Tag: Poverty

skyward hand

sufi-beggar

Where is that beggar I used to see,
this street is lonely without his upward hand,
his smile, his well wishes,
blown away,
like a dervish in the sand.

My mock, my wit,
won’t avail, with time conspiring against me,
his prayer, his litany,
might be the only thing that avails me.

How oft we tread on hallow ground,
but aloof with our eyes towards the sky,
it’s not heaven were looking towards,
but the mountain of grandeur,
we’re so accustomed to tell ourselves lies.

Whilst there on the floor,
my beggar friend sits,
aware of all that is above him,
and I, in ignorance,
took him for a peasant,
without noticing he was a king.

Sufi literature is heavy with example,
with history of princes, kings and queens,
abandoning their position,
donning the garb of a beggar,
because they were afflicted with the unseen.

And here I am,
sound faculty of mind,
intellectualising all that I know,
when what I should have been doing,
is walking to divinity,
and like the dervish,
with wind and sand,
allow myself to be blown.

W.E.

There is a beggar who usually frequents a mosque I pray at. I never see him inside, always outside, waiting to ask someone for a dollar or two.

It’s usually at noon prayer that I find myself in the midst of hustle and bustle,
fleeing from the noise to the sanctuary of silence hidden in crevices of the city, in this little mosque, unknown to most of the outside world.

Perhaps, by the sincerity of the peaceful folk that frequent there, God has veiled it from preying eyes, and left it for crying eyes, and praying hearts, perhaps God has shrouded the hearts of the non-followers with veils of peace, or indifference but this iron barred solace, remains unscathed, in a time and place where it doesn’t belong.

He waits, he knows, he remembers the ones that place money in his palm.

My teachers always taught me, never to refuse the palm of a beggar, to assume it is God himself asking, perhaps through a medium, perhaps to test me, to see if I am really devoted to Him, to see if I truly believe ‘to Him I belong and to Him I return’, everything is in His dominion, all of wealth and all of poverty. All of it, His, and perhaps this is my litmus, the trial of me, the Jihad, that I must undertake against my wretched soul.

My teachers were never ones for small talk, they made sure they drove home the message with utter clarity and that it laid in a bath of conviction in my heart.

With this in mind, I’d always give this man something. He was always grateful.

I don’t know what overcame me, perhaps annoyance, perhaps arrogance, perhaps the devil in me, I don’t know but the last time I saw him, I grew annoyed, I pestered him when he approached me. I asked why he was lying to me. He told me a very tall tale as to why he needed money.

I dislike lying and grow agitated and extremely angry when lied to, and perhaps I used this as an excuse to justify my pestering him. I was never not going to give him something, but I pestered him and asked him why he was lying to me and that I would give him what he wanted if he just didn’t lie, Muslims are not meant to lie, it is considered of the utmost of major sins.

He kept saying ‘ok, ok, I’ve got schizophrenia, I’m here to see the doctor’. (it was a public holiday). I still didn’t believe him, nevertheless I gave as I usually do and as usual he was thankful and left as I went inside to pray.

It’s been a couple of weeks and I haven’t seen him at all. Today, I grew sad walking towards the mosque, wondering what happened to him. I grew annoyed with myself and anxious, I wanted to punch myself and as I thought of being a failure, at letting my fat ego get in the way, my bloated mind, my obese yapping heart, I felt bruised all over.

That feeling I got when I lost a fight I could have easily won. Lips busted, shins busted, knuckles making holding a spoon near impossible and a jaw you can only drink fluids through, I felt battered.

I hoped nothing had happened to him, and I wanted nothing more than to see his hand outstretched, his teeth broken and rotting through and to hear his Afghani accent, soft and inviting, like he was the one calling me to a banquet, into his home, the gesture of asking, a metaphor of God inviting, and there I was analysing the invitation card, forgetting I have been summoned to a meal with my creator.

I have never felt such shame, ever, and after all this, I wondered still yet, if perhaps I am just so conscious now of what had transpired and only wanted the soft cushion for myself, out of again another hidden trap within my ego, to assure myself that I was generous, like as if I own anything, like as if it is mine to give in the first place. Perhaps I just wanted to avoid the punishment I was ready to fledge myself with. I don’t know.

I do know, I still wish his hand was there, so I could place something in it without him even asking.

W.E.

Wasted Flesh

Sufi

Of what use is all this flesh
What do I do with this largesse
Strip me down to my bones
This is too much luggage to take home

Lord, I’m coming, help me be light
Travel with incense burning soul by night
I don’t want to be held to account
Excess flesh for sins to surmount

There are other bellies to fill
There are other souls to nourish
All I need is Your love
For my souls satiation to flourish.

-W.E.

My beginning of the year endeavour to reduce excess from my life, to un-clutter has so far been helpful. I am tall and of athletic build having devoted most of my years to sports and over half of my life to combat arts and brutal physical training, it comes with the territory to become robust and strong, broad shouldered and strong legged.

However, all of it is a waste, it all amounts to nothing and could be better layered on some of my less fortunate brethren.

The turn of events worldwide, the incessant war, creating skeletons of men and children broke my heart at the end of the year.

It isn’t a broken heartedness of literary appeal, it’s a brokenness, literal and real. I couldn’t eat. Seeing men who wove with their hands, laid bricks, erected structures, blacksmiths, masters of fine crafts, the pinnacle of educated and hospitable men of the Arab world, Syrian men turned to rubble of skin and bones, stacked on top each other like discarded excess firewood, I couldn’t put a morsel in my mouth without guilt.

Sorry world, you won’t enjoy hand sewed silken garments you were unable to get from anywhere but from the hands of those fine tailors. Your excess has driven your policy makers to gluttonous madness as they all vie to steal a land that is not theirs.

The world turns a blind eye to what it was and what it has become, eats it’s next meal and burps forgetfulness, amnesia fragrancing the air of their households as they wait for the next meal whilst barely wiping their lips of the one they just had.
No, that’s not my way any more.
I’ll eat once only and even that is too much.
I’ll drink my cup only to stop from falling over.
I won’t need this excess meat on my body. Meat that I most definitely will be held accountable for.

Without boast, I am happy to say I have discovered a finer elixir of weight loss than I have ever discovered in my twenty five years of training experience of which included tertiary study.

It quite simply is called shutting your mouth, swallowing morsels of pride, and eating bite fulls out of your ego until you subdue the carnal voices inside screaming at you to eat.

I’ve lost thirteen kilograms without trying, just vying, never to glutton again.
-W.E.

Who’s the beggar?

Beggar-at-Dambula-Rasterized
Thank you for taking the time to talk to me homeless man,

For even though you appear to have nothing,

The world beams out of your hand.

As for me? The ingrate!

I have all possessions in the world,

But it is I, not you with demands.

From a very young age, my mother taught us a tradition of the Arabs. The Arabs, – and I’m talking about the very traditional ones with rich history and wisdom of the ancients, not the modern media hystericism’s stereotypes inexperienced people have come to believe – were never ingrates. Being people from nomadic desert areas, they were an environmentalists delight, respecting the land and water, they were a humanists friend as no ethic or moral was left unturned, they were philosophers muses as they could relate life issues so enchantingly it would silence the staunchest of opponents and they were the scientists assistant, their arts and sciences taking them to the peak of unified experiences across the world.

They understood the blessings of whatever it is they had, be it a plentiful harvest of fruits for the season or a single goat that they drank milk from. The tradition my mother taught me was never to leave bread on the floor or allow any piece of food to be on the floor for that matter. But it went one step further, we were to pick it up, kiss it and put it on our forehead and that would show God we were utterly appreciative of what we had and we’d never look down on the tiniest and most taken for granted of things. That action made the food magically ok in our little minds, we’d eat it. Of course I am going to get many of you conjuring images of germs and bacteria, that is not the point. The point is forging gratitude into a child’s utter being and letting it run course through their veins.
We grew up never forgetting this and we have passed it on to our children.

All of my five children have this wonderful trait of gratitude and empathy with those less fortunate but one in particular is moved by it. When you ask all seven years of him what his aspirations are, he’s quick to quip in his partly Australian, partly American, somewhat European accent with strangely Turkish-European-Mongol-Philipino looks, warm dark eyes that he wants to open a burger shop and he’s somehow convinced his older siblings to forget their previous aspirations and to join him, his ultimate aim was to feed the homeless.

For the last few weeks though it seems to have amplified. He has been bringing his own pocket money wherever we go and takes it out and gives it all to destitute people wherever he sees them. He empties his whole little velcro wallet into their hands. When I ask him why, he says “It’s ok, I have more at home and can get more later but they have nothing”. Broke my big alpha male heart!

Sometimes if he forgets his wallet, he asks of us to give him some money, always offering to pay us back. Not that we need his money of course but to see that he is that conscious of the act and how it’s intention should be, is inspiring.

The latest of his actions had his mother crying in the middle of a super market. She looked behind her to try and find him as she noticed he wasn’t near her after entering the store. Finally he came walking through the doors crying profusely like he was in pain. My wife was shocked and thought someone had hit him or he fell over and asked him why he was crying. His reply was, ” I feel so bad for the homeless man outside, why are there so many homeless people?”
This is a seven year old who has been taught to kiss bread and put it on his forehead, ask yourself, how do you teach kids gratitude? Prattle your tongue as you may, you have to let them feel it in their bones.

Always let them see and talk to the less fortunate so they never learn to forget that they are humans like them.

As my teacher would say, ‘The world is still in spin and we never know where we may end up.’

-W.E.