timotheos

To Honour God

timbowes — Mon, 06 Aug 2007 19:25:00 -0500

The content on this website (from a book I have been working on for family and friends) has been a long time in the making and has passed through numerous iterations, surviving every change of heart and period of stagnation. It began as a work entitled, My Journey, which remains apt for this describes the approach of each of us to our Creator. We find the journey in the religious imagery of our two traditions: "Guide us along the straight path," recites the Muslim in every prayer, while the Christian reads from the scriptures, "But small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few find it." In my own case, I began these notes with the sentiment that when I came to believe in Islam in 1998 it was not the end of the road, but rather its beginning. Over a year ago I renamed my book, Reconciling the Heart, for this too described my journey towards God. Yet although I am still fond of that title, I settled in the end for the name at the head of this chapter and on the cover of this book: To Honour God. For many years--even as a wavering agnostic--my constant refrain has been the notion that I only want to honour God, and so the imagery of the journey returns for I have made little progress in this regard, taking only a few steps along this path. It is a journey that begins with us turning to God as we sincerely call ourselves to account: there comes a time when we realise that we want to be close to God and there can be no substitute. Thus, responding to the call of our heart, we bring ourselves before Him, repenting for every wrong action that passed before and dedicating ourselves to this path: to worship God as if we see Him, knowing that truly He sees us. For me, it means to turn in repentance, to strive to purify my heart from its spiritual diseases, to conquer the calls of my lower self and to adhere to God's commands. I find myself with a great need to accomplish humility in prayer and to enjoy true focus, to ward off pride and arrogance, and to replace self-centredness with a life revolving around God, recognising that good works are a means to an end, but not an end in themselves. All of this--I believe--is encapsulated in those six oft-repeated words of mine: I only want to honour God. The path of Muhammad--the religion of Islam--enjoins upon its followers remembrance of God, which means glorifying, exalting and praising Him. In the Qur'an we read, "Remember Me and I will remember you." Elsewhere we read, "...and remember your Lord much and glorify Him in the evening and in the early morning." Another verse reads, "Those who believe, and whose hearts find their rest in the remembrance of God--for, verily, in the remembrance of God hearts find rest." The Prophet said, "The difference between the one who remembers God and the one who does not remember God is like the difference between the living and the dead." It is also reported that he taught that God says: As my servant thinks about Me so will I be for him. I am with him if he will remember Me. If he calls on Me by himself I will call him by Myself, and if he calls on Me in a group of people, I mention him in a better group in My presence. If he approaches Me one hand-span, I will approach him one arm's length; if he approaches Me one arm's length, I will approach him by a cubit; if he comes to Me walking, I will come to him running. For every tiny action on our part, God promises that He will return it with something better. If we turn to Him walking, He will come to us running, for He is indeed the Most Merciful. Even if our sins were like mountains, reaching the clouds of the sky, He promises us forgiveness if we turn to Him alone with sincere repentance. With gifts like these, what excuse do we have not to honour Him? The Prophet Muhammad said, "Any activity not begun with the words, 'In the Name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful,' is severed from its blessings." He also taught that the deeds most loved by God are those done regularly, even if they are small. He used to sleep during the earlier part of the night and stood in prayer during the latter part, for he said that the best prayer after those that are obligatory is the prayer in the middle of the night. He once said, "Getting up at night is enjoined upon you, for it was the practice of the pious before you. It brings you near to your Lord and is atonement for evil deeds and a restraint from sin." Concerning the ritual prayers performed five times each day, the Messenger said, "If there was a river at the door of the house of one of you, and he bathed in it five times every day, would you say that any dirt would be left on him?" His companions replied that no dirt would be left at all. "So that is the example of the five prayers by which God washes away sins," he said. Once he was asked which deed was most loved by God and he replied, "Prayer which is performed on time." The Prophet used to seek God's forgiveness and turn to Him in repentance more than seventy times a day. He told us, "No trouble befalls a Muslim, and no illness, no sorrow, no grief, no harm, no distress, not even a thorn pricks him, without God expiating by it some of his sins." A man asked Muhammad, "Which part of Islam is best?" He replied, "To provide food and to say salam--peace--to those you know and to those you do not know." In another narration he said, "Indeed the nearest people to God are those who begin by saying salam." The Messenger of God said, "Charity is due upon every limb of a human being each day that the sun rises. To act justly between two people is charity. To help a man with his riding beast, or to load his provisions on it or lift them up for him is charity. A good word is charity. Every step going to prayer is charity. Removing from the road what causes harm is charity." Once he said, "While a man was walking along, he came across a thorny branch on the way and he removed it. God praised him for that and forgave him his sins." He taught us, "Fear God wherever you are; let an evil deed be followed by a good deed so that you blot it out; and be well-behaved towards people." Our Prophet said, "Beware of envy, for envy devours good deeds like fire devours firewood." He also said, "The strong man is not the one who is strong in wrestling, but the one who controls himself in anger." The Messenger of God never used obscene talk, nor did he listen to it. He taught us to be humble so that no one boasts over his neighbour nor oppresses him. "None of my companions should tell me anything about anyone," he said, "for I like to meet you with a clean heart." He told his followers, "Do not talk for a long time without remembering God, for talking much without remembering God is hardness of the heart. The most distant from God amongst mankind is the one with a hardened heart." The Prophet said, "The Merciful One shows mercy to those who are themselves merciful to others. So show mercy to whatever is on earth, then He who is in heaven will show mercy to you." He taught, "He who does not thank people does not thank God." He also said, "When someone has had good done to him and says to the doer, 'May God reward you,' he has done the utmost praise." He said that a man does not truly believe until he likes for his brother what he likes for himself. The word Islam, which is derived from the Arabic root Salema--meaning peace--means submission to the will of God and obedience to His law. Within the teachings of the religion it is defined as the Middle Way, embracing both the law and the spirit of the law, denying both the Christian's rejection of the law in favour of its spirit and the Pharisee's dismissal of the spirit in favour of devotion to detailed legislation. The Middle Way provides balance so that we may appreciate the wisdom inherent in this way of life.

Turning back to God

timbowes — Mon, 30 Jul 2007 19:00:00 -0500

Two years ago as autumn turned to winter, I noticed that there was something wrong with me. I did not know what it was, but my emotions were heightened, I was on edge, easily upset and very inconsistent in my day to day dealings. My mood would swing between the strangest misery and confused folly. The misery revealed itself in the tears that welled up for no apparent reason from the tiniest seed. The folly in the quick humour which would rise rapidly and then die. I seemed to be dissatisfied with myself. My heart ached, feeling heavy in my chest. Returning to England following a summer spent overseas, I quizzed myself about my unhappiness and decided that I could change it by engaging in one project or another. Each attempt lasted barely two weeks. There was a group writing initiative, to which I contributed five articles before hurriedly retracting four of them again, turning my back on the project because of the melancholy which kept overcoming me. It was all ups and downs, backwards and forwards, proposals and withdrawals. At work I wanted to be a writer, then a graphic designer, next an IT trainer, then a communications officer; and then, just as I was offered an interview for the latter, I was resigned once more to my role. Perhaps tomorrow would bring a better day, I concluded; perhaps it was not so bad. Verily mankind is ungrateful. My first job after university was very comfortable. I earned a better salary then than I ever have since. It was located on a country estate outside Maidenhead, in converted stables between a lovely walled garden and a grand mansion with manicured grounds. The Chairman liked his fast cars but he was generous to us, keeping the fridge stocked up every week to provide his staff with a free lunch. For some reason, though, I was dissatisfied, despite a great wage for the simplest of graphic design work. When the company downsized after the slump in the market following the attacks on the United States in September 2001 and I was out of a job, I started up my own business offering publishing services. This was a situation where I was in the position to do what I most love: creating beautiful books. Alas I became dissatisfied once more, even though I was given the opportunity to typeset some really very important works. There had to be something better, I told myself, and so I moved onto new ground. I ended up as Office Manager in a busy training department, a role that allowed me to do many interesting things. Yet again I became dissatisfied and so the cycle started again. What is it that drives me over the edge again and again? Why is it that I am never satisfied with what I have? Is my situation not better than the poor soul who sets up his table on a bridge over the Bosporus every evening in Istanbul to sell ice cold, bright yellow lemonade to hot and tired commuters? Indeed, is my situation not better than those dry, scorching days I spent administering an internet caf� in the summer of 2003, with the fumes of traffic numbing my brain? Or the days spent serving prickly Thai and unsophisticated Lebanese cuisine to three hundred customers over lunchtime off Berkley Square? Perhaps it was pride: pride, which made me think that the job I was doing was never good enough, pride which got in the way of an honest day's work, making it seem worthless and me worthless as a result. I thought I had been stumbling away from a path I once knew when I was younger and more devoted to treating a lump of flesh beneath my ribs. One of the first books I was given to read when I became Muslim in 1998 concerned the purification of the soul. When I reflected on those uncomfortable symptoms as autumn turned to winter, I realised that it was time that I returned to that work and others like it, recognising what it was that was creating this unease. My soul had been neglected as the smog and noise of a violent and political world obscured the reality of faith. As this realisation dawned on me I sat alone one night and prayed. Oh my Lord, put comfort back into my heart and do not let me die other than as one who has earned Your pleasure. Take away this heaviness and ache in my chest and replace it with lightness and appreciation of the sweetness of all of Your blessings. Oh my Lord, let me return to You with a good heart. Amin. Some months later I put my eldest brother's name into Google one afternoon and clicked on search; he came up as the first listing out of about 476,000 returns. He has been involved in a number of landmark cases in the High Court and Court of Appeal, and Chambers and Partners list him as an up and coming individual. I then put in my sister's name: she also came up first out of about 51,000, with eight further listings on the same page for work on single-crystal X-ray crystallography. I immediately felt a pang of regret, looking in on myself. In the next instant I was wondering what studies I could undertake to get out of this rut--to be something beside my siblings: the lawyer, the diplomat and the PhD doc. A moment later I realised that only pride lay behind this urge of mine. For months I had been lamenting my place in the world of work--I commonly described it as being stranded--but recently I decided to just go with the flow, to go where my Lord takes me, to submit to His plan instead of crying over mine. Applications and interviews aligned to my interests yielded no results; the description of my current role seemed to be what I was looking for, but its reality had proved far removed. Stranded here, at last I began to recognise that I have a station according to my efforts--and others have their station according to theirs. Over recent years I have found myself in the company of intellectuals and had started to consider myself one by association, but the reality is entirely different. That friends of mine are solicitors, teachers, academics and diplomats does not alter the fact that I am a simple worker whose eight hour days pay the bills and little more. Over a number of months, the past that led me here had preoccupied me, but acknowledging mistakes cannot alter time. There has always been a reason for every path I have taken, though I could not comprehend it at the time. I pray al-Istikarah at every juncture and move onwards accordingly. Friends ask me what I aspire to achieve in life: every time I just shrug my shoulders and mutter that I do not die other one who has earned my Creator's pleasure. A dear friend of mine, now a high flying diplomat overseas, once gave me a telling off in the final weeks of my degree when he asked me what my intentions were. I told him that I did not know and he promptly told me that this was not good enough, that we all had to aspire to something. What he would think of me today, I wondered, if he knew that my answer eight years later was still the same. I have dreams of course, but all I can say is that I want to honour God. I only have these pangs of regret every now and then, when I realise how my siblings are doing and what my friends have achieved. But what lies behind this? I work to live, not vice versa. This simple job of mine pays the bills, puts food on the table. Does any man need any more? It is only pride that fosters these regrets of mine: the desire to be a great success, to be a match for my loved ones, to be known amongst the people, but that is not my station. Those that have reached great heights did so through hard work and perseverance, for we only reap what we sow. Between my soul and God lie my heart and my deeds. The greatest obstacle that has stood in the way of my own spiritual progress over the past few years has been me. I have faced addictions, desires and distractions that taunt me, keeping me from realising any lofty goals. I once wrote to a friend with some thoughts that were pressing on me just then:

I fear I am regressing spiritually. I am torn between chasing after my religion and other matters, but more and more it is the other matters that dominate. I feel I really need help to get back on track because I cannot sustain anything on my own. I can bow down one evening in sincere repentance, only to slip again two days later. It is like I am falling.

There were times in the past when such realisation drove me to instant reform, but now I found myself with a kind of dispassionate resignation, which troubled me, the lack of emotion worrying me. Emotion can drive change, creating an energy and impetus. Instead I had this quiet realisation--I knew what I needed to do, but did not have the great drive. I had a problem, I told myself, and that was me. Yet another truth dawned on me within a matter of days. The truth is that there is not going to be a starter whistle that tells us that now is the time to start putting our house in order: it is not going to work that way. We are going to have to realise that we need to take action and make a real effort. It is going to be hard, but it is the only way. Perseverance is the key: we have slipped a lot and we have a lot to do to get back on track. The initial realisation came within only a matter of hours. It was not immediate, for there was another trip-up before I got there, but at last I took myself away and did some dhikr for a couple of hours in the garden. I took my little purple pocket prayer book with me and repeated every supplication that seemed relevant. With it came some ease and some resolve. I just need strength and perseverance now, I told myself, for I have been down this path before. There is not going to be some great fanfare--we just have to get going and try our best. It is up to us to make the effort, for nobody else is going to live our lives for us. Tawbah--turning back to God--means to return to correct action after error, asking for God's forgiveness and turning away from wrong actions. We know that God is the Compassionate, the Most Merciful, but it is only when we recognise that our turning to Him is in fact His turning to us that we begin to appreciate the height of His mercy. We cannot travel this road alone, for we are dependent on our Lord in everything that we do. As individuals and as communities we often lose sight of our direction, becoming obsessed with our own ideas and aspirations, which although innocent or well-meant at first can soon take us away from the realities of our existence.

Remember God: He will remember you

timbowes — Sun, 29 Jul 2007 19:00:00 -0500

A few years ago, a close friend and neighbour of mine flew off to a life in a new country. For him the growing hatred of Muslims expressed in our midst had reached its pinnacle and he decided that his future was not with Britain. I believed he was overreacting, but still I watched as he packed his bags and then I waved goodbye reluctantly. Not long before that, another friend--a history teacher by profession--announced his defeated observation amongst friends: "Now I know how the Jews felt in the nineteen-thirties," he said. There was a low mood amongst friends at the time; a kind of fear permeating our conversations. The days of condemning terrorism--with which we could all agree--seemed distant memories; now the institutions and personalities dearest to Muslims were under attack. Voices of moderation were being labelled as voices of extremism, and so we all felt under threat. The reassurance once felt--that a clear distinction had been made between terrorists and the rest of us--had disappeared. The ever narrowing definition of a moderate Muslim and ever widening description of the extremist caused little less than despair. Suddenly all of us who practice our faith were extremists and thus a legitimate target for the wrath of right wing, left wing and liberal commentators alike. There was something telling in my friend's emigration to a hot, unfamiliar country. Exhaustingly, Muslims are perpetually the focus of attention in television programmes and newspaper articles. The modern anthropologists subject us to a bizarre public examination, never tiring of their quest, proceeding as if there were no Sikhs, Hindus, Buddhists or Jews residing within these borders. How many more programmes must we see on women turning to Islam or women choosing hijab, and how many more series on the radicalisation of Muslim youth or documentaries quizzing the eccentric white convert? Whether positive or negative, the attention is becoming suffocating, and it is all a distraction, taking us away from the keys of our faith. Negotiating all the talk of conversion, hijab, women, terrorism and the permissibility of this and that, one wonders what happened to the focus of our faith. All these philosophical acrobatics ignore the focal point of our lives. Distracted by politics and emotion, all mention of God appears to be some way down the list in the topics of our discourse. The main principle of Islam is not that we should not eat pork, although some Muslims would give that impression. I once only learnt three things from some early Muslim acquaintances: Muslims do not eat pork, they only eat halal meat and they do not drink alcohol. No mention of God at all. The Arabic word Islam means the submission or surrender of one's will to God. A person who does this is known as a Muslim. This is why Muslims believe that the religion of all the prophets was Islam and that all of them were Muslims. The first principle of Islam is encapsulated in the Arabic phrase, "La ilaha ill-Allah." This is a testimony of faith which states that there is nothing worthy of worship except God. The two oppositions to this principle are that a person refuses to worship God at all and that a person worships others as well as God. The latter harks back to the first commandment, that "The Lord your God is One God." This is known as Tawhid and it is a concept which affects all aspects of the Muslim?s belief and worship. A Muslim declares his or her faith by witnessing that none has the right to be worshipped except God and that Muhammad is the Messenger of God. By these words, Muslims reject the worship of anything other than God. This means that they will not worship idols, rivers, rocks or a person. By these words they recognise that they have a direct relationship with God, the Creator of all things. The second half of the statement indicates belief in the Prophethood of Muhammad, upon whom be peace. This belief means that one believes in and follows the guidance which he taught. The first part of this declaration of faith, however, indicates that if a person were to worship Muhammad, they would not be considered a Muslim. In the current climate it is worth reflecting on why we are really here. As we are told in the Qur'an, God only created us so that we would worship Him. So we must not let us not lose heart or go off track; remember God and He will remember us.

Ethnic Religion

timbowes — Sat, 28 Jul 2007 19:00:00 -0500

Despite having adherents across every continent, Islam is often considered an ethnic religion in popular discourse along with Hinduism, Buddhism, Sikhism, Judaism and others. In Britain it is often thought of as the religion of Pakistanis even as its roots in the Arabian Peninsula are acknowledged, with some Muslims contributing to this image themselves in the present age of nationalism. Islam, however, has always seen itself as a religion for the whole of humanity. One of the first converts to Islam in Mecca was an African named Bilal. Within decades of the death of the Prophet, Islam had spread across North Africa up to Spain in the west and into China in the east. Muslims have existed in small numbers in the British Isles for centuries, although in time many of them emigrated and settled in North Africa and other Muslim regions. Such people were typically known as Renegades. In 1641, for example, the Puritans published a pamphlet about a sect of Mahometans--as Muslims were known in Christian circles--warning: "this sect is led along with a certaine foolish beliefe of Mahomet, which professed himselfe to be a Prophet." Muslims have existed in other parts of Europe for centuries and it is known that Islam entered some parts of what are now Russia and its satellites long before Christianity. In my personal relationships, the idea that I adopted an ethnic religion was no doubt clouded by my behaviour as a teenager. While I had a healthy interest in the agricultural politics of Africa and in ideas of social justice, I also had some rather dubious ideas and habits as encapsulated in a passage I wrote one night in December 1997 at a time when I was still struggling with my agnosticism:

Silence settled; I held hushed fear. Fear of sins returning to haunt. You changed, rearranged, but like heaven and hell, your mark remains in that gruesome book. No forgiveness or recognition, because they never saw your deconstruction and the reconstruction that followed. I saw the reflection of myself in characters passing by; exploitative, consumptive bodies, self-constructed images dwelling in pools of the commonest stereotypes. Dancing in the sweat of created images, consumed. Gasping for air, I died, drowning in the reality of the foul lies I puddled around me. My silence and fear. Hidden behind masks, disguised as a character unknown, I grasp at anonymity, watching--admiring--guests and relatives new. Fear of those whispers; telegram awaiting; please read out the African tongue. "Anyone but me, please." I changed, never pleaded forgiveness, though sorry I was, for I turned my back and denied that past. And yet you never understood; my deconstruction and reconstruction. Here you remind me of what I preferred be forgotten, like God on judgement day reminding me of every sin I made, though I regretted it long ago. To you the speech of that African tongue was not a single thing; but to me like awaiting God's final call. Unrepented sins returning to the mind, your sorrow, your regret, ignored. Just like that, you changed, turned away from your blinded past, but no one can see now. All the same stereotypes; the same offensive view. A generous brother's wedding reception, the speeches halfway through. In Afro-Caribbean company, sister-in-law and all, the message from the African state gets pushed across the room. To you, only a happy sign, a message of goodwill, but to me, shaped like a nightmare, ready to curse me for my greed. Read the African tongue; I whisper, "What's the need?" You hear the message, but I only reflect on the image of my soul. Like softest soul; those stereotypes; purity, goodness, gold. The ist in me, not with hate, but in stereotyping empathy. I wished it lost, and perhaps it is, but in me I felt those who know, see. Old me, same construction, no de or re. I read the words, pronounced the sounds, but all I held was anger. Memories of other times; sell myself, prove a point, display my selfish greed. Reggae played unnaturally loud in Caribbean company; right on displayed, but actually tastelessly off. Suggesting messages of freedom and equality in ear shot of the passing Nigerian. Telling the South African associate, quite indirectly, that not all your friends are white. 'Ethnic' names dropped into conversations, always passively of course. And look around, what do you know? A poster of Martin Luther King stuck upon the wall. Past times I hoped to bury, immaturity I hoped to burn. Skin used to fight me with words aimed, but I would just deny. "That's not me." My fight with Skunk Anansie, but sadly it was me. No guilt of hate, of name calling, or bullying, but guilt of stereotyping empathy. Pages filled with poetry, arguing, justifying; satisfying myself of my very existence; all denial that she had mouthed the truth. Yet consciousness of colour was not ingrained naturally in me. The saddest irony of all; my ism became from a workshop on the problem of those ists. Through the South African who suggested that white people were generally racist, an innocence of unconsciousness quickly drained away. Now I had something to prove. From an unconscious wanderer, a constructed ist became. But as an ist, I never realised, until I saw the reflection of myself in characters passing by. An exploitative, consumptive body, a self-constructed image dwelling in pools of the commonest stereotypes, I immersed myself to drown. Emerged to be myself, changed and re-invented, but my face was still the same, so you thought I was still the same and, ignorant of my dishonest past, the way it troubled me so, you watched me stand reluctantly and I spoke your words at last.

Although it would be reasonable to suggest--in the light of past behaviour--that I was attracted to Islam for a reason other than considering it the truth, the reality was that I had moved away from those ill-considered ways over a year before I chanced upon this path. Instead, my sole criterion for taking Islam as my religion was considering it the proper way to worship my Creator. Even so, it is impossible to escape the spectre of the ethnic religion as one encounters the perceptions of colleagues and neighbours. My adherence to Islam is often viewed as a lifestyle choice: I could be a hippy or a Buddhist instead and it would be the same thing. Religion in general is commonly derided in the workplace so that religious minded folk are considered fools. Practising Christians are often ridiculed: the symbol of a fish on the back of a colleague's car is considered a sufficient reason to knock their contribution to the organisation. A Muslim's adherence to Islam meanwhile is usually tolerated in the spirit of cultural difference as long as it can be aligned with race or culture, for although Islam arises from the same region as Christianity it is considered alien. The native that embraces the alien is considered a fellow of somewhat dubious nature: a follower of fashion at best. In an environment that frowns upon religion in general, the exotic is easily dismissed. Yet the issue of ethnicity drives deeper. In 1996 when I went to study at the School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS)--a college of the University of London--I watched as a fellow student went through what he thought was a radical transition in his views. Given the nature of the college, many white students came in with quite similar views: they were generally anti-racist, empathetic for the under-dog, left-wing/liberal and greatly interested in the affairs of particular African or Asian nations. Although this kind of leaning does exist to quite a degree within wider British society, including sections of the media, it would be fair to say that a Eurocentric and white ethno-centric viewpoint still predominates on the street. Thus the views found amongst white students at SOAS could have been considered quite radical. Young people, however, often have a tendency to rebel against the dominant environment in which they find themselves, as I witnessed in the case of this particular student. He was studying Geography and Development Studies like myself and had spent the previous year doing field research in Zimbabwe. When I first met him he had hugely Afro-centric views and was very keen on deliberately making friends with African students. As time went by, I noticed that these views were starting to shift quite significantly. It started with him playing devils-advocate with his 'ethnic' friends, moved on to a passionate defence British colonial engagement in Africa and later derision of the alleged anti-white ethos in the college. He had become a true radical--except that these views were not radical at all. They were just radical within his context. I often recall this fellow when I am in gatherings made up mainly of white converts to Islam. Many of us were able to make a reasonably easy journey towards Islam precisely because we had a more internationalist perspective on life. Like those students at SOAS, we too had a generally anti-racist mindset, empathy for the under-dog and left-wing/liberal views. But like that radical student at SOAS, there seems to be an increasing trend for gatherings of white Muslims to descend to the level of racist exchanges, particularly about Pakistani Muslims. There is contempt for their culture, derision of their ways and a level of general stereotyping about this group of people. There is probably a good reason why I have experienced more of this since moving out of London. London is a hugely diverse city and the character of its mosques reflects this. In every part of the city we find mosques that are not the preserve of one particular ethnic group, but are cosmopolitan instead. They also tend to have good or decent provision for women. In many places outside the capital, however, this is not the case. Mosques are often split along community lines and Islamic identity is conflated with ethnic identity. In my own town, although there exist a fairly large number of European, Arab and African Muslim families, the Pakistani community clearly dominates. The result is a sense of exclusion at the mosque for anyone who does not speak Urdu, although change is slowly underway. No doubt it is this sense of exclusion which fuels the somewhat racist talk of some white Muslims--and particularly women who may have been refused entry to the mosque--in these areas. I have another theory about this attitude though. A prominent characteristic of the call to faith over the past decade has been the separation of Islam from 'culture'. This has led to a sense of superiority developing amongst converts--not just white converts--and amongst young people born into Muslim families: that we follow true Islam, not the cultural interpretations of those before us. This sense of superiority is a real disease, which has seen old Bengali men who have prayed in the mosque five times a day without fail for forty years castigated by young men as foolish ignorant folk. Given that many of these unsettling convert discussions revolve around the question of their (Pakistani) culture--as if we do not come to Islam with our own--I would say that an argument of Islam versus culture has a lot to do with it. It is fair to acknowledge that the experience of many converts, particularly those residing outside cosmopolitan settings, has been the racism of existing Muslim communities. I once felt that this was more likely to affect black converts, but more and more I see that white converts perceive discrimination. It seems more likely that white Muslims will be positively received in mosques with larger Arab attendance, but this cannot be said of Pakistani community mosques. The children of some English Muslim friends of ours have been put off Islam because when they were at school their Pakistani schoolmates told them that they could not be proper Muslims because they were white--one was told that she could not be Muslim because she had Christian hair. My general response to this kind of racism--be it the refusal to return the salams of the convert or simply the reluctance to make friends--is to hypothesise that this community probably experienced white racism in its early years and has therefore become quite insular in its outlook. The views of an English Muslim in my town suggests that there may be something in this: he became Muslim back in the 1960s and reports that race relations were extremely poor at that time. Meanwhile, a Pakistani friend of ours suggests that some Pakistani racism is linked to Mirpuri self-image. Whatever the cause, the result is the same: the sense of exclusion felt by those outside that group. This is all very unfortunate, for our community is at risk of splitting down quite rigid lines whether that is ethnicity or 'converts' versus 'immigrant'. When people talk about radicalisation in relation to the Muslim community, they are usually talking about a polarisation towards militancy. The radicalisation that I am witnessing more and more is the acceptance of racism, and it is a disease which needs tackling with equal urgency. If we are now all resigned to the fact that we will experience racism at some point from within the Muslim community, we need to act as individuals to counteract this. For my part that means continuing to attend the mosque and not giving in to prejudice. It means saying that the experience of my convert friends is far from the totality of my experience. Beyond this it is recognising why we are Muslims: we must get away from our obsession with ourselves and recall where our focus should lie. We should be God-centred, not self-centred. When I talk of the obsession with the self, I am not talking about that very real need of ours to correct ourselves, but about the debates about identity, about who and what we are. We are Muslims and our aim is to achieve the pleasure of God. God has made us into nations and tribes that we may get to know one another: enough said. After this we remember that this brotherhood of ours is one brotherhood. Although I know that the atmosphere in my local mosque is not what I was used to in the cosmopolitan big city, that I am not easily accepted as I was in the mosques of the capital. I recall that--revolving around Tawhid--my prayer, worship, life and death are for God, Lord of the Worlds, who has no partner. In this we find our resting place, our home. When we recognise this, it becomes less important whether we are accepted by others: what matters is whether God accepts us and whether He accepts our deeds.

Extremism

timbowes — Wed, 25 Jul 2007 18:19:00 -0500

Repeatedly over recent years, newspapers have labelled as extremists people whom many Muslims consider to be voices of moderation. Week after week, just before the radio phone-in host denounces the alleged actions of another extremist amongst us, we hear the tired refrain, "The vast majority of Muslims are peaceful people..." But who are the vast majority of Muslims and what do they believe? How are they defined and who defined them? In many senses I find my belief in Islam a continuation of my upbringing, not a rejection of it, and I have hardly suffered an identity crisis because of my beliefs. Yet with the use of undefined phrases such as "the vast majority" and "moderate Muslims", and the claims that are made on our behalf--if indeed we are the people intended--our place in society does seem to be in question. Not even a century ago, as a wise Muslim noted, Jews were forced by the frenzy of state and media to debate their place in society; would it be integration or isolation, tradition or reform? Were they moderates, or fanatics obsessed with a law which should have no place in a modern secular society? Today, for all the lessons that were supposed to be learned from history, little has changed. Like the good moderate Jews before us, we too must become secular. If not, then once more the talk will be of parasites on society, of an ungrateful community burdened by their religious law and plotting the nation's downfall from ghettoes in its midst. Too often discussion about Islam starts--and sometimes finishes--with the topic of fundamentalism, writing off any dimension of spirituality amongst the community's faithful in the process. Generous authors often concede that fundamentalism is common to all faiths, but it must be acknowledged that what is meant in each case is actually very different. In the Christian context it is generally used to signify conservative Protestantism characterised by a literal interpretation of the Bible as God's unadulterated word. In the case of Islam, by contrast, all orthodox Muslims believe the Qur'an to be the word of God, but the term fundamentalist is not generally used in this sense. Instead, fundamentalism when speaking of Muslims is more often aligned with ideas of extreme militancy, although this wholly depends upon who is using the label. What is meant by a term needs to be specified from the outset. If Muslim fundamentalism is viewed in the same light as conservative Protestantism it becomes not a radical reaction against other forces, but merely a manifestation of accepted dogma. However this is clearly not what is meant; the idea of Muslim fundamentalism has entirely different connotations. We are not witnessing different expressions of the same concept, but rather different concepts given one name. Hugh Goddard has one of the definitions of fundamentalism as "the conviction that the authentic version of their faith is to be found in the earliest period". This surely best describes the common ground for the term when used for both Christianity and Islam. In the community in which I live I could not say that there is a problem of extremism amongst the Muslim youth. Not "Islamic Extremism" in any case--anti-social extremism maybe. In this community, our concerns are with drug use, alcohol consumption and anti-social behaviour. A friend tells me that some young Muslims are bringing drugs into the area to foster a previously non-existent trade in the town. Our local press has reported on a number of occasions about youths in our town being given Anti-Social Behaviour Orders; troublingly in each case the recipients have had Muslim names. Late on Friday and Saturday nights, young Muslims gather in the centre of town, smoking perpetually and ranting aggressively with sentences littered with expletives. This is probably not what the middle-class commentators have in mind when they call for Muslims to integrate with society; still here the Muslims certainly are adopting the culture of those they find themselves amongst. The behaviour of the natives is the same. Undoubtedly British Muslims have a duty to tackle extremism in our midst, where it exists, but there is also an urgent need to tackle the vast array of huge social problems which have emerged. A friend of mine was until recently the head of department in an inner city London secondary school and he was appalled by the behaviour of his students--more so, he lamented, because the majority of them came from Muslim families. Apart from having no knowledge of their religion whatsoever, these young people had no manners, no respect for the people around them and were frequently members of gangs. The Muslim community makes up barely two percent of the British population and yet seven percent of the prison population. The Muslim Youth Helpline draws the following inferences from research carried out by Muslim organisations: - Drug abuse and smoking are shown to have a significantly higher prevalence amongst Muslim youth between the ages of 16 and 25 years. - Mental Illness occurs more frequently amongst Muslim youth, particularly those that enter Britain as refugees. Almost one-half of Muslim Youth Helpline clients complain of mental anxiety, depression or suicidal feelings. - Muslims make up 7% of the country?s prison population, a figure that is five times that of the total Muslim population in Britain today. For the past few years I have been working with a national helpline charity which aims to help Muslim women in crisis. Domestic violence is rife, divorce rates are high and the issue of forced marriage is not going away. It is sad to report that huge numbers of unwanted babies are being abandoned by Muslims in the care of social services, often by Muslim girls who become pregnant outside marriage. Meanwhile educational achievement amongst young Muslims remains poor. All in all, as a community we have huge problems and the question of extremism is only one of them. When the Prime minister addressed the Muslim community on the topic of doing more to tackle extremism, the first response was naturally one of defence. We asked what power we have, given that the extremist groups quite deliberately do not frequent established mosques. If wider British society is understandably not asked to root out the extremism of the BNP, we asked, why should the Muslims be asked to take on the role of the Police and Local Government? But once these initial objections passed, we were faced with a very uncomfortable truth: despite pockets of light--and there are many examples of the Muslim community making a positive and successful contribution to society--there are issues which we as a community must address ourselves. Merely resorting to the very un-Islamic sense of victim-hood is not going to help any of us. Merely condemning terrorism is not going to help us either, nor is my writing about social problems. Like my friend who went into teaching or those running the various Muslim helplines, there is a realisation that we need to get out into the community to engage in social works. It is time that we awoke to the realities facing us. As we move on after the massacre on the London transport system in 2005, the focus on the Muslim community will no doubt intensify. Some of it will be unfair, some of it deeply insulting, some of it untrue, but Muslims must not pity themselves for we have a lot of work to do. If one of you sees something bad, our religion teaches us, you should change it with your hands, and if you cannot do that you should change it with your tongues, and if you cannot do that you should hate it in your heart, and that is the weakest of faith.

Conflict

timbowes — Tue, 24 Jul 2007 19:00:00 -0500

In August 1998, three months after I became Muslim, hundreds of civilians were killed when simultaneous truck bombs exploded in the capitals of Tanzania and Kenya. Three years later we would witness two commercial jets slamming into the World Trade Centre in New York on our television screens. In each case the perpetrators are thought to have been Muslim and the spectre of a violent religion has been with us ever since. With every passing year the picture only gets gloomier as even the gentlest believer is charged with explaining the brutality of the world in which we live. A stranger once sent me a message in which he complained that a tenet of my religion is working to conquer every land on earth. A tenet is a central principle or belief and so his accusation threw me for this is not one of either the six articles of belief or the five pillars of faith. The Six Articles are belief in God; in all the Prophets and Messengers sent by God; in the Books sent by God; in the Angels; in the Day of Judgement and our Resurrection; and in divine decree. The five pillars of Islam are the profession of faith in God; establishing the five daily prayers; the paying of alms to be distributed amongst the poor; fasting in the month of Ramadan; and the Pilgrimage to Mecca. Naturally our practices number many more than this, but they cannot be said to be tenets. I have never been one to view the Muslim world through rose-tinted spectacles and I have never shied away from condemning the violence and depravity emerging from Muslim lands. I dislike the refrain that the West is to blame, for although those who study history and politics may see a shadow of truth in this, the full picture is infinitely complex. In any case, to blame others is not the traditional Muslim viewpoint: the Qur'an recounts the lessons of the Children of Israel--the Muslims of that age--precisely so that we may not repeat the mistakes of those who passed before us. Still, I have met Muslims who consider themselves the Chosen People, who look upon others with contempt, considering their lives worthless like Gentiles deserving of whatever they get; meanwhile these Chosen Ones would never think to share their faith. Thus English Muslims like me are not greeted with joy, but with suspicion and disbelief. We are about to read a "But": I agree that the Muslim world is awash with violence and depravity, but... I once experimented with an Internet search engine, first typing in the word "Muslim" and then the word "Islam". I cannot report that anything positive came back amidst the first ten pages. All across the internet people are writing about the barbarity of Islam--out there, Islam and Muslims are viewed with greater contempt than I could ever have imagined. While undertaking this exercise I came across an article by a military man stationed at Pearl Harbour in the United States of America, which argued that the problem is not with the extremists, but with Islam itself. He cited a horrific case in which the so-called religious police prevented fifteen schoolgirls from escaping a burning school dormitory in Mecca because they were not "properly dressed". It was the author's opinion that because Islam mandates a certain dress-code these people were correct according to their religion in preventing the children from escaping, which thus proved that Islam is a barbaric religion. Yet if this were true, would Islam not prohibit a person facing starvation from eating forbidden meat in the absence of a substitute? While I cannot deny that house of Islam is far from being in order, I had to object. The author called Islam a barbaric, blood-thirsty and violent religion. Although this description would sadly suit too many Muslims in the world today, I detected a certain amount of the hypocrisy on display. Are those that passionately worship their nation, believing that they stand at the pinnacle of civilisation, free of the same charge? Do those that describe my religion as barbaric, blood-thirsty and violent not see barbarism everywhere as I do? The nation that invented the nuclear bomb was not a Muslim nation. The nation that used the nuclear bomb, the combined death toll of which is estimated to range from 100,000 up to 220,000 of whom most were civilians, was not a Muslim nation. The nation that created and deployed jellied gasoline as a weapon of war--a substance formulated to burn at a specific rate and adhere to material and personnel--was not a Muslim nation: it was the Germans for those who will point their fingers at the Americans. The nation that has refused to ratify a United Nations convention banning its use against civilian targets was not a Muslim nation. The nation that invented the vacuum bomb which causes its victim to implode from within when it is used was not a Muslim nation. The nation that undertook the extermination of up to six million Jews over a period of five years was not a Muslim nation. The nation that developed Botox and Anthrax as weapons of mass destruction was not a Muslim nation. I could go on. I see barbarism everywhere in this depraved age of ours. Muslim terrorists have hijacked and blown up civilian airliners, but so have Nationalists, Socialists and indeed States. In 1988 the US shot down an Iranian passenger jet killing all 290 people on board, while in 1983 the US accused the USSR of shooting down a Korean airliner, killing 269 people. What can we say? Perhaps it is our mindset which is at fault, conditioned by the bloodiest century ever. What can be said of a race--the human race--which has turned killing into a form of entertainment? The Romans had their gladiators and we have Hollywood. We have got death and destruction down to a fine art: the subtle thriller about the lone murderer, the action packed adventure of one man verses the terrorists complete with buildings exploding and planes crashing, and the grim horror about the obsessed mass murderer: all in the name of entertainment. The truth makes us weep, for we live in a barbaric and depraved age. We see the kidnappings in Iraq today, but we recall the kidnappings of African-Americans in 1960s America. We see the beheadings of innocents today, but we recall the hangings and lynching of innocents yesterday. We think of the bombs on the London transport system, but we remember the Omagh bombing as well. We lament the bombing of a mosque in Pakistan, but we remember the Oklahoma bombing a decade ago. We see Churches destroyed in Indonesia, but we recall the mosques demolished in Bosnia ten years earlier. If we are honest, we see the depravity everywhere: if we remember, if we think deeply. All we can say is that we live in a barbaric and depraved age. Yet we remember that we are not all killing each other, we are not all involved and we do not all have blood on our hands. There is light and love in the world. Consider the Muslim doctor who will see us when we end up in casualty, the Christian nurse who will tend our scars, the aid workers to those in need or the man who sees to it that his neighbour is well. Despite the depravity, there is still hope. As one of the parables of the Christian gospels tells us, if we remove the plank from our own eyes we might just find that we can see a little clearer. We live in a world of clich� in which we lazily recycle the words of others. When it is said that Islam was spread by the sword, everyone knows that is a trite expression, but nobody cares: it is a slogan. An Afrocentric collector of pottery who knew I was Muslim once seized on a book I was reading about the earliest followers of Jesus. "Nike-ear, nice-eya," he began, struggling to pronounce probably the most famous council in the history of the Christian church as he eyed my notes in front of me, "Nice-what? I've never heard of it." He went on to tell me that the followers of Jesus did not accept Islam when it came to their lands: "It was spread by the sword," he told me, "Spread by the sword, my friend." It was not patently clear at the time why he had to make this point, given that my reading material concerned Jews who accepted Jesus as the Messiah whilst maintaining their Jewish identity and had nothing to do with Islam, but later it seemed quite appropriate. In light of that strange paradox, "that while Jewish Christianity in the Church came to grief, it was preserved in Islam," his intervention seemed to provide a fitting link in my study of the Ebionites who were eventually left behind as Christianity adapted to the influx of gentile converts and who eventually became a distinct group that was rejected as heretical by the emerging church. It prompted me to ponder what became of the all those heretical sects and to reflect on the survival of one of the oldest Christian Churches--the Coptics--whose followers still worship in Muslim lands today. My Afrocentric companion was not alone in addressing me with words about violence, however. A Jewish friend, on discovering that I was Muslim during my postgraduate studies, exclaimed: "But you have the whole Jihad thing." I considered it strange that a person who had carried a machine gun during her own service in the army could address me in this way, but over the years I have grown used to these odd interrogations. A dear relative never tires of condemning Muslim violence in my presence, hoping that I will reflect and see the error of my ways. My detractors argue that Islam should be considered untrue because of the intolerance and violence exhibited in many parts of the Muslim world today. For my well-meant Christian relative, history must prove rather problematic in this regard. While it may be possible to claim that contemporary Christians are model citizens--living under the protection of a secular state that controls the eighth most powerful army in the world--many examples of Christian power are hardly flattering. If my faith should be lambasted on the basis of intolerance in some societies today, should Christianity then be held as untrue because of its intolerance in centuries past? Although it is legitimate to argue that aberrations such as Hitler were not Christians--he defined himself this way, but mad man is preferred--it is rather difficult to take this line in relation to Bishops and Popes. In 1454CE, for example, Pope Nicholas V gave Alfonso V of Portugal the right to:

invade, search out, capture, vanquish, and subdue all Saracens and pagans whatsoever, and other enemies of Christ wherever they live, along with their kingdoms, dukedoms, principalities, lordships and goods, both chattels and real estate, that they hold and possess ... to reduce their persons to perpetual slavery and to take for himself and his heirs their kingdoms

In truth, we need not delve back into the distant past nor far from home to witness stark examples of Christian violence or appeasement of violence. Prominent ministers of the Serbian Orthodox Church were complicit in the former during the 1992 to 1995 Bosnian war, while members of the Church of England are tainted with the latter. Although the war was portrayed at the time as an ethnic conflict--but for the spectre of Islamic extremism famously invoked by the Conservative government as its reason for non-intervention--historians now recognise the role that religion played in this shameful episode of recent European history. The massacre of an estimated eight-thousand Muslim in men in Srebrenica in July 1995 is only the most famous case amidst a horrific list of abuse. While as much as half of the cultural-religious heritage of six-centuries was destroyed over a period of three years, imams and Muslim scholars were imprisoned and killed. Imam Mustafa Mujkanovic, for example, was tortured in front of thousands of Muslim women and children in Bratunac stadium and ordered to make the sign of the cross on himself by his Serbian guards, before having beer poured into has mouth and his throat slit. In 2003 Agence France-Press reported that the Serbian Orthodox bishop, Bishop Filaret, "appeared in front of TV cameras with a skull in one hand and a machine-gun in the other during the 1992-95 war." Michael Sells writes:

The violence in Bosnia was a religious genocide in several senses: the people destroyed were chosen on the basis of their religious identity; those carrying out the killings acted with the blessing and support of Christian church leaders; the violence was grounded in a religious mythology that characterized the targeted people as race traitors and the extermination of them as a sacred act.

When the Greek Orthodox synod awarded Radovan Karadzic the Order of St Denys of Xante--its highest honour--in the midst of the ethnic cleansing, the evangelical Anglican Bishop of Barking, Roger Sainsbury, was a lone voice in the Church of England in offering condemnation, even as the Greek bishops described Karadzic as "one of the most prominent sons of our Lord Jesus Christ." For the Church of England, the spirit of ecumenism carried greater import than human life, as it sought to maintain positive relations with Orthodox members of the World Council of Churches. The Catholic theologian, Professor Adrian Hastings, wrote in The Guardian at the time:

Reflecting on the response of the churches in Britain and within the Ecumenical Movement to Bosnia once more, I remain appalled by how little they have done at the level of their leadership to recognise without ambiguity what has been happening, to condemn what is evil and above all to offer any significant support to a European nation oppressed in a way unprecedented since 1945. Again and again, church leaders in this country have been urged to visit Sarajevo, to show some really significant degree of human and religious solidarity with the Muslim community of Bosnia in its ordeal. They have entirely failed to do so.

Elsewhere he wrote:

What have the churches done to speak out in defence of Bosnia, of its peace-loving Muslim community and against a revival of the most virulent racism? There appears to have been a most striking silence from all the principal church leaders in Britain. It will go down in history. We pour out our tears at the Holocaust but close our eyes to the Holocaust happening now. "Only he who shouts for the Jews may sing the Gregorian chant", declared Bonhoeffer fifty years ago. Only he who shouts for the Bosnian Muslims is entitled to do so today.

What can be said of Archbishop George Carey--who only a few years later demanded that Pakistani Muslims exhibit the tolerance of the Christians--given his refusal to meet his counterpart in the Bosnian Muslim hierarchy during the war? He has made much of his role in inter-faith dialogue since his retirement, but was silent at the hour of greatest need. Likewise he has made much of the Muslim predicament in light of the terrorist acts on 11 September 2001, but prefers to forget the greater crime of Srebrenica in 1995 and his own Church's appeasement along the road that led there. In truth, Christian involvement in violence is as shameful as the Muslim's. Should we expect Christians to abandon their faith because of the violence and intolerance exhibited in the past and in other parts of the world today? Should proud atheists abandon their position based on the behaviour of communist regimes? Are they useful criteria for determining the truth? I did not adopt Islam on a whim of fashion or for social convenience, thus questions like "What about the terrible way Muslims behave?" prove irrelevant. What is important is what a religion itself teaches in relation to these matters and so Muslims are fortunate to find that the orthodox position is clear. Muslims soldiers, for example, are expected to observe strict codes of conduct and sophisticated rules of engagement in war, defined from within the faith, not without. Islam does not recognise the concept of total war--in which innocent civilians may be killed and their property destroyed--but only allows warfare if it is a means of limiting greater harm. "And fight for the sake of God those who fight you,"says the Qur'an, addressing those in authority, "but do not commit excesses, for God does not love those who exceed (the Law)." Peace is preferred to war, however: "Now if they incline toward peace, then incline to it, and place your trust in God." Scholars of Islam have always held that a Qur'anic verse that ordered the Muslims to fight the idolaters referred to a specific historical episode in which the Meccan Confederates had breached the Treaty of Hudaybiyya and that no legal rulings could be derived from the verse on its own. Even if this were not the case, they state that its interpretation would still be dependent on other indicators, in which case it could only refer to a situation during a valid war when there is no ceasefire. A famous hadith records that "The best Jihad is a true word in the face of a tyrannical ruler." Islamic Law states that a Muslim soldier may not kill any women or child-soldiers unless they are in direct combat and then only in self-defence, and all other non-combatants are included in this prohibition. There is no legal justification for circumventing this convention in Islamic Law and any such action is defined both as haram and a major sin. Furthermore, the decision and right to declare war does not lie with an individual--even if he is a scholar or a soldier--but only with the executive authority of the state. Under Islamic Law the ends can never justify the means unless the means are in themselves permissible. A thought occurred to me one morning whilst listening to the radio in my car: do suicide bombers pray al-Istikarah--the prayer in which we ask that God guides us towards that which is best for us. We had just heard a report from Baghdad which detailed more civilian deaths. When we pray al-Istikarah, truly consigning the matter to God and suspending our own inclinations, Muslims believe that God will make events unfold in the direction that is the best for our worldly and religious affairs. Given that orthodoxy considers suicide bombing haram I imagined the individual intent on this course of action being arrested shortly after praying al-Istikarah, or falling down a hole, oversleeping or dying before ever getting as far as carrying out the act. My blurted-out question pales into insignificance of course, once we read what the orthodox scholars of Islam say about suicide bombing. It is right that we reflect on the fact that the first time this means was used by Muslims was in 1994, when Hamas blew up a public bus in Jerusalem: less that fifteen years ago. Prior to the most recent war against Iraq, the Marxist-Leninist Tamil Tigers were responsible for more such bombings than any other organisation. Amongst those that carried out suicide bombings during the campaign against French, American and Israeli targets in Lebanon in the 1980s were Christians and members of secular leftist groups such as the Communist party. When Hamas adopted this practice in 1994, many jurists of Islamic Law immediately sought to make clear that such actions were indefensible. Still, I am frequently reminded of violence apparently conducted in the name of Islam. A work colleague recently approached me early one morning and asked me to explain how young people could be persuaded to take their own lives by older people who clearly had no intention of giving up their own. Naturally I could not help him with his enquiry, but still he continued to probe me on the spectre of a group of newly religious men disembarking from a train at London's Kings Cross with rucksacks packed with explosives strapped to their backs. It was not enough for me to disown terrorism and its perpetrators: because I share a faith with group of men who did not return home on 7 July 2005, I must face an inquisition which demands answers to questions I do not understand. Everybody has their own story to accompany the events of that sunny day in July; I remember my experience well. After the commotion of the morning, I was asked to attend a meeting with my manager in the afternoon during which we intended to discuss the implementation of a national computer system in our GP Practices. I was with my colleagues at first, but then my mind began to wander. I was sitting at the back of that now mangled bus. I was on my way to work, minding my own business, lost in my own world. There was a bag left underneath my seat. I looked to my left and right, I assumed it belonged to one of my fellow passengers, but I did not ask them. Perhaps they were wondering the same thing, but we all kept our minds on our own business, the way we always do. I was not in my meeting now: my colleagues were speaking but I did not hear them. Instead I was in that bus and it suddenly exploded and what was the end for me? I felt sick. I could see those poor souls as their bodies were torn to shreds by a bomb beneath the seat: their last moment gone before they could even see it coming. The shock jolted me back to my meeting. I was supposed to be taking notes, but I had missed the conversation and it had passed me by. Did the people who did this never visualize that moment as I did in my meeting, I wondered? Did they never imagine that when they planted their bombs? Could they have done this if they had? I felt as though I was going to be sick, but I blocked it from my mind: back to our ill-fated computer system. When we left the room at the end of the meeting we were told that our organisation was no longer on standby to receive a mass evacuation of casualties. We had officially been stood down. The crisis was over for us, but I still felt sick. That evening my wife was stranded in London as public transport ground to a halt and had gone to wait with a friend. I left home at half past eight finding clear roads all the way, from this hilly valley to those towers of concrete. Indoors eyes were glued to television screens and few cars passed me all the way. I arrived at twenty past nine just in time for Maghrib, gliding through the ghost town. I told my friend that I was disgusted by all this--I said that I knew our thoughts should be with the victims, but I could not help praying that the perpetrators were anarchists or something. My friend said they were--but he was using it as an adjective. I wanted it to be the noun. In the Name of God, the Most Gracious, Most Merciful: if only we dwelled on this. Would there then be any of this chaos? In the Name of God, not in my name or yours. If we truly reflected, would men of religion cut down innocents with explosives, thinking their deeds are good? A week later our organisation decided to collectively observe two minutes' silence, standing in the blazing sun in the car park outside our office. I felt sad and distant from my colleagues at the time, for I would listen as they spoke of this event momentarily, only to find that the happy, jolly mood prevailed as if nothing of significance had happened. That day I hated some of my friends as they stood out in the car park, laughing and joking merrily right up until the clock struck twelve. There were two minutes without words--although all the cars but one continued their journeys onwards--but as soon as the two minutes were up a bunch of fools burst into laughter at the hilarity of their self-centred nonsense. I returned inside in silence, lamenting the hideous hypocrisy. For the past week I had been wandering around in a daze, fearing that the Muslim's time in this country was up, that we had reached the end of the road: the Reichstag had been torched, thus the pogroms would begin. Looking around me, however, I doubted this now for these people were indifferent in extremis. Life in the Big Brother household was the greater concern in my office. Two days after the bombings I had journeyed to a meeting in East London and I found myself remarking to my wife that the residents did not look sad at all. Quite the contrary: it was business as usual with smiles on a thousand faces. Journalists were defining the mood as a nation getting on with life as normal in defiance, but indifference seemed a more accurate description to me. As we stood in the car park at midday on 14 July 2005, we all witnessed the real display of dignity. A Muslim taxi driver had stopped his car just on the roundabout and now stood with his head bowed next to his door in the middle of the road. There he remained for the next two minutes as the traffic worked around him: an island amidst the chaos. Whilst staying in Turkey barely a month after those three tube trains and a bus were blown up in London, it became apparent that the loss of British life was only considered a tragedy if it was a means of scoring points against Islam. If ever we were unfortunate enough to mention our faith or to walk to the mosque for prayer, our socialist companions would remind us of what had happened that fateful day and who was behind it. I would respond by pointing out that the leftist PKK blew up British citizens only a few days later, but apparently this would not be condemned with the same ferocity--instead they were silent. Much was being made of the bombings in the Turkish press for it suited their agendas like it did our companions--they suffered from selective sympathy and the inability to harbour equal sorrow for all victims of violence. In making their cheap political jibes they forgot that Britons had experienced thirty years of terrorism at the hands of the IRA and that Londoners were the target of a white supremacist who planted nail bombs in the hope of sparking a race war much more recently. Were the lives of the victims of these attacks worth less because the perpetrators happened not to be Muslim? They also ignored the fact that July marked the sixtieth anniversary of nuclear bombs being dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and the tenth anniversary of the slaughter of 10,000 Muslims in Srebrenica. Are Muslims peculiar amongst humanity as perpetrators of extreme violence? The answer is no of course; the last century and the beginning of the present one have been marked by extreme violence--wars on massive scales, the development of the most terrifying weapons ever conceived, the extermination of whole peoples, torture and terrorism. If the lives of all innocents killed in this chaotic madness are not considered to be of equal worth regardless of who they are or who killed them, we ourselves begin to slide into complicity. Our horror, sorrow and anger no longer stem from our reaction to the inhumanity of others, but from on whose side we are. I wished that the Turkish chauvinists would reflect on this. I have never been a good Believer, neither as a Christian before those five years of agnosticism nor as a Muslim ever since. My faith has never been zealous; when I said I did not believe in God from the age of fifteen even my atheism was agnostic. Nevertheless, however simple my faith may be, I do tend to take words seriously. I waver and slip often, sometimes steaming off as if towards oblivion, but those short Semitic sayings always call me back before long. My literal interpretation of Gospel advice to turn the other cheek meant that I would never stand up for myself if I was picked on at school--it was a revelation for me when a family member asked me why not in my final year of junior school. We were brought up on the good book, attending church and Sunday school throughout childhood. The earliest of those snippet teachings remain with me, so still I censure friends who "take the Lord's name in vain". I suppose it is this simple, literal faith of mine which leaves me so disappointed with the world we live in: we--believers of all faiths--are taught one thing, but then told to do something else according to the circumstances in which we find ourselves. I am not under any illusions about the conflicts defining modern-day Britain--the most vocal voices define us as a secular nation, while traditionalists maintain this is a Christian land--but one can still dream that something of our religious heritage might shine through and colour the way we treat one another. Just imagine what public life would be like if it were defined by the citizen's faith rather than a bizarre Machiavellian worldview. How would all this public calling-Muslims-to-account look in the light of words their saviour is said to have uttered? How can you say to your brother, "Brother, let me remove the speck that is in your eye, when you yourself do not see the plank that is in your own eye. Hypocrite! First remove the plank from your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck that is in your brother's eye." There is no denying that we Muslims are falling far short of our ideals in our personal and political relationships, but it is gross hypocrisy for British politicians and the Press to demand that we get our house in order whilst they themselves are falling short. Who are we? A tiny minority making up 2.7% of the population; a disparate group made up of many ethnicities and following numerous interpretations of Islam. Finding myself reading about Camp Xray, Abu Ghraib and the cost of the war in Iraq--indeed, reflecting on European intervention in the colonised world in general and its lasting legacy--various truths dawned on me. It is in no way reassuring--just very sad indeed--but it is still true to say that we Muslims are not alone in needing to get our house in order. The trouble is all of us seem to have planks in our eyes and none of us can see.

A Place of Beauty

timbowes — Mon, 23 Jul 2007 19:00:00 -0500

In faith I remain an idealist--a literalist to some--who takes the words of the Messenger of God to heart. Abu Musa said, "I said, 'Messenger of God, whose Islam is best?' He said, 'The one from whose tongue and hands the Muslims are safe.'" Some Muslims mock this simple faith of mine, placing conditions upon those words, loosening the tongue for those perceived to be heretics. Thus disappointment is a word that frequently returns to my mind as I encounter people of knowledge from whose tongues we are not safe, but such feelings can lead to resolve. Though the road will be long and I must forever fight the laziness that has always accompanied me in life, I am determined now to seek true knowledge. In the meantime this simple faith remains with my literal readings of "speak good or remain silent", "your mother, your mother, your mother", "the one from whose tongue we are safe" and "this brotherhood of yours is one brotherhood." Fortunately I am not alone in walking this path. A stranger once wrote some words that struck a chord with me:

For myself, my journey began on these reflections... though blessed with a family and community of Muslims, something was lacking: the frequent quarrels, petty back talking that I witnessed between Muslims and even at the mosque made it obvious that something was missing and soon I was on a search for something greater, and that was the "Prophetic Character", as I realised that truly that was the foundation of Islam.

He went on:

So my search began to find the scholars who called to God with the display of the Prophetic character, following the footsteps of the noble Prophet (peace be upon him) building solid communities based on firm and pure hearts, who went on to call the masses to the religion with the precious light that emitted from the very inner fibres of their beings.

The journey to reconcile oneself with God is ongoing and continuous, and in my case it is one that has only just begun. Though my knowledge now is little, I already know well the gems of the Prophetic Character in those few words I have learned from their renderings into the English language. This is a journey I must undertake myself, for it is my heart and my soul that seeks redemption after all. I have done the bare minimum for the past five years, but my soul tells me that this is not enough. I do not wish to become a scholar, but merely wish to redeem my soul, to put the confusion behind me and to live as our blessed Prophet taught us to. I want to live a good life and perhaps--if God wills--embody however faintly the true light of Islam. I came to Islam towards the end of the twentieth century of the Christian Era, over fourteen hundred years after the Prophet's migration to Medina. I came to Islam after the European colonial age which saw the slaughter of Muslim scholars and the Great Powers playing different groups of Muslims off against each other. I came to Islam after the seed of nationalism had grown into a vast but barren tree. I often reflect that those born into practicing Muslim families can at the very least grasp on to the tradition of their parents, seeking refuge in the remains of a living tradition. As converts to Islam we are thrown into the deep sea of confusion, looking this way and that, listening to the competing claims of Muslims here and there. The Scholars are the inheritors of the Prophet we are told, but perpetually we are warned of corrupt scholars, government scholars, wolves in sheep's clothing and pretenders to the throne. We do not have Muslim heritage to look back on and we cannot ask our grandparents about their grandparents. Over a year ago I found myself harking after the simple faith of the nomad. If I was asked what my aqida was, I would only answer with the Prophet's words when questioned by the Angel Gabriel for the frequent, complex debates on the topic meant nothing to me. I simply prayed, fasted and gave charity, and tried to be kind to those around me. I clung to the jamat wherever I found myself and focused on those actions about which there is no disagreement: the smile which is a charity, control of the tongue, the five prayers and their companions, a few coins to one in need and responding to the one who asks. I could not do more than this, I felt, because my mind was too small to fathom the pathway to the past as it passed through the era of European Empire and beyond. An Armenian observer is not alone in her scathing attack on the mischief of the British as they encouraged the Armenian uprising whilst the Turks were defending their borders at the start of the twentieth century, for this scene was replicated throughout the colonised lands. Ethnic groups turning on one another, scholars of religion slaughtered and the European Powers promoting one group of Muslims against another; the simple faith of the nomad seemed safer somehow. As an agnostic over ten years ago I wrote a somewhat irreverent piece about my search for Truth. While I have faith today, testifying that none has the right to be worshipped except God and that Muhammad is His messenger, there remains a mustard seed of truth in that piece. For me it is no longer a question of religion, but of navigating the competing claims of self-appointed spokesmen. Just follow the Qur'an and Sunnah, say some, but it is not so simple. Am I to interpret them myself given my distance in time, space and language from the Prophet and his companions? Everyone agrees that the scholars are the inheritors of the religion and best placed to explain these matters to us, but the most vocal commentators insist on warning us of wolves and pretenders to the throne. In reality we have the ijazzah that can be traced to ijazzah, back through the generations, which remains even in this age, but there remains a grain of truth in that piece of mine from a decade ago:

Question everything, but don't tell anyone. When you're on that journey of yours, never confess that you're completely lost. Just smile, grin, and bear it. It's going to infuriate you, but nobody will understand. In their control rooms, they have their timetables and maps. To them it's obvious, so why can't you see that? Recently, you were going to church every Sunday, hoping a sermon would cure your questioning mind. And one day, your lucky day, they invite the unsure, the faithless, the agnostic, to stay behind after the service, where they'll explain it to you and make you see the truth. You sit there and wait: you pray they'll make you see, but soon you discover that it's not you who's blind. The preacher arrogantly assumes that you?re just ignorant, that you don't have faith because you're ignorant. Because you didn't read the Bible. Well, actually, I was reading the Bible, I just didn't see the proof. And what is the preacher's proof? He says it's obvious. Well, no, it isn't obvious, because you wouldn't be sitting here listening to him if it was. He arrogantly assumes that those without faith simply have no faith because they never tried and never thought about it. He tells you that it's obvious, so obvious that even a four year old could understand. But wait. You're not four years old; the four year old didn't read the Bible, she just sucked on her lolly and never wondered if the sugar would rot her teeth.

Yet there is an antidote: I have long noticed how love for the Prophet permeates the actions of those who sit and learn and who immerse themselves in learning. Noting how distant I am from that example, I found that their love inspired me to learn, for I have the faith of the nomad, but I want so much more. Taking stock of the longing of my heart, I once came across some more words that resonated with me. It was an article in which the author had written about what traditional Islam meant to him. Part of that description included this sentiment: "?It is the Islam of the quaint villages..." It reverberated in my mind because for weeks I had been thinking of a faraway place I passed through the previous summer. It also touched me because there is a part of me which does not sit well with the modern age. Throughout my teenage years I was something of an eccentric. While my friends were interested in mountain bikes, football, Nintendo and Baywatch, I was a dreamer. I yearned after a romantic past, of a wood-framed house surrounded by the cottage garden, of self-sufficiency, spring-fed waters, of the homestead farm. I would sketch out my rough architectural diagrams of my self-build Tudor house. My favourite book as a child was Laura Ingalls Wilder's Farmer Boy: I imagined I was Almanzo and I dreamed of living my life as he had all those years ago. Later--and this led to my eventual arrival as a student of development studies--my attention turned to sub-Saharan Africa. An article about life in Burkina Faso offered me unimaginable inspiration. With the wisdom of age I now realise that all those dreams were indeed for a romantic past. The reality of life is that it is hard: inoculated from birth against mumps and rubella, and against tetanus, living in an age protected from TB, and able to access an education from the age of five to twenty-one, we forget the realities of existence in different times and different places. Still, that was my dream and an element of it remains with me even today. Something was bothering my heart and that article gave me an inkling of what it was: a kind of discomfort with the age we are living in. One summer I spent two weeks up in the highlands of eastern Turkey with my mother-in-law, up above the clouds. My wife's family originate in Hopa on the Black Sea, close to the border with Georgia in Artvin province. Every year, to escape the summer heat, my mother-in-law packs up her possessions like the nomads of old and ascends the mountains for the refuge of that usually cooler air. Life up there is quite primitive: the houses are simple stone-walled structures without cement, covered with the tarpaulin these travellers bring with them. The evening meal is prepared on wood burning stoves, which in turn warms the shelter as the cold evening draws in. That August my wife and I began the journey in the early morning one Friday, looking forward to our reunion with her mother after such a long time. There is a vast dam building project underway in the valley between our village just inland from Hopa and Artvin, so we had to leave at first light so we could travel while the road along the bottom of the valley was still open. We travelled inland rising steadily higher and higher into the mountains. At around eleven in the morning we stopped in Ardanuc to get some vegetables and have a rest, but not for too long. Soon we were winding up a dirt track through a beautiful landscape which reminded me of my holidays in Switzerland as a child. It was a steep landscape of meadows, streams and log chalets. It was a landscape that almost made me cry tears of joy. We were heading for a Yayla about two hours short of Ardahan, but I could have stopped just there, so magnificent was the scenery. We continued onwards however until we came to a camping ground on the side of a valley, where we stopped for lunch. There was a shack on the edge in which a group of men were preparing to barbeque cubes of lamb meat. I sat down on a bench with the lady-folk close to an ice-cold spring, for we had just discovered that the men were chilling bottles of Turkish spirits beneath the bubbling surface. After lunch, leaving my male travelling companions to their Reki and the ladies to their conversation, I caught a lift with an old Muslim man back to the mosque for the Friday prayer. I speak very little Turkish, but that ride was an immense blessing: we exchanged salams and I watched as those I had left behind appeared as dots across the valley. It was this trip to the mosque that had been in my thoughts for those past many weeks, which made those words strike such a chord with me. I should think that mosque had never seen an English Muslim enter its doors before in all its ancient history. We parked our car just off the road, because the mosque could only be reached on foot. Together, communicating with one another only by hand gestures and that brotherly fondness in our hearts, we walked up the hill through that village that seemed to be caught in a time warp. There was a water-trough fed by a stream out in front of the mosque--what a beautiful sight--but what touched my heart was the sight in the small garden in front of that place of prayer. All of the men were gathered in a circle, awaiting the call to prayer, expressing such affection for one another, conversing with kind words. We exchanged salams, but I did not join them, entering the mosque instead with my old companion. That building seemed centuries old inside. It was dark, and yet it seemed light. The walls were stone, not decorated like those fine mosques of Istanbul. There were some pieces of calligraphy high up on the walls and old worn out rugs on the floor. There was a spirit in that mosque which warmed my soul. This was the place that occupied my thoughts. The tale of the remainder of my journey up into the mountains is for another time. This story is about that place in my heart. It is not a geographical space, but an emotional place. That place that the author described: "It is the Islam of the quaint villages..." Yes, this is the yearning of my heart. That place of true brotherhood outside the mosque, that place of a simplicity that does not care for our modern-day obsessions with labels and debates. That place where God is remembered, where life stops for the prayer, where brothers respect one another and welcome the stranger passing through. That place of beauty.

Gratitude

timbowes — Sun, 22 Jul 2007 19:00:00 -0500

There is so much that I owe to my Creator'so much that I cannot innumerate. Today I am grateful to God, my Creator and the Creator of all things, that He granted me a home in a small market town in a steep-sided valley. I am grateful to my Lord for granting me this humble dwelling on one side of the valley, overlooking the fields of cows on the other side and the woodland beyond. I am grateful that He enables us to buy fresh vegetables from the market in the centre of town every. I am grateful that He granted us a home we could afford. I am grateful to God for granting me my loving, caring parents and I am grateful to them--although they may not think so given that I chose to walk this path, not theirs. But I am grateful. I am grateful for their unerring provision, the clothing they provided me in my youth, the education they furnished me with and the meals they prepared for me day after day. I am grateful that they sent me to Sunday School and took me to church, and instilled in me my moral compass. I am grateful for Stepping Stones when I was a child. I am grateful for all these things and I thank God for granting them to me. I am grateful to God for granting me my wife who supports me and encourages me, and cooks delicious Turkish and English tucker. I am grateful to my Lord for granting me someone who understands me, who comforts me when I am down and kicks me when I am lazy, and I am grateful to her too. I am grateful to my Creator that He enabled me to make seven delicious scones one Sunday morning and I am grateful that He decreed that my wife would not be angry with me about the burnt shortbread biscuits. I am grateful that God granted me the friendship of my brother Abdul Haq who moved to Bahrain on business; he is a great support to me always and a true friend indeed. I am grateful that He granted me the wise counsel of Abdul Baasit who has never over the nine years I have known him failed to ask after my parents, about their health and wellbeing. I am grateful that God has granted me the ability to write and I am grateful that He has given me a creative nature. I am grateful that God granted me employment in an extremely pleasant country town, even though I often moaned about my work ungratefully. I am grateful that I was able to walk past the ancient houses every day from my car to my desk and that in the summer I could ascend the hill between fields of barley to walk beneath the leafy canopy above in the forest at the top, or stroll beside the river running behind the high street. I am grateful that I could sit it the park amidst the scented flowers in my lunch hour and munch on my sandwiches. I am grateful that I can now pray in my local mosque ten minutes' walk from my desk every lunchtime. I am grateful that God has granted me good health. I am grateful that my Lord has granted me the companionship of fellow Englishmen also following this path who smooth the way before me. I am grateful that God granted me the friendship of my older Somali companion Abdi who has a special place in my heart although I have not seen him in years. I am grateful that he studied Development Studies and Geography at the same time as me, sharing his expertise in the field. I am grateful that He granted me the friendship of my older Turkish companion too, who invited me to his home when I studied in Stirling and inspired me with his culture so that I prayed to God that He would be grant me a life like his, and lo He granted me a wife from that same land who prepares Turkish breakfast just like the one I tasted in that house in Scotland. And I am grateful to God for his immense signs, for although my friend had never met my wife, when he visited us in Ankara we discovered that he was a close friend of my wife's closest friend. I am grateful to God for granting me bounties greater than I can measure. I am grateful that He granted me so many friendships throughout my years and throughout this land and others. I am grateful to my Lord for granting me the gift of faith. I am grateful to the Most Merciful for making me shy throughout my youth. I am grateful that He protected me from bringing harm upon myself. I am grateful that He placed in my heart the fear of my parents. I am grateful that He granted me warmth and gave me food. I am grateful that He protected me from harm and has sustained my life long enough for me to begin to correct my conduct and start to purify my heart. I am grateful for the Letter of James. I am grateful to God that He inspired me to walk, walk, walk. I am grateful that He granted me my garden and the fruit trees within it. I am grateful for all these things and for so much more. I am grateful that He has granted me what wealth I have. I am grateful for the cheerful greeting of an old man I encountered in the street this morning. I am grateful for laughter and I am grateful for tears. I am grateful that God tested me in a way which made me appreciate His bounty. I am grateful that He makes my heart ache whenever I do wrong and that He causes tears to well up in my eyes when I stumble into sin. I am grateful that He sends critics to me who remind me of my shortcomings. I am grateful that I have a bowl of carrot and courgette soup waiting for me downstairs. I am grateful that He decreed that we once received two fresh trout and two bottles of milk every Monday, delivered straight to our door. I am grateful that blessing after blessing is bestowed on me despite myself and that God sends sign after sign, from the beauty of the dawn across the hill in the morning to the bright moon above us on a cloudless night. There is so much to be grateful for. I am grateful that God sent anonymous with his messages for me, which made me go off on a great tangent, giving thought to the beautiful chaffinch of all things, which made me think of the beauty of God's creation, which made me think of his vast Mercy and Blessings bestowed upon us. I am grateful indeed. May God, how glorious is He, forgive me for every moment of sadness, for every moment spent with ingratitude. There is so much that God has poured upon me and I am truly grateful. In life we must always remind ourselves of the debt we owe our Lord. Seven years ago a flat battery had to remind me this. That morning my rented car would not start and so I had to call out the AA. It was funny how something foreign could become so familiar within such a short space of time, such that something we could once do without becomes something we take for granted. And it was funny how when something is always there we do not thank God for it as we do when something new arrives. We pray for safe travels when we go on holiday and thank Him on our arrival, but the daily trip to work and back becomes a routine normality which we do not thank Him for. We pray for sound employment and thank Him when He responds, but we take our daily bread without the same words of thanks. We ask for good health when struck down with illness and thank Him when we recover, but as we go about our everyday business in good health, sometimes we forget to thank the One who has power over all things. When I first got that car I was wondering at all the blessings that God had bestowed on me, but soon I would get in the car in the morning, drive to work and park, failing to say All Praise is for God in exchange for His blessings, just as I made my sandwiches at lunchtime without saying, "Thank you Lord," just as I would wake in the morning without thanking God for the opportunity of another day to better myself, just as I would write a letter without thanking God for giving me sight--and what an amazing thing that is--just as I would take so many things for granted and yet not express my gratitude to the Bestower of all things. It reminded me of the words of a poet: "If my thanking God for His blessings is a blessing, then I must thank Him in the same measure again. How can one thank Him save by His grace as time goes on, and life goes by... If a good thing comes, I rejoice heartily; if a bad one comes, I receive a reward. In both cases He gives me a gift too large for the minds of men, and the land and sea." That day, I thought, I would not moan about the frost killing my battery. I decided to thank God instead for giving me time to reflect on His blessings. How perfect He is, and how we fail to express the gratitude He deserves. Years later it was the sudden beauty of my garden that brought this back to my mind after a seemingly long winter and the arrival of spring at last. Our front garden was suddenly blooming with flushes of new green leaves and splashes of colour everywhere. There were pinkish red flowers on the camellia, purple tulips, bright yellow cowslips, orange on our exotic oak, yellows, pinks and blues everywhere. The scent was splendid and it was a sight that made me mutter praises of God over and over again. God has always been generous to me. His magnificence never fails to amaze me. His signs, His bounties and His blessings multiply. One evening I decided to stop writing, for words worry me. The responsibility we shoulder when we use words is great and so I worried as I often do about my writing that exists in the public domain. God has granted me the ability to write and thus I felt that I should use this gift for the greater good, but still I worry. Is it a gift or is a test? A very dear friend of mine pointed out that all gifts can also be a test. Still, the concern remains and that night I decided to rest my pen. Not for the first time, however--the same happened last time I decided to give up my writing--I received an email later that evening in which someone I did not really know told me that he found my writing useful. The timing: God's generosity? Why was it that every time I concluded that my writing should cease somebody had words for me? Was it a sign or was it a test? God knows best, but I know that God is always generous to me. He never ceases to shower His blessings upon me, despite myself. God is great, magnificent. We say that God is the Most High because everything around us bears witness to this. We say He is Great--Allahu Akbar--because this is evident all around us. I think of His generosity one evening when my computer crashed in the middle of a piece of work. I spent an hour writing words in my defence, choosing the right words to respond to another's. Yet when I tried to send those words--praise belongs to God--my computer timed out and it timed out three more times after that, and then my other computer crashed when I tried to use it instead. It was then that I recognised God's generosity. What was to be gained by responding? What was to be gained with those words? I recognised His generosity at last, and so finally I deleted that email, wiped away that text and--praise belongs to God--the computer worked once more. God's generosity. Were matters within my hands, were I able to control such things, were I able to decree anything, I would decree that I land face down in the fire of hell. But God is ever generous, ever protecting us from ourselves, ever granting us an escape from our own wickedness. He is the ever generous, and this is why we call Him the Most High, the Great. A few days earlier I had been feeling sad and so I returned to my Lord in prayer, supplicating to Him who has the power to grant and withhold. I was feeling confused, recognising that without His help all of us will go astray, and so I prayed as best I could. What can I say except that God is ever generous? Without any effort on my part, He sends aid, He sends guidance. That day I had conceded that it was time I did the painting I have been promising my wife all year and so I went down to the hardware store to get some paint. A member of staff there told me that the Islamic Studies classes were starting in the mosque at last the following day. He walked with me to the car park and fetched me a timetable from his car. So the following morning my wife and I walked the ten minute trek from our house, across the top of the hill and down through the graveyard to the mosque in that wonderful sunshine for the first class beneath that stunning calligraphy in the dome. The gentle Algerian introduced us to half an hour of Qur?anic commentary and half an hour of the biography of the Prophet, peace be upon him. For half an hour he began to tell us the meaning of the Arabic word Hamd, and for half an hour he described to us the appearance of our blessed Prophet, upon whom be peace. What can one say except that God is the Most Generous, the Most High? What can one say except that we count the Blessings He showers upon us every day? We learnt that morning that God has said that very few of His servants say shukr--thank you--and so we begin every prayer with Alhamdulilah, a gift from God, that we thank Him for those things that we are aware of and those things that we are not. Alhamdulilah--all praise is for God. God the Most Great saves us from ourselves and gives us the words to say because He knows that we would not say shukr on our own accord. Alhamdulilah. God is the ever generous. If I were to write of all the bounties that I felt that weekend it would take up too much space and too much time, but nevertheless I was made aware of His generosity--this was His generosity in itself. I felt humbled and blessed, for God had granted me so much despite myself. He had granted me so much although I am so undeserving. Time after time He protects me from myself and I wish I could repay Him, but I know I never can and so all I can say is this: I seek refuge in God, the Lord of the Worlds, from myself and I pray that He guides me and does not let me die other than as one who has earned His pleasure.

Inside Out

timbowes — Sat, 21 Jul 2007 19:00:00 -0500

I was a great idealist for the first few years as a Muslim, seeing that letter of James come alive in my own life. I got on with the task of adopting Islamic characteristics which mirrored my favourite epistle: quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to be angry; speak and act as men who are judged under a law which makes them free; if faith does not lead to action, it is itself a lifeless thing; a man who controls his tongue is capable of controlling every part of his body; God opposes the arrogant and gives grace to the humble; a good man's prayer is powerful and effective. Once I had established the prayer and had learnt the foods I could eat my concern turned to the purification of my heart. According to the Qur'an our success is linked to the purity of our soul:

By the sun and his brightness, and the moon when she follows him, and the day when it reveals him, and the night when it enshrouds him, and the heaven and Him Who built it, And the earth and Him Who spread it out, and a soul and Him Who perfected it and inspired it with awareness of what is wrong for it and what is right for it, he is indeed successful who purifies it, and he is indeed a failure who neglects it.

Initially my overwhelming concern lay with sincerity. Islam teaches that actions are only accepted according to the intentions that lie behind them: "Whoever's emigration is for some worldly gain which he can acquire or a woman he will marry," said our Prophet, "then his emigration is for that which he emigrated." Sincerity to God is the key to faith in Islam. Believers must ensure that all acts of worship are done exclusively for God's pleasure. Where a person's intention is to show off, their acts of worship may be nullified. The greatest action such as feeding multitudes of the poor could be reduced to nothing because one's intention was to earn a good reputation. Yet at the same time even the smallest action can be made great by the intention behind it. Intention and honesty are intimately linked, and the desire to honour God is tied to both. When I came to believe in Islam my journey had barely begun. The early days were often characterised by feelings of fear and isolation as I negotiated the reactions of family, friends and even complete strangers. At the same time I discovered that I had greater strength than I gave myself credit for, persevering with my new found faith and ignoring the disdain of others. Some of the university's non-practising Muslims hypothesised that I had been pressurised to convert by fundos, while a group of practising Muslims--questioning my sincerity--agreed that they should view my adoption of Islam with suspicion. The theories of others varied: I wanted an ethnic religion, it was an act of rebellion, I had been pressurised by friends or it was a passing phase. Of all those who had formed an opinion of me and my conversion, very few ever thought to actually ask me for an explanation and even when I did explain it seemed that they did not believe me. The reality was that a discomfort within--the call of my heart--drove my search for God. It was perhaps only natural then that my first steps as a Muslim centred upon looking inwards as I focussed on treating a lump of flesh beneath my ribs. The testimony of faith signified a new beginning for me, like others before it and others since. Whenever we repent of our sins it is a new beginning, just as it was a new beginning when I started attending church again in my quest for Truth. Each new beginning comes after an awakening inside, although change is not always immediate. When I was asked why I had become a Muslim there were many answers I would give: sometimes I would say that I had been brought this way through reading, through listening, through watching, but the final impetus was deeper than that. There was that awakening within to the realisation that I needed guidance and had to change. Some months before I became Muslim I spent a bright Saturday morning wandering aimlessly through the streets of London and it was while heading through Regent's Park that something within troubled me. My response to this was a turning point in which I began to speak to God and made myself a covenant with Him. Islam is a religion of reform: it refreshes, brings life anew and grants new beginnings. It was clear as I struggled with myself in my new faith that action was required on my part. Belief in itself was not enough, for I had to begin the process of reforming my character. It was not that I was an incredibly bad person who had to go through a complete transformation, but I did have a number of issues that required redress. Emerging from a tradition whose entire theology hangs on the idea that mankind is primarily a sinful being in need of salvation it is easy to go to extremes in viewing oneself in a wholly negative light, but many of my concerns were genuine. The majority of them were related to the heart--sincerity, honesty, gratitude, the use of words, suspicion, envy. My pursuit of the outward forms of worship lacked precision as I uncritically absorbed the plentiful but sometimes contradictory advice of well-meaning individuals around me; once I had learned the basics I found that I could not dwell on them anymore. In any case, I had my share of virtues to help me on my way. I was never very good at performing the ritual prayers on time and rarely followed them with the optional prayers favoured by my friends, preferring to do the bare minimum in the hope that it would see me through. As my studies in London drew to a close I began telling myself that I would practice properly once I moved away, escaping the controversies that divided the Muslims at my college. This was not a very a logical view for I was about to leave the company of likeminded individuals to spend time with people who disliked Islam. Yet although my practice did not improve over that period, I still encountered moments of renewal prompted by the difficulties that I faced. One evening, having applied to study for a post-graduate degree and wondering what my future had in store for me given that I still had not received an offer by mid-summer, I decided to read a prayer known as Al-Istikhaarah, which is the supplication for seeking guidance in forming a decision or choosing the proper way. After my main evening prayer, I knelt on the carpet with my English prayer book in hand and addressed my Lord: if my going to study publishing was good for me in relation to my religion, my life, and end, then decree and facilitate it for me, and if be ill for me, remove it from me and remove me from it. The very next day I received an offer in the post. Remembering my supplication as I retrieved the envelope from the doormat, my faith was suddenly renewed, it felt strong and I became devoted in my prayers. This renewal, alas, did not last and I soon returned to my former self. A few weeks later I had an argument with one of my siblings, both of us saying things that would offend the other. I thought that the family conversation about our argument would destroy me for I knew that I would never be asked to explain my side of the story. Descending into misery as the sense of isolation overcame me, I went inside and prayed. After half an hour I felt better and again I was devoted to God for a while. Throughout the summer, these beginnings recurred, for despite my wavering and the constant struggle that I found myself facing, one thing always seemed self-evident. I knew that if my life were to suddenly end I would not be ready. This is why I persevered, returning in a hurry to renew my faith after every period of stagnation. Each of us is responsible for the ultimate destination of our soul; no one can believe for us. Between my soul and God, I always remind myself, lie my heart and my deeds, and our end is in our own hands. Even as I acknowledge this truth, however, sometimes it can be daunting to define a role for ourselves in the great scheme of things, as we wonder what impact we as individuals can make on the world around us. In our modern age that demands immediate answers to every problem the traditional approach of religion can seem tiresome. Muslims were taught that Islam is good manners and that success relies upon us patiently perfecting our character. The internal struggles against the lowest calls of the self were seen as the gateway to prosperity, in place of protest and sloganeering. Pondering this question, I found myself taking inspiration from the natural world around us. Whilst staying in Broomhall Castle on the side of the Ochil Hills in Menstrie during my postgraduate studies I used to climb over the fence behind that sandstone building at weekends and ascend vast hills on foot. High up there were great views of Stirling and the Firth of Forth. Once over the hill I would trample down into the valley and follow the rivers and streams as far as I could. I learnt a lot from those waters. Sometimes I would encounter a stream that was nothing but a dribble through the grass, sometimes a bubbling brook. Every beck was fed by scores of tiny tributaries and every small river by dozens of streams. In one afternoon I would pass hundreds of watery veins across the fields and rocks, feeding one new watercourse after another. I would ponder on those waterways dribbling down the higher ground at their source, for on my way I had passed the rushing torrent heading out of the valley, carving its way between huge boulders. Across the lowland, through the village, this wide river joined another, that one joining another and on and on, until it joined the magnificent shining Firth of Forth far in the distance. One particular afternoon, while heading onwards further than before, I understood the parable in that magnificent landscape. We are not required to be mighty rivers to get our life's work done. Each of us can contribute to a wider goal by performing even the smallest deed. Some of us are the tiny tributaries feeding the larger streams. Some are energetic brooks feeding the rivers. Some are cascading rivers swelling the wide, deep estuaries. All of us have a role and however insignificant it may seem at the time, it will always makes a huge difference in the end. There are signs in creation if only we took heed, like my lesson from my aimless meanders in Clackmannanshire's steep hills. There is an undeniable truth which faces us, which is that no excuse will suffice when we confront the Day of Judgement. Through "negligence and our own deliberate fault", we sometimes place ourselves in great danger. It is clear that we can conceal the diseases of our hearts from one another, but we realise that on that awesome Day when we gather before our Lord there will be no cover for them unless we strive to cure them now. Each time I turn back to God in repentance I tell myself that I must hurry to put things right. God is most merciful, nullifying every bad action that passed before whenever we sincerely beg for His forgiveness. Having detailed the consequences of living a sinful life, the Qur'an states, "...except for those who repent, believe and do good deeds. For them does God convert their evil deeds into good. And God is eternally forgiving and merciful." Ever since I came to believe in Islam these phases of realisation and renewal have accompanied me; they have been the central theme of this journey of mine, characterising my struggle between reconciling my heart and other calls. This is an intensely personal journey and yet it is not a road that we can travel alone. I will always be grateful to a friend who provided wise counsel whilst I was studying in Scotland and feeling the effects of isolation. I knew of eight practising Muslims on campus whom I sometimes encountered in the prayer room throughout the day, but generally I lacked any kind of support; indeed the responsibility of organising the Friday prayer, social gatherings and the break of fast in Ramadan had been placed upon me, a role I disliked given that I had only recently joined the fold of the faithful and considered myself most in need of help. The result was a growing sense of unease, which my true friends detected in the emails I regularly dispatched. Unlike those companions who will only tell us exactly what we want to hear, I discovered that I had friends who would always go well beyond the extra mile. One such friend travelled an extra 420 miles north from London to tell me that God had done His part in guiding me: now it was my turn to strive in His way in an effort to repay my debt.

The Middle Way

timbowes — Fri, 20 Jul 2007 19:00:00 -0500

When I embraced Islam in 1998, one of the first pieces of advice I received from Muslim friends was to learn the names of three people and then stay away from them. They were three men who have since been made famous by the media as purveyors of extremism: two of them have now been deported, while the other is still serving his prison sentence. Shortly afterwards I received an angry email from my father demanding to know whether I had passed his email address on to a group of zealots. He had received a mass email purportedly sponsored by a vast array of Muslim organisations which told him to convert to Islam or face the consequences. I most certainly had not passed his email address on to anybody and glancing at the other email addresses--other public figures in the church--I surmised that his email address had been harvested along with others from Christian websites. Rather distressed by my father's anger I showed the email to a fellow student who had been involved with Hizb-ut-Tahir in the early 1990s who told me that the author--then the leader of a group known as al-Muhajirun--was an eccentric who had had a habit of making up organisation names to make his little band of followers efforts' appear more credible. None of the organisations listed at the end of the email actually existed. Over the next few years we heard a lot from the trio I was told to avoid. Around the middle of 2000, a close friend of mine found himself the focus of attention of an evangelical Christian colleague who spoke frequently of Islamic extremists in our midst, for her husband worked for the Police force and apparently had much to say about Muslim radicals. Tired of her constant bombardment, my friend asked her to find out why one of those men was still free to preach despite frequent complaints from the Muslim community at large. His question was never answered. To be continuously told by the government, media and senior Police officers today, therefore, that the British Muslim community is in denial about the existence of extremists amongst us is quite hard for me to grasp. The warnings I received were not from lapsed Muslims who were happy to compromise their beliefs for political gain, but from practising, active individuals. Prior to the attacks on the United States of America on 11 September 2001 I listened to many Muslims lamenting the authorities' refusal to deal with people well known to be creating community tensions. Indeed, witnessing this laxity, some members of the community even began to entertain conspiracy theories about these free men. The Muslim community complained about their outrageous statements and the authorities appeared to do nothing. For the first year and a half as a Muslim I enjoyed the company of a small group of friends who were predominantly apolitical Salafis--a name taken from the Arabic word Salaf, meaning early generations, used by those who claimed to interpret Islam according the methods of the earliest Muslims--who believed that a renewal of an Islamic society lay with the purification of the individual's soul. "God does not change the condition of a people," they would quote from the Qur'an, "until they change the condition of themselves." Today much is made of the threat that Hizb-ut-Tahir poses to British society, with calls for it to be proscribed arising from various quarters including 10 Downing Street, but this does not marry my experience. My friends certainly derided the group as the Socialist Worker Party for Muslims with its Leninist view that all of the problems of the Muslim world would be solved once the Caliphate--abolished by the British in 1916--was restored, but its members were viewed as irritating more than a menace. I once encountered an angry scene before a lecture at a mosque during which a Salafi seized upon some Hizb-ut-Tahir literature and proceeded to tear them to shreds, complaining that the ideas contained therein were dangerous and heretical, but apart from that I never had the impression that anybody took their ideas seriously. A close friend of mine who had starting practising Islam just before I became Muslim was swayed by the ideas of this group and so I frequently encountered his arguments in favour of working for the return of Muslim governance, since they believed that the governments of the Muslim world were not Islamic. Contrary to contemporary claims about violent activism on the part of its members, I found that they were obsessed with the concept of intellectual argument which they seemed to believe would change the world. Their only reference to violence was in their critique of British and US foreign policy, which they viewed as an aggressive force in the Muslim world, detailed in tracts--Socialist Worker style--that they would thrust into the hands of worshipers after every Friday prayer: the violence belonged to the West and this was no call to arms. I never attended any of their circles, of course, although I did encounter their gatherings every Saturday afternoon when I went to Regents Park Mosque for the New Muslims' group, so I cannot say what went on behind closed doors. Still, my friends and I tended to think of them as a broken record--a talking shop--harping on and on, and on, about the same issue over and over again at the expense of any spiritual growth. Indeed when I once declined an invitation to join a friend for an evening smoking fruit flavoured tobacco from a sheesha pipe, suggesting that this was perhaps not the way a Muslim should pass his time, he replied that we would adopt this attitude when the Caliphate returned. Until then, it was business as usual. This said it all for me.