision,

Do good deeds to get His permission,

For the time that is lost, you will never regain,

Dear ones the beautiful deeds you maintain,

Help you to join the pure & board the train,

I heard the sermon with the words so in vain

I tried and tried hard to fathom the gain

With heart so broken I looked up towards the heaven

Lo and behold! That Noor soothed away my pain

This white light is the mercy of Allah

The darkness has lifted, now I’ll never be the same

My Baji

Contribution by S.A,  CIL Online, Islamabad

The first time, I noticed just her beauty and that she carried herself with a certain grace. I asked for a contact, she gave me her personal cell number. So I wanted to know more about her and the institute she worked for- I made this bahana to myself, I had a few fiqhi questions ready as well. We started talking and I was soon opening up to her- all my queries and stupid dilemmas.

She was giving a talk at a house 50 minutes drive away; I wanted to go badly. And Allah (swt) grants instantly at times; I was there at her feet- a mesmerized look on my face and a light flooding my heart- it was pouring out of her words.

I want to arrange something at my college so I contact her; she travels far and near everyday for her Beloved’s sake- she would be there.

We are fast friends now,I proudly like to say; a friend, an esteemed teacher, her company: a tonic for my soul.

The day also comes when she comes to my house for the first time. Shamsa, my maid’s daughter has told me she has one wish in her life- to learn to recite the Quran.  I used to teach her bit by bit and sometimes talk about Allah (swt) and His deen. Frequently I had mentioned my baji (just as she liked to call me baji). Hence, her excitement was a similar level to mine.

Baji came and had to sit at the speaker’s seat upfront. I beckoned Shamsa from the kitchen then, she peeked from behind the door- “yeh meri baji hein” I turned to her, grateful tears glistening in my eyes and my heart remembered this shair from a nazam they used to teach us in 5^th grade..

“Jis ne zameen par piyar utara

Woh khud hoga kitan piyara”

Road to Makkah

Contribution by F.F, First Year CIL Online Student

                          

I have heard there is a beautiful place called Makkah

It is scented with the sweet fragrance of Imaan and Taqwah

I have heard the society that resided there was the purest of pure

And their leader, the most pious, won the hearts of Makkah

Can any noble soul direct me to that path?

Can someone show me the glorious road to Makkah?

You see, I am a seeker, I come from far away

My companions were those whom shaytaan had led astray

I used to lived in a dump of sin and mischief

I had drowned in the puddle of desires, knee-deep

Can someone help me escape this wrath?

Can someone help me find the righteous road to Makkah?

Once whispered to me some secrets the wind and the thunder

I began gazing at the the moon and the stars in wonder

The trees, the flowers, little insects and the birds too

All acknowledged a Creator to whom they surrendered

Now I too wish to turn away from my oblivion of the past

Can someone pull me out and push me on the road to Makkah?

I hear this journey is not a smooth-sail

There are moments and days and months and years

Of hunger and thirst; fatigue that moves one to tears

But O listener! I have heard this too;

A glance at that land makes you forget all your fears

This quest maybe painful and harsh, but the rewards are the gems that last

So can some virtuous one navigate me to the road to Makkah?

You see, I am alone, shaytaan and nafs are the thieves

They lurk around waiting to pounce at those on the way to Makkah

If I go astray, they will loot my little bag of good deeds

I will lose all possessions and might never make it to Makkah

So O seeker travelling on this road, guide me too

Make me a follower, lead me to the road to Makkah

The Breeze at Dawn has Secrets to Tell

GUEST POST by ‘Saalika’ Third Year CIL Student, Karachi

In the middle of the night her eyes opened from deep sleep, it was 4 in the morning. “I will drink some water and sleep again” she reassured herself. She got up and drank the glass of water, and as she proceeded towards her bed-she stopped for a moment, the floor of her room was shinning. It sparkled and she realized that it was the moonlight that lit the floor of her dark room. She went to her window, and saw that the night was luminous with the full moon. It was shinning in all its splendor and beauty, with streaks of grey clouds surrounding it. She could not take her eyes off from its beauty. There was a strange type of silence in the air, and a stillness in the passage of time. And suddenly the silence of the night was broken by creaking of the cricket, it seemed as if life had already begun among the animals-and it was only humans who were lost in their deep slumber. This thought reminded her of these beautiful verses of a poem:

 In the darkness of the night cooed a pigeon,
On a branch, in weakness while I was asleep,
I lied: by Allah were I a lover,
The pigeon would not have outpaced me in weeping
I assume I am love sick, love struck,
But I weep not while animals weep.

In the darkness of that night, she understood the reality of these words-each word felt so true, so absolute. In the darkness of the night a lover awaits the call of the beloved, it awaits to answer to the call of the Beloved who resides in the Heavens. A momin truly anticipates the arrival of the last part of the night when he is able to witness the beauty of his Lord and when his heart strives to please the Beloved. The call of the Beloved gives eternity to these moments. A momin does not await the arrival of the night just to spend it in deep slumber, rather he is anxious to enlighten his dark night with the noor of True Love.

What could be more beautiful a time then the time when our Allah (Swt) descends to the Lowest sky and calls his slaves who obediently get up. Other people sooth their eyes with deep sleep in the night while a momin soothes his soul with tears of repentance. People spend it in useless chatter while the momin spends the night with his confessions of love for his Beloved. Truly the time of the tahajjud is the most beautiful time of the night. We surely underestimate the power which the last part of the night has, we belittle the value of the treasures it beholds. These nights spent in conversation with the True Beloved, hold the key to the enlightened path of devotion, submission and pure love.

She realized this was not the time to sleep-but to be awake from deep slumber of ignorance. After praying tahajjud, she raised her hands to make dua. And as she raised them towards the sky, she could feel the joy of welcoming the Most Esteemed Guest to her heart. Just like in this world we welcome our guests and offer them the best of things but, she wondered what she could offer to this Guest. She had nothing but mountains of sins, nothing but countless moments of heedlessness, and as she started thinking unknowingly the tears started flowing from her eyes. But these tears gave her a strange feeling, she had known the pain of crying for the world-but this was the first time she was experiencing the joy of crying for her Allah. She wanted to make so many confessions of her sins,  but all she could say was “Oh Allah-I come to Your door empty handed, I come to your door with nothing, but Oh Allah-I come to ask for You only-You are my everything” and as she ended these words-she could feel her heart being wrapped in fold of submission. She wanted to ask so much from this world but, for her now this world was just a fleeting momemt before the beginning of the promised abode. She had long known the pleasure of living in this world like a queen but, she now understood the beauty in being the beggar at the door of her Lord. She now understood what Maulana Rumi meant when he said:

“The breezes at dawn have secrets to tell you
Don’t go back to sleep!
You must ask for what you really want.
Don’t go back to sleep!
People are going back and forth
across the doorsill where the two worlds touch,
The door is round and open
Don’t go back to sleep!” 

After praying the fajr prayer, she went to her bed. She looked at her clock, it was 5. Her eyes closed, it was time to sleep-but her heart was awake.

The Deen Has Made Her This Way

intended to be a nasheed

~

She sits alone on her prayer rug, raises her hands in duaa

Alone on her prayer rug, she prays to Allah

She gives shukr for all she has but feels she has too much

It’s just to pass along she says, not mine to touch

 -

So merciful and full of love and comforting of pain

Noble and kind, the deen has made her this way

Allah Allah subhanahu wa ta’alaa

Allah Allah subhanahu wa ta’alaa

  -

She herself, an orphan child, shuffled from here to there

But to another one with hungry eyes, offers her to share

So generous with what she has and thinks it’s too much

To her, it’s the other ones with burdens too tough

  -

So merciful and full of love and comforting of pain

Noble and kind, the deen has made her this way

Allah Allah subhanahu wa ta’alaa

Allah Allah subhanahu wa ta’alaa

-

How is it that she needs but is with mercy abound?

Extending her arms to give a hand to anyone around

When someone asks from her she never says no

Her knowledge is less, though fulfills all she knows

  -

So merciful and full of love and comforting of pain

Noble and kind, the deen has made her this way

Allah Allah subhanahu wa ta’alaa

Allah Allah subhanahu wa ta’alaa

 -

Tears fall from her eyes but not for her own grief

Tears belong to lonely ones who live on the streets

Sleeping at night at whichever place they find

Not a single person to love them and no peace of mind

  -

So merciful and full of love and comforting of pain

Noble and kind, the deen has made her this way

Allah Allah subhanahu wa ta’alaa

Allah Allah subhanahu wa ta’alaa