Code of Disjointed Letters: ( Doomsday Will Arise From the Past (2 page)

I decided it was necessary to print a version of the Holy Qur’an with transparent pages. I wanted to take the book in my hands, touch it, and look at the order of its transparent pages, one on top of another, hoping to see the code that was written in its depths. I knew it would also be necessary to record its godly voice and acoustically layer the recorded digital pages, and try to listen to the voice also (if possible) encrypted in the third dimension. My only hope was that I had enough knowledge, intelligence, courage, technology, and understanding of mathematics to do so.

Potentially, the fourth-dimensional implications of the data would have to be examined to decipher whatever codes they contained.

According to my research, scientists had discovered as much as eleven dimensions— the eleventh referring to supergravity, a field theory that combines the principles of supersymmetry and general relativity. If the eleventh dimension really existed and we could find it, then, when our hearts were open, we would also have to determine whether it contained a reflection of the Qur’anic data.

But I knew that humans at that time had a gene for skepticism.

I decided to shorten the road rather than accelerate the engine.

My passion for the subject drove me to pursue the Qur’an’s mysteries. The excitement and the possibility of achieving a thing that no one had ever seen or known soon influenced my entire life. I spent my days aligning the transparent Arabic pages one after another, focusing on the possible messages occurring in between. The rest of the time, I lost myself in thought, staring blankly at the scenery through the window.

Elif grew agitated. I was not affected by her attempts to pull me into a social life or agitated at her ignorance of what I told her. I believed at any minute, the answers I sought would become clear in my mind, and I tried with all my might to crush my despair when it failed to happen.

To calm myself, I developed the following systematic method of thinking and evaluating the available data:

One: After the holy book began to reveal itself, it wasn’t put down on paper for twenty-three years. At that time, it was read with a traditional style in a divine language, (not Arabic) but always with a human voice.

Two: The order of the currently written suras in the Qur’an complies with Mushaf. It would be necessary not to spoil the order; therefore, suras would need to be arranged according to their arrival time.

Three: In regard to the verses and the number of words, or more precisely the data they contain, all of the Qur’an’s 114 suras vary from one to the other. For example, the size of the verses written on the transparent pages that I would align might vary. Therefore, uniformity would need to be established in the distance between the letters, texts, and characters, the typographical style and font, the spaces between the lines, and even the front and back pages. All would have to be fixed and standardized or it would destroy the individual suras’ variations and, ultimately, the stability of the whole. This would eliminate the possibility of achieving the same conclusion everywhere and in all circumstances.

This is how I began my experiment. With some diligence and a lot of luck, I was finally able to calculate these standards. I represented each character of information (including spaces—every letter, every mark) with small cubes. I then placed all these little information cubes, and thus everything contained within the sura, on a plane. I created a planar image of each sura in the shape of a golden rectangle, whose ratio of length to the sum of its length and width provided the golden ratio (1.618). Then, I lined up these cubes side by side.

That’s when something strange happened. All of the suras, as if they were magical, completed this golden ratio perfectly. Not even one cube protruded. What is more, I realized an even more incredible thing that made me extremely happy: the disjointed letters at the beginning of some suras completed the missing parts of those suras like lost pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

I shared what I had found regarding the mystery of the disjointed letters with Elif. I didn’t receive much of a response. She only stared at me and my work, troubled and confused. She was surely angry with me—like any human being would be at a person they lived with who locked himself in his room and didn’t leave the house for months. I knew I had not communicated with her except for a few words every now and then, and, moreover, I had made a big mess of the house. But I was so close to the end that I postponed making peace with her.

Of course, this doesn’t mean that I need to postpone telling you, reader, about what I found.

I had a 114-unit-thick planar sheet formed in the shape of squares of different sizes. I arranged those layers from front to back in the order of the suras’ chronological arrival. Each square was fully aligned on its upper right corner. As you may know, Arabic is read from right to left, and the disjointed letters at the beginning of each sura are on the top right of the page. I thus reconfigured the disjointed letters.

First, I colored each disjointed letter red. Then I put the three-dimensional figure opposite myself. At this point, I was stymied. I had been trying to examine what I had built to perceive the depth of the transparent information, while being careful not to touch the information cubes. This not only took a lot of time, but also led me to lose track of time completely. I began to fear that this was as far as I would be allowed to progress. My fear grew to despair and that slowly turned into surrender. Suddenly, an idea flashed through my mind.

I had read somewhere that when the Qur’an’s suras are placed in chronological order of their arrival or revelation - Traditionally the Qur’an’s suras are set from roughly the longest to the shortest. - the first sura, Kalem, begins with a disjointed letter to the sura, Araf. Thus, I left the disjointed letters red in the beginning of the sura, Araf, then began to examine the first set of disjointed letters in the longest combination, starting with
-elif, -lam, -mim
, and
–sad,
and each column on the front/back plane in the third dimension. After a very long, laborious effort, I found the same letter combination—
elif, lam, mim
, and
sad
—in the same order in the front/back plane.

Suddenly I was yelling and jumping like crazy, letting my laughter and tears flow into each other. My efforts had been rewarded, but I wasn’t done yet. I needed to finish my broad scanning completely. I found another column composed of the same magical identical letters (
elif, lam, mim
, and
sad
). Then I found yet another identical combination of letters on the three-dimensional figure composed of 114 layers on the right/left plane and two more on the front/back plane. Dancing around, I marveled at this figure from every angle. It was done, and I watched it for hours in a state of charmed contentment.

It was time to return to my research. I browsed through the available books and websites and repeatedly re-read my notes and the scientific papers that I had gathered. Eventually, I came across this information: a plane passes through three dots and Cauchy’s integral formula passes through that plane in a three-dimensional ambient to uncover and determine the information on the plane.

This set me to work with more urgency. Up till now, my predictions on the nature of the message or the figure written on the plane were often contradictory. When I applied my findings, it hadn’t occurred to me that I would encounter such an incredible figure as the one that showed up on the plane. I began to slip back into despair as I had come to another dead end. Despite all my thoughts, experiences, and endless work, I was stuck.

What happened next was something that I would have never expected—but doesn’t a miracle always happen this way?

The plane that connected those three glowing red dots was perceived by cutting off each information cube and taking in the tiny particles it contained. When the figure of this plane’s fraction appeared right in front of me, a big, blank, white page with a small dot in its asymmetric upper right corner lay, in all its glory, right in front of my eyes. The impossible had happened: the plane, swinging like a sword, didn’t touch anything but a tiny dot as it passed through the three-dimensional image. The odds of this were that of tossing a coin thousands of times and having it always land on its side.

How could a miracle be more elegant and clear than that?

I had to tell someone. I hugged Elif enthusiastically, held her hands, sat her down, and tried to tell her everything I had found and learned and the possible consequences of it.

Elif responded with enormous confusion and even more disbelief and tried only to calm me down. I realized what I had discovered was profound, but my ability to explain it was limited. In time, I did what she told me: I restrained my excitement, collected my thoughts, and thought over my sudden responsibility. If the person closest to me didn’t understand me because of my excitement, it meant that the problem was me, and I had to iron it out. Otherwise, the public would greet me only with mockery before I could tell them a word.

So I explained to Elif that I wanted to write a book to share what I had found with everyone. In doing so, I would make every effort to give my miraculous discovery its due.

Elif saw that I was calmer now and she smiled encouragingly at my new idea. We sat together for a long time and talked and hugged more than we had in quite a while. She helped me tease out my ideas a bit, and even tried to reshape them. For my part, I agreed to change some of my behavior and act more like a responsible person.

We cleaned up the house and went to the barber together. I tried to catch glimpses of her as she sat outside the barbershop, sipping her coffee. We once again walked hand in hand along the coast of Tuzla, and, like old times, she got scared of some kittens while I calmed her down. We played backgammon at the old coastal coffee house where we used to go. The waiters joked that they had missed us and our fights. We ate at our favorite fish restaurant and gave them the same excuse that we had been busy.

The feeling of returning to Elif, and to life itself, calmed me down and wrapped me up in a feeling of peace. Lighting small candles at home, we surrendered ourselves to the dark room, the luminous pool, and the sea view.

…

How difficult it was to write a book. What a lot of trouble it was to put my thoughts on paper.

I reviewed my findings over and over again, and I wondered whether my readers would understand what I wrote. There was no difficulty with sharing my thoughts with myself, but it was more difficult to explain those thoughts to another. In my mind, the discovery didn’t need any depiction, vocal expression, or vocabulary.

So I began the book with the story of an incredible discovery, something that I could tell the reader beautifully, but when I tried to write the details of that discovery, I saw how difficult it was to reflect these ideas in a book. I knew what I wanted to say, but I didn’t know how to say it.

The house began to fall apart again, and Elif and I began to talk less. I was again subject to questions that I left unanswered and, hence, had to deal with her scolding. As I spent more and more hours in front of the computer, she gave up, surrendering to the flow of her own academic life.

…

I dove into the book. I prepared the template, identified the topics to discuss, and sorted and organized the available materials and the sources that would be quoted—provided that they fit with what I was writing. These tasks were only the beginning. The writing itself was much more time-consuming and difficult.

Sometimes, I spent days in front of a half-written page. I would complete the page with a few weak keyboard strokes that I would later erase. In rare instances, I rode on the wings of my muse for hours and wrote nonstop with little need to return or delete anything.

During this stage, the only thing that I could be proud of was my perpetual effort. It took a long time for me to realize that I hadn’t been to the hospital for ages. I had taken a long-term, unpaid leave to devote myself fully to writing the book. I lost myself so much in the project that, if Elif hadn’t been there for me, I would have forgotten about the hospital altogether.

When Elif had the time, I insisted she read what I had written. She would read aloud to me and I would read to her. I asked her whether I had expressed what I wanted and if she had any suggestions. When necessary, I stood right in front of the door of our room and insisted that she give me suggestions. Most of the time, she would sit beside me while I sat in front of the computer screen caressing my head and sipping her coffee. She would sometimes watch me writing at length, trying not to disturb me or ask any questions. She only asked me one question when she came home from work each evening, “How was your day, honey?” But sometimes, she would force me to stand up from my desk and get something to eat.

Elif calmed down as she realized that the book was nearing completion. The tension in the house began to lift, and, although it took months, I finally typed the last period.

I waited for Elif to come back from work so that we could celebrate the book’s completion. Darkening the room and lighting a few small candles, I stood with a printout of the book, rolled and wrapped with a ribbon. When the door opened, and Elif appeared, I let out a cry of joy. She gave a look of excited surprise as I kissed her and gave her the roll that held the completed book.