Voices of Islam (87 page)

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S
PARROW ON THE
P
ROPHET
’
S
T
OMB

•

Daniel Abdal-Hayy Moore

1

O sparrow perched on a corner of the Prophet’s tomb

cheeping above thousands of bowed heads murmuring, whose glassy chirps hit high notes of

purity under the eaves in this Mosque of God’s Messenger

that resides in two territories of space— this world seen, the next world

unseen—

in this shadow existence of his signal presence among us visitors from even farther away than

China pass by to greet him,

and in your little feathered body is the swooping freedom to come and go all day to visit him

speeding from a tall beam across choruses of hearts

gratefully weeping or tranquil with an ecstatic inner moon rise

just to be here.

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Voices of the Spirit

2

Sparrow, what is your name? Is it
‘‘Constant Devotion?’’

Is it
‘‘I Want To Be Near?’’ ‘‘Praiseworthy Friend?’’

Is your name
‘‘Generations To Come?’’
You fluff your breast and preen your wing where men cannot go, you dart into the dark of the tomb for deeper conversation.

We would all go with you if we could, squeeze our tiny feathery bodies through the

gold grille work, past the

guards in their pea green uniforms,

to sit on a corner of the Prophet’s tomb in the dark to hear him

return the salutations of

such outpouring awed adorations of men and women, each one

passing by that undying presence, trying to sneak a peak through the golden porthole, hearts boiling with overwhelming emotions.

You land and sing. You cock your head.

You watch us from your high perch with a cool eye.

3

Sparrow, you are more than a sparrow. You are a continent of sparrows.

You are The Minister of Internal Affairs of all sparrows.

You are the song that laces the margins of the deep message, the message of God’s Magnificence, the

Thunder of Tremendous Shock, Earthquake and heaven crash of the

Stark Glare of God’s Might.

You trill and fly,

your song like a tiny tune from paradise, delicate celesta of celestial light.

Sparrow on the Prophet’s Tomb
103

The mosque in Medina expands all the way to the

ends of the earth.

Forget about walls, where marble pillars mark

the mosque’s original dimensions, the Prophet’s precincts now encompass our houses and the

invisible courtyards of our love, interconnected by

sparrow-song, perched on a Turkish cornice,

singing to Timbuktu,

Medina song bird heard around the

world!

NOTE

This poem first appeared in Daniel Abdal-Hayy Moore,
Mecca/Medina Time-Warp.
Reprinted from a Zilzal Press chapbook, by permission from the author.

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I
N THE
R
EALM OF
M
ERCY
: A V
ISIT TO A

S
HIITE
S
HRINE

•

Karima Diane Alavi

It is my last Friday—the Muslim day of communal prayer—in Iran. After a 26-year absence from the country, my first return is coming to a close. I gaze out the window that overlooks the city of Shiraz and I am filled with memo- ries of my time here as an exchange student. Raw emotions make their way to the surface, as I wonder if I will ever make it back again. I feel a strong need to leave my fellow tourists behind and head to a sacred site—one of the city’s many shrines—where I can be alone with my thoughts; alone in a crowd of fellow believers. I do not try to understand this need. I just recall the words of my grandmother: ‘‘Listen to the voice within you. It’s the voice of wisdom.’’ Although I dress in traditional Islamic clothing, I know that my blue eyes and light skin reveal my Western origin. With a touch of trepidation about how Iranians might react to a foreigner in their shrine, I force my hands to open the drawer that holds my veil.

I leave the hotel wrapped in a black shroud that enables me to fade into the world of the sacred, as if I had surrounded myself in eternal prayer that keeps the touch of the profane away from my skin, my face, and my heart. I cannot help but chuckle at the Western feminists who will never know the delicious anonymity one gains under a veil. As they speak of rescuing me from the ‘‘oppression’’ of becoming a drop in a sea of black fabric, I luxuriate in the freedom from trying to be someone special, someone different, a person who seeks everyone else’s admiration and approval. I turn away from this world and focus on God.

The shrine rises like a glistening mountain of gold and blue. The ceramic tiles of the minaret call me to a higher place and my spirit—which is so fragile on this day—rises to the sunny sky above me while clouds drift by as if they have all the time in the world. ‘‘They do,’’ I tell myself, and lower my head, humbled by their beauty. My heart beats to an ancient rhythm as I take my fi steps through the shadow of the minaret that lays prostrate across the central courtyard and points toward the door of the inner shrine.

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Voices of the Spirit

I follow the other women and enter the door only to encounter a man who is quietly telling the men to continue straight, while the women are directed to walk through a black curtain to the right. Stooping forward, I make my way through the layers of fabric that separate the men’s area from the women’s, and all is dark. For a short moment, I have the sensation of traveling through a womb, wrapped in warmth and heading toward an exit that will lead me to unknown territory. I gasp when I emerge, enshrouded in shimmer- ing lights that seem to come from another world. My eyes are immediately drawn to the ceiling: a domed structure completely covered in mirrors with delicate chandeliers swaying in a slight breeze. Light is everywhere.

Women engulf me in a sea of prayers and tears. They sweep me along their river of movement toward the tomb. Though I want to stop and look, I cannot fi the fl I surrender and touch the wall to my left to steady myself as the crowd pushes toward their ultimate goal—the final resting place of Sayyed Amir Ahmad, brother of one of the twelve Shi‘a Imams, saintly men who are direct descendants of the Prophet Muhammad.

The tomb is enclosed in walls of gold and silver that are decorated with Qur’anic verses and arabesque filigree. In the center, several arched openings become windows to the world of the afterlife, where the grave sits in silent repose. Each window is fi with a metal lattice that women cling to in devotion while they pray for their loved ones who are suffering from illness, sorrow, or the inability to conceive that greatest gift of all, a child. Their hands hang on to the grid and their bodies shake with sobs, filling the room with an intense longing for God’s mercy to be shown to those for whom their hearts ache.

I am suddenly overwhelmed with thoughts of my brother’s daughter, who had just been in a car accident, and had held on to her best friend whose life quietly flowed away and drifted to a place unknown. Tears stream down my face and I find solace in holding on to the bars of the shrine and feeling the hands of the other women pat mine gently before moving on. I think of the Iraqis who are burying their children in between bombing raids that drop from the sky as if heaven and hell have been reversed, making death come down like rain. An overwhelming weight comes upon me and I have to sit before I succumb to its power and fall to the ground.

Making my way to one of the marbled walls of the shrine, I slump to the fl or and cover my face in the safety of the veil. All else drifts away and I beseech God to help my niece and all the other people who have suffered the final gaze of the ones they love. I have no concept of how long I remained there, wrapped in my own world, when a soft touch on the shoulder brings me back to the room that glistens with rays of light bouncing off the ceiling and showering us with its grace.

‘‘
Khanoom,
Ma’am.’’