Voices of Islam (151 page)

teaching,
Alhamdulillah ‘ala kulli hal,
‘‘Praise belongs to Allah in every sit- uation and spiritual state.’’ Far then from Mecca and the shrines of our holy ones, I resolved to sanctify the life in which I found myself, making pilgrimage through urban blackberry thickets to the wild beach at Kitsilano and probing the shifting mandala of the Mary blue Pacific. Black and azure, grey and gold—the North Shore Mountains became my Layla, both veiled and revealed by the courtship of sunlight and cloud. With many pasts surging together, I sought presence here in nature and tried to imagine a future worthy of our ancient aspirations.

Here I will recite the Sura of Maryam (Qur’an 19), the Qur’anic chapter devoted to Mary the Blessed Virgin. Somewhere in Cairo, a friend is in labor. Her mother e-mailed me last night, ‘‘Pray for a safe delivery.’’ Earlier in her pregnancy, in the months of gestation, I had recited the Sura of Yusuf (Qur’an 12), praying that her daughter might grow beautifully in the womb, as the young Prophet Joseph grew in the well and in the crucible of his prison cell, refined in inner and outer qualities—exquisite and visionary, a king. But by now, my friend’s baby has known both union and separation, the coming together of her parents’ seed and the myriad delicate divisions that gave rise to her form. We prayed for her formation for four months, but now her gestation is complete. As her journey to this world begins, we read especially of Maryam, her noble birth to a priestly lineage, her long devotions in the sanctuary, and the strange and poignant Qur’anic tale of her labor and birth. I have read this Sura countless times for aunts, cousins, sisters, and friends. Though we live continents apart, a woman feels the pangs of labor, neighbors knock, the phone rings, and e-mails appear out of ether. In Karachi, London, Chicago, and here too in Vancouver, women leave their occupations, draw about themselves the tabernacle of silken shawls, and sing the same sacred song, praying that divine compassion might envelope their sister as the date

palm bowed over our Maryam, nourishing her endurance.

I have read the Sura of Maryam for my nieces and nephews with all their beautiful names. I have read it on a Pacific outcropping where eagles circled as Haniya (Joy) was born; I have read it flying across the continent toward little Isra (Night Journey) emerging one month too early. I have read it on a bunk bed flanked by my nephews, Idris and Ilyas, as we awaited the birth of their brother, Isa, the last of a trio of Japanese-Pakistani-Canadian lads named for the venerable apostles, Enoch, Elias, and Jesus. And just once, six years ago, I read it for myself.

I say ‘‘once,’’ because I have recited the Sura of Yusuf for myself many, many times. Two years before my daughter’s birth and three years afterward, I read it for a full trimester. Though the two sons I bore too early and then buried—one a fi length of a boy, the other a delicate seahorse—did not linger long, in their brief sojourn they revealed to me Yusuf’s perfect beauty. They chose themselves names in jest and then in earnest, Pir Ali and Ibrahim; scattered small miracles for their expectant mother like so many

The Birth of Aliya Maryam
115

red money packets at the Chinese New Year Parade; and cared for me even as they slipped away, announcing their departure and promising me protection. I folded them in white cotton, recited the Sura of Ya Sin for their passage, and buried them beneath daisies near the Coast Salish site at Jericho Beach. They appeared to me as six-year-olds, as teenagers, as young men. Once in a dream they stole upon me out at Spanish Banks, two strong sons who lifted me up, up by the arms like a girl, and ran laughing the length of the surf, Pir Ali with shining curls, gravity in mirth, and Ibrahim’s dark eyes, mirth in gravity. Though briefly embodied, they made themselves known, rending the veil between the seen and the unseen and offering me so much of themselves and the world to which they were turning that I now fall silent, lest I transgress the boundaries of spiritual courtesy.

My daughter Aliya was another matter. She grew within me a full nine months but would not reveal herself. Sherif Baba cautioned us against speaking of her unnecessarily, and she assured our adherence to his guidance by eluding us entirely. In ultrasounds she turned away from the camera, briefly presenting one almond eye and then a pearl-strung languor of spine. The technicians, who had been charged with photographing the four chambers of her heart, suggested us to roll down the hospital greens to elicit her compliance. After 10 minutes of entertaining interns assembled under an arbor for a smoking break, I sat by a late blooming magnolia in conversation with my unborn daughter. ‘‘It is true that the chambers of your heart are no place for strangers to be probing, and I admire your discretion and clarity of will, both of which, God knows, I am lacking. Still, if you would indulge these people, it would save us both returning next week, by which time I intend to be well past somersaulting on public lawns.’’ Minutes later, she turned just long enough to assure us of her heart’s bivalve perfection. By the time I asked to see her face, she had sequestered herself again.

The first four months of my pregnancy with Aliya were not marked by wonder. I was nauseous, exhausted, and hypersensitive, with an animal sense of smell. I could not be in the remote vicinity of chicken or cologne. Though others assured me nothing had changed, the odors of municipal sewage seemed to permeate my home by way of the kitchen drain. At one point, I could not tolerate even the fragrance of my own clean skin. Then one morning I awoke and the sickness was over. Not having walked more than three blocks in that time, I announced to my bemused husband Osman that his child wished to go to the mountains. At Cathedral Lakes Provincial Park, which seemed to be 10,000 miles above Earth’s northernmost desert, Osman and his friends hiked the advanced trails. My baby and I set out at our own pace, aided by a reliable walking stick. Together we traversed an improbable vista of rock scape, glacier, and alpine meadow. We stood, one foot on ancient ice and the other in a field of ephemeral bloom. I thought of Moses climbing Mt. Sinai, and of all who ascend. The scent of anguish fell away.

116
Voices of Life: Family, Home, and Society

Perhaps here arose the seed of intention that brought us the name Aliya, ‘‘Raised High,’’ or ‘‘Exalted.’’

Returning home, I was again afflicted, this time by insomnia. My mother,
Ammi,
had always retired early and arisen before dawn. As a girl, I awoke to the sonority of her morning devotions. God’s breath in
Ammi’s
breath called me before the first light. While my younger siblings slept, we shared the communion of dawn prayer, tea and toast with guava jelly, conversation, reading, and refl . Even today, I relish the hours between 5:00 and 8:00
AM
. But something was not letting me sleep until the hour when I usually arose. Though preferable to my previous nausea, sleep deprivation soon began to trouble my equanimity.

In the midst of this condition, I attended a celebration of the birth of the thirteenth-century poet and mystic Mawlana Jalaluddin Rumi. There I asked Sherif Baba whether he could suggest a prayer or divine name to alleviate my condition. He laughed, ‘‘Don’t ask for sleep! The holy ones love the night. Perhaps the one within you is awakened. Bear with her. No frustration. Lie in bed peacefully and refl upon whichever divine names and verses come into your heart.’’ Late that night I left Osman sleeping and wandered out to a towering bonfi around which young dervishes were immersed in
dhikr,
the ceremony of divine remembrance. A woman beat a frame drum laced with iron rings. Their two faces flickered, woman and drum, golden moon skins shimmering with song. I sat on a bench with the
dhikr
around me,
Ya Jamal, ya Jalal,
Oh Beauty, Oh Majesty.
Ya Qabid, ya Basit, ya Hayy, ya Haqq.
Oh, Contractor of Hearts, oh Expander of Souls, oh Life and Vitality, oh You who are Real.
La ilaha illallahu. La ilaha illallahu.
There is no God but the one God (He). There is nothing but the One.
Hu, Hu,Hu, Hu.
I joined them on
Hu,
the breath of creation, remembering Allah’s divine name
al-Rahman,
the creative womblike Compassion that exhaled a primor- dial and eternal
Hu,
warming and animating the damp clay of the original human being. I took that
Hu
home to my cabin and fell into a deep and restful slumber. Insomnia returned the next night and did not leave until Aliya was born, but my feelings about it had been transformed. I surrendered to the night’s serenity, to intimate discourse with my unborn darling, and to a subtle presence that I had not experienced before, the presence of Hazrat Maryam.

Hazrat Maryam, Islam’s ‘‘Noble Mary,’’ was born into a priestly clan in the lineage of Aaron, Moses’ brother. Her mother Hannah had promised to dedicate the child in her womb to the service of the Temple. That the child was born a daughter did not deter her. Under the spiritual mentorship of her Uncle Zakariyya, the young Maryam flourished.

Her Lord accepted her in beauty And cultivated her in beauty, Entrusting her to Zakariyya.

Whenever Zakariyya came upon her In the
mihrab
(sanctuary),

The Birth of Aliya Maryam
117

He found her blessed with sustenance.

He said, ‘‘Maryam, whence comes this to you?’’ She said, ‘‘It is from Allah.

Surely, Allah grants sustenance without measure to whomever He wills.’’

(Qur’an 3:37)

I first noticed this verse 12 years ago. It was inscribed in Sherif Baba’s fanciful hand on the door of his library. He nodded toward it and then toward me with a glance that said, ‘‘Pay attention.’’ Over the years, it has shown me much about transmission between generations, between genders, between teachers and students, within families, and especially between God and human beings. Zakariyya offered Maryam a sanctuary and trusted her cultivation of her inner world. The physical sanctuary in this passage was Maryam’s prayer niche located within the Jerusalem Temple, but the literal signifi of the Arabic term
mihrab
is ‘‘a place of struggle or battle.’’ Though we revere Maryam for her serenity, she engaged in a profound inward struggle without which her
mihrab,
as a site of inward battle, could not have become her
mihrab
as a site of sanctity and retreat. Through struggle Maryam became her own
mihrab,
‘‘Maryam Full of Grace.’’ One manifestation of this grace was the sustenance she received from Allah ‘‘without measure,’’ a miraculous sustenance that Islamic traditions describe as the fruit of winter in summer and the fruit of summer in winter.

Zakariyya asks Maryam a question, ‘‘Whence comes this to you?’’ although as her elder and spiritual mentor he must have discerned the answer. He attended to her story and honored the fruit of her communion with the unseen, allowing it even to nourish his own spiritual trust. Despite Zakariyya’s advancing years, he had been granted no son. Maryam’s experiences moved him to return to the sanctuary and to pray to Allah for a child. There in the winter of old age, he received the promise of summer’s fruit: he would be blessed with a holy son named Yahya (John). This son, John the Baptist, would later foretell the birth of Maryam’s own son Isa (Jesus), a fruit of summer conceived and borne in the winter of Maryam’s maidenhood. Once, I asked a group of women, ‘‘What if we were to regard these verses as a promise?’’ What if Mary’s daughters and sons were promised that whenever we turned to the sanctuary, we would be blessed beyond season? Does it ever happen that we turn from the merely incidental to the most sacrosanct place within, without receiving some immeasurable gift?

Lying awake in my bedroom sanctuary, I began to meditate on silence and night. I knew that when Zakariyya had received word of the birth of Yahya, the Angel Gabriel granted him a sign: that he should not speak to any human being for three
layali,
three nights, except in signs (Qur’an 19:10). I also recalled hearing in childhood of young Maryam’s nocturnal devotions, and how she too had received angelic guidance and ‘‘fasted’’ a time from speaking

118
Voices of Life: Family, Home, and Society

(Qur’an 19:26). In quiet solitude, I began to imagine nights that I called
Layali Maryam,
nights that Maryam had devoted to prayer, meditation, and fasting. I entered each
Layla,
each single Night:
Layla
of Mystery,
Layla
of Union, Moon
Layla, Layla
of Seventy Unveilings,
Layla
of Shining Constellations, and strangest of all, the
Layla/
Night when the
Ruh,
the Divine spirit, breathed into Maryam the baby Isa (Jesus), a child conceived like the first human being, Adam, of sheer Divine desire. (As the Qur’an tells it, Allah commanded,
Kun fa yakun,
‘‘Be! And it was.’’)

With my daughter now dancing within her own sanctuary, brushing her wings against my womb and sending me delicate butterfl epigrams, I touched the improbability of human development. That any child should be conceived and thrive, and then emerge living for even one breath, became no less remarkable to me than the virgin conception of Isa.

She conceived him and withdrew to a distant place.

The birth pangs drove her to the trunk of a date palm. She said, ‘‘I wish I had died and were forgotten!’’

A voice called to her from below, ‘‘Grieve not. Your lord has placed a stream below you.

Sway the trunk of the tree toward you. Ripe dates will shower down.

Eat and drink, and be comforted. If you meet anyone, say, I have consecrated a fast to the Compassionate and cannot speak today to any human being.’’

(Qur’an,
Maryam
19:22–26)

Aliya began to enter this world on December 17, 1999. That evening we had gathered in the Quaker Friends Meeting Hall to celebrate the
Urs,
‘‘Wedding,’’ or death anniversary of Mawlana Jalaluddin Rumi. I lay on a narrow wooden pew, as around us dervishes in ethereal white whirled the dance of the cosmos and the soul’s rebirth. Right hand raised, they sought grace, with left hand lowered in offering. They spun on the axis of the left foot, centered in the heart and in divine unity, but with the right foot turned to embrace all directions, all creation. I had been asked to recite Qur’an and perhaps lead the chanting at the conclusion of the ceremony but doubted my ability to do anything at all. And yet when the music suddenly stopped, as the dervishes folded up their flowering forms, I sat up and recited the Sura of
Qadr
(Qur’an 97), the Chapter of Divine Power. This Sura invokes
Laylat al-Qadr,
the Night of Power, destiny, and value, on which the Qur’an was first revealed. It is a night ‘‘better than a thousand months,’’ an angelic night pregnant with spirit, a night of ‘‘peace until the rising of dawn’’ (Qur’an 97:3–5). Afterward, we invoked God’s 99 names and I sang Rumi’s Persian poem, ‘‘Come, come my sweet heart, come into all that I do. You, you are my garden. Whisper my innermost secret. Come, come my dervish. Do not leave my side. You, you are my own tress, you are my very self.’’ I arrived home near midnight and began to feel my daughter’s descent.