The Forty Rules of Love (16 page)

Ella

NORTHAMPTON, JUNE 3, 2008

Beach Boys tunes streaming through their open windows, university students drove past, their faces sporting early-summer tans. Ella watched, numb to their happiness, as her mind reverted to the events of the past few days. First she had found Spirit dead in the kitchen, and although she’d told herself many times to be ready for this moment, she was seized by not only a profound grief but also a sense of vulnerability and loneliness, as if losing her dog had the effect of throwing her out into the world all by herself. Then she found out that Orly was suffering from bulimia and that almost everyone in her class knew about it. This brought a wave of guilt to Ella, leading her to have doubts about her relationship with her younger daughter and to question her record as a mother. Guilt was not a new element in Ella’s repertoire of feelings, but this loss of confidence in her mothering was.

During this time Ella started exchanging multiple e-mails with Aziz Z. Zahara every day. Two, three, sometimes up to five. She wrote to him about everything, and, to her surprise, he was always prompt to respond. How he could find the time or even an Internet connection to check his e-mails while traveling in remote places was beyond Ella. But it didn’t take her long to become addicted to his words. Soon she was checking her e-mail at every opportunity—first thing in the morning and then again after breakfast, when she came back from her morning walk and while she was making lunch, before she went out to run errands and even during them, by stopping at Internet cafés. While she was watching her favorite TV shows, chopping tomatoes at the Fusion Cooking Club, talking on the phone with her friends, or listening to her twins rant about school and homework, she kept her laptop on and her mailbox open. When there were no new messages from Aziz, she reread the old ones. And every time she received a new message from him, she couldn’t help breaking into a smile, half gleeful, half embarrassed by what was taking place. For something
was
taking place.

Soon exchanging e-mails with Aziz made Ella feel that she was somehow breaking away from her staid and tranquil life. From a woman with lots of dull grays and browns on her life’s canvas, she was turning into a woman with a secret color—a bright, tantalizing red. And she loved it.

Aziz was no man for small pleasantries. To him, people who had not made their heart their primary guide to life, who could not open up to love and follow its path the way a sunflower follows the sun, were not really alive. (Ella wondered if this might put her on his list of inanimate objects.) Aziz didn’t write about the weather or the latest movie he had seen. He wrote about other things, deeper things, like life and death, and above all love. Ella was not used to expressing her feelings on such issues, especially to a stranger, but perhaps it took a stranger to make a woman like her speak her mind.

If there was a trace of flirtation in their exchange, Ella thought, it was an innocent one that might do them both good. They could flirt with each other, positioning themselves in distant corners within the infinite maze of cyberspace. Thanks to this exchange, she hoped to regain a portion of the sense of worth she had lost during her marriage. Aziz was that rare type of man a woman could love without losing her self-respect. And perhaps he, too, could find something pleasing in being the center of attention of a middle-aged American woman. Cyberspace both magnified and mellowed offline behaviors, providing an opportunity to flirt without guilt (which she didn’t want because she already had too much) and an adventure without risks (which she did want because she never had any). It was like nibbling on forbidden fruit without having to worry about the extra calories—there were no consequences.

So maybe it was blasphemy for a married woman with children to write intimate e-mails to a stranger, but given the platonic nature of their relationship, Ella deduced, it was sweet blasphemy.

Ella

NORTHAMPTON, JUNE 5, 2008

Beloved Aziz,

In one of your earlier e-mails, you said the idea that we could control the course of our lives through rational choices was as absurd as a fish trying to control the ocean in which it swam. I thought about your next sentence a lot: “The idea of a Knowing Self has generated not only false expectations but also disappointments in places where life does not match our expectations.”

And now it’s time for me to confess: I’m a bit of a control freak myself. At least that’s what people who know me best will tell you. Until recently I was a very strict mom. I had a lot of rules (and believe me, they’re not as nice as your Sufi rules!), and there was no bargaining with me. Once my eldest daughter accused me of adopting the strategy of a guerrilla. She said I dug into their lives and from my trench I tried to capture every errant thought or desire that they might have!

Remember the song “Que Será, Será”? Well, I guess it has never been my song. “What will be, will be” has never sat right with me; I just can’t go with the flow. I know you’re a religious person, but I’m not. Though as a family we celebrate the Sabbath every so often, personally I don’t even remember the last time I prayed. (Oops, I do now. In my kitchen just two days ago, but that doesn’t count, because it was more like complaining to a higher Self.)

There was a time back in college when I got hooked on Eastern spirituality and did some reading on Buddhism and Taoism. I had even made plans with an eccentric girlfriend to spend a month at an ashram in India, but that phase of my life didn’t last long. As inviting as the mystic teachings were, I thought they were too compliant and inapplicable to modern life. Since then I haven’t changed my mind.

I hope my aversion to religion won’t offend you. Please see it as a confession long overdue from someone who cares about you.

Warmly,

Ella

Dear guerrilla Ella,

Your e-mail found me as I was getting ready to leave Amsterdam for Malawi. I have been assigned to take pictures of the people in a village where AIDS is rampant and most children are orphans.

Now, if everything goes well, I’ll be back in four days. Can I hope so? Yes. Can I control it? No! All I can do is take my laptop with me, try to find a good Internet connection, and hope that I will live another day. The rest is not in my hands. And this is what the Sufis call the fifth element—the void. The inexplicable and uncontrollable divine element that we as human beings cannot comprehend and yet should always be aware of. I don’t believe in “inaction” if by that you mean doing nothing at all and showing no deep interest in life. But I do believe in respecting the fifth element.

I believe we each make a covenant with God. I know that I did. When I became a Sufi, I promised God to do my part to the best of my ability and leave the rest to Him and Him only. I accepted the fact that there are things beyond my limits. I can see only some parts, like floating fragments from a movie, but the bigger scheme is beyond my comprehension.

Now, you think I am a religious man. But I am not.

I am spiritual, which is different. Religiosity and spirituality are not the same thing, and I believe that the gap between the two has never been greater than it is today. When I look at the world, I see a deepening quandary. On the one hand, we believe in the freedom and power of the individual regardless of God, government, or society. In many ways human beings are becoming more self-centered and the world is becoming more materialistic. On the other hand, humanity as a whole is becoming more spiritual. After relying on reason for so long, we seem to have reached a point where we acknowledge the limits of the mind.

Today, just as in medieval times, there is an explosion of interest in spirituality. More and more people in the West are trying to carve out a space for spirituality in the midst of their busy lives. But though they intend well, their methods are often inadequate. Spirituality is not yet another dressing for the same old dish. It is not something we can add to our life without making major changes there.

I know you like to cook. Did you know that Shams says the world is a huge cauldron and something big is cooking in it? We don’t know what yet. Everything we do, feel, or think is an ingredient in that mixture. We need to ask ourselves what we are adding to the cauldron. Are we adding resentments, animosities, anger, and violence? Or are we adding love and harmony?

How about you, dear Ella? What ingredients do you think you are putting in the collective stew of humanity? Whenever I think about you, the ingredient I add is a big smile.

With love,

Aziz

PART THREE

Wind

THE THINGS THAT SHIFT, EVOLVE, AND CHALLENGE

The Zealot

KONYA, OCTOBER 19, 1244

Below my open window, dogs were barking and growling. I propped myself up in bed, suspecting they must have noticed a robber trying to break in to a house, or some dirty drunk passing by. Decent people cannot sleep in peace anymore. There is debauchery and lechery everywhere. It wasn’t always like this. This town was a safer place until a few years ago. Moral corruption is no different from a ghastly disease that comes without warning and spreads fast, infecting the rich and the poor, the old and the young alike. Such is the state of our town today. If it weren’t for my position at the madrassa, I would hardly leave my house.

Thank God there are people who put the interests of the community before their own and work day and night to enforce order. People like my young nephew, Baybars. My wife and I are proud of him. It is comforting to know that at this late hour, when villains, criminals, and drunks go on a rampage, Baybars and his fellow security guards patrol the town to protect us.

Upon my brother’s early death, I became the primary guardian for Baybars. Young, adamant, he started working as a security guard six months ago. Gossipmongers claimed that it was thanks to my position as a madrassa teacher that he was able to get the job. Nonsense! Baybars is strong and brave enough to qualify for the job. He would also have made an excellent soldier. He wanted to go to Jerusalem to fight against the Crusaders, but my wife and I thought it was time for him to settle down and start a family.

“We need you here, son,” I said. “There is so much to fight against here, too.”

Indeed there was. Just this morning I told my wife we were living in difficult times. It is no coincidence that every day we hear of a new tragedy. If the Mongols have been this victorious, if the Christians could succeed in furthering their cause, if town after town, village after village is sacked by the enemies of Islam, it is because of the people who are Muslims in name only. When people lose hold of the rope of God, they are bound to go astray. The Mongols were sent as a punishment for our sins. If not the Mongols, it would have been an earthquake, a famine, or a flood. How many more calamities do we have to experience for the sinners in this town to get the message and repent their ways? Next I fear stones will rain down from above. One day soon we might all be wiped out, walking in the footsteps of the residents of Sodom and Gomorrah.

And these Sufis, they are such a bad influence. How dare they call themselves Muslims when they say things no Muslim should even think of? It boils my blood to hear them utter the name of the Prophet, peace be upon him, to promote their silly views. They claim that following a war campaign, the Prophet Muhammad had announced that his people were henceforth abandoning the small jihad for the greater jihad—the struggle against one’s own ego. Sufis argue that ever since then the ego is the only adversary a Muslim should be warring against. Sounds nice, but how is that going to help to fight the enemies of Islam? I wonder.

The Sufis go as far as claiming that the sharia is merely a stage on the way. What stage, I say, what are they speaking of? As if that weren’t alarming enough, they argue that an enlightened person cannot be bound by the rules of early stages. And since they like to think of themselves as having already reached a supreme level, they use this as a poor excuse to disregard the rules of the sharia. Drinking, dancing, music, poetry, and painting seem more vital to them than religious duties. They keep preaching that since there is no hierarchy in Islam, everyone is entitled to his own personal quest for God. It all sounds inoffensive and harmless, but after one wades through the boring verbosity, one discovers that there is a sinister side to their message: that there is no need to pay attention to religious authorities!

As far as the Sufis are concerned, the holy Qur’an is replete with obscure symbols and layered allusions, each of which ought to be interpreted in a mystic way. So they examine how every word vibrates to a number, study the hidden meaning of numbers, and look out for veiled references in the text, doing everything in their power to avoid reading God’s message, plain and clear.

Some Sufis even say that human beings are the Speaking Qur’an. If this isn’t sheer blasphemy, I don’t know what is. Then there are the wandering dervishes, another troubled category of misfits. Qalandaris, Haydaris, Camiis—they’re known under all sorts of names. I’d say they are the worst. What good could come out of a man who cannot settle down? If a man has no sense of belonging, he can drift in every direction, like a dry leaf in the wind. The perfect victim for Sheitan.

Philosophers are no better than the Sufis. They ruminate and ruminate as if their limited minds could grasp the incomprehensibility of the universe! There is a story that is indicative of the conspiracy between the philosophers and the Sufis.

A philosopher met a dervish one day, and they instantly hit it off. The two talked for days on end, completing each other’s sentences.

Finally, when they parted company, the philosopher reported of the conversation, “All that I know, he sees.”

Next the Sufi gave his account: “All that I see, he knows.”

So the Sufi thinks he
sees,
and the philosopher thinks he
knows.
In my opinion they see nothing and know nothing. Don’t they realize that as simple, limited, and ultimately mortal human beings, we are not expected to know more than we should? The most a human being is capable of attaining is a mere smattering of information about the Almighty. That’s all. Our task is not to interpret God’s teachings but to obey them.

When Baybars comes home, we will talk about these matters. It has become a habit, our small ritual. Every night after his shift, he eats the soup and flatbread that my wife serves him, and we engage in conversation about the state of things. It pleases me to see what a good appetite he has. He needs to be strong. A young, principled guy like him has much work to do in this ungodly town.