Authors: Raḍwá ʻĀshūr
The sobbing grew louder, and Maryama wept uncontrollably. The crying turned to wailing and didn't stop until the priest arrived. He muttered his prayers and placed a small wooden crucifix between the deceased's hands. The men came in after he left and recited the prayers of the dead over her body. Then they left the house and formed a procession to take her to her final resting place next to her husband. Umm Hasan, Maryama, and a few neighborhood women remained at home to wait for the men to return. They prepared the meal for the mourners as they bemoaned the loss of Umm Jaafar and lamented the passing of time that took with it the right of good decent folk to shroud their dead and pray at a Muslim funeral.
Saleema participated neither in preparing the meal nor in the women's mourning rituals, but withdrew to her room. She was thinking about death and how it oppresses and humiliates, and that before it human beings stand powerless, and she thought about God in the highest heavens. Is He watching all of this in silence and indifference? Isn't it He who takes life away? Why does He take it away and why does He place it in the heart only to recall it after a while, leaving its warm nest a wasteland? God seemed so obscure to her, incomprehensible, a tyrant who burdened His servants with unbearable things. She contemplated the image of her dead grandmother, and a shiver ran through her body. A lump swelled in her throat, and she held back the tears from her eyes. Her grandmother was dead like her infant son and the gazelle. How could all this be? She couldn't do to the grandmother's corpse what "Hayy" in the story had done to the gazelle, the mother who nursed him, when he ripped open her chest to look for the thing that animates the body, after he had called out to her and she did not respond. He looked at
her eyes, her ears, and all her limbs, and he didn't see any defect or disease, but he found her nonetheless incapable of moving.
1. In the Muslim tradition, the body of the deceased is undressed, washed, and wrapped naked in a shroud.
Saleema brought out the book and opened it exactly to a page practically worn from constant use. She read:
He
examined
the
heart
and
saw
that
it
was
totally
still.
He
wondered
if
there
were
some
discernible
defect,
but
he
didn't
see
anything.
He
pressed
it
with
his
hand,
and
he
felt
a
cavity.
He
said,
"Perhaps
what
I've
been
looking
for
has
always
been
inside
this
organ,
and
I've
never
been
able
to
reach
it."
He
split
it
open.
He
noticed
that
there
were
two
cavities,
one
on
the
right
side
and
one
on
the
left.The
one
on
the
right
was
filled
with
coagulated
blood
and
the
one
on
the
left
was
completely
empty.
He
said,
"I
only
see
coagulated
blood
in
this
chamber
on
the
right.
It
must
have
clotted
when
the
rest
of
the
body
became
in
this
condition.
"
For
he
had
witnessed
that
whenever
blood
leaves
the
body
and flows
out,
it
clots
and
congeals.
"And
this
is
blood
like
any
other
blood,
and
that
this
blood
is
found
in
all
the
other
organs,
and
that
no
organ
has
the
sole
possession
of
the
blood
over
the
other
organs.
But
what
I've
been
seeking,
my
ultimate
goal,
does
not
have
this
quality,
but
rather
something
that
uniquely
distinguishes
this
state
in
which
I
find
myself.
It
is
that
without
which
I
cannot
do,
not
for
a
single
moment,
and
to
which
I
at
tribute
my
first
emanation.
"How
many
times
have
I
been
wounded
by
wild
animals
and
rocks
and
much
blood
flowed
from
me,
but
that
hasn't
caused
me
any
serious
danger,
nor
has
it
affected
my
actions?
This
chamber
does
not
contain
what
I
seek,
I
see
that
the
chamber
on
the
left
is
empty,
but
that
must
not
be
without
rea
son.
I've
seen
that
every
organ
has
a
function
that
is
uniquely
its
own.
How
can
this
chamber
be
worthless
from
what
I've
seen
of
its
prominence?
And
what
I've
been
seeking
can
only
have
been
inside
of
it,
but
now
it
has
de
parted
and
left
it
empty.
And
that's
when
what
happened
to
this
body
hap
pened.
It
lost
consciousness
and
the
ability
to
move.
"
When
he
saw
that
what
was
residing
in
that
chamber
had
gone
away
before
its
demise
and
left
it
as
it
is,
he
became
almost
certain
that
it
could
not
return
to
it
after
the
breakage
and
destruction
that
had
happened
inside,
And
now
Hayy
considered
the
body
as
base,
and
having
no
significance
in
relation
to
what
he
now
believed
inhabits
the
body
for
a
period
of
time
and
then
de
parts.
And
so
he
focused
his
thinking
on
that
one
thing,
but
what
is
it?
And
how
so?
And
what
connected
it
to
the
body?
What's
become
of
it?
From
which
portals
did
it
depart
the
body?
And
what
was
the
reason
that
so
dis
turbed
it
and
forced
it
to
leave?
And
why
did
the
body
arouse
such
aversion
in
it
that
it
separated
from
it,
even
if
willingly?
His
mind
was
befuddled
by
all
of
this,
and
he
thought
no
more
about
that
body
and
cast
it
aside.
And
he
realized
that
his
mother,
the
one
who
showed
him
affection
and
nursed
him,
was
that
thing
that
went
away,
and
that
all
her
actions
issued
from
it,
and
not
from
this
useless
body.
He
also
re
alized
that
this
body
in
all
its
parts
is
like
an
instrument
for
that
thing,
like
the
stick
that
he
took
in
hand
to
fight
off
the
wild
beasts,
and
his
attachment
to
the
body
was
transferred
to
the
owner
of
the
body,
its
animator;
and
the
only
longing
he
had
left
was
for
that
thing.
The
Epistle
of Hayy
Ibn Yaqzhan
2
was one of only five books that Saleema had taken from Ainadaniar when her grandfather died. A few years later, Naeem started to bring her one book at a time, always on the sly, and each time he would emphasize that she read it quickly, during those few days Father Miguel was away on one of his brief trips. He would give her the book, and she would stay up at night reading, exerting her mind to understand everything in it, and writing down notations until it exhausted her and she dozed off. Even in her sleep the ideas would pile up in her head, and the fear of having the book taken away from her would wake her up in the wee hours of the morning and coax her to resume her reading. Then Naeem would come by to retrieve the book and return it to its exact place in the library.
What kind of student is this whose reading list includes only a handful of books? she thought over and over again with bitterness and annoyance. She resorted to consoling herself with the thought that among her books was a book worth a hundred volumes, penned by the most eminent of scholars and philosophers, Avi
cenna, and that she studied his great medical treatise, the
Qanun,
as though under his direct tutelage.
3
But however fanciful the thought, she was depressed just to think about the miserable times in which she lived, when buying books is a punishable crime, where studying demanded caution and secrecy, not only from the prying eyes of the stranger lurking about, but from acquaintances as well. She couldn't read in the daytime and have Hasan, her mother, and the children all watching her as she put on the glasses she had taken from Naeem. She waited until the dark of night when everyone went to bed to light the lantern and read. And the narrow confines of her prison would gradually expand, and the iron bars of her cell would be pried open to the sunlight that shone from the book and from her mind. What kind of student is this whose reading list includes a handful of books? Saleema repeated the question in her mind resentfully as she recollected the good old days when people could pick up any book from any shelf in one of the great libraries, when a wise mentor gave guidance, and when travel to study at the feet of an illustrious scholar in Egypt or Syria satisfied the heart's desire. Whether you stay or travel, in both cases the points of light from a thousand books are your lessons and your teachers. How is it possible from the confines of her Castilian prison to discover the secret of that bird that departs on the order of an inscrutable God? She wavered between hope and despair, as she contented herself with Avicenna's
Qanun,
but then she was not satisfied, and so she added to the margins her questions and observations, as well as a summary of the findings her experiments led her to. She complied with these miserable times and Hasan's adamant decisions to protect the family, and then she didn't comply, whispering to Naeem the titles of books she wanted, or discreetly asking a woman who knows someone who knows a third person who can bring her a certain book for which she will pay a year's worth of earnings.
2.
Risalat
Hayy
Ibn Yaqzhan
is a philosophical romance about a foundling who grows up alone on a deserted island, and, through the powers of an uncorrupted mind, attains the highest intellectual and spiritual levels. It was written by the Andalusian Muslim philosopher Muhammad Ibn 'Abd al-Malik Ibn Tufayl (d. 1185).