There and Back Again

There and Back Again

By Aisha Bewley

Years ago, back in 1970, when I was studying Arabic in Cairo, I took the opportunity of the break between summer school and the start of the autumn term to travel around the Middle East. This was my chance to visit all those wonderful places which I had read about and studied. Damascus and Baghdad were definitely on the itinerary, but the rest was dependent on what happened along the way. My plans were flexible. I would decide according to what Allah allowed to happen, but I had an entire summer to go wherever I wanted, and, of course, all the places I had read about in my studies were beckoning to be explored. And I intended to see if I could find a proper Sufi shaykh who possessed both the science of tasawwuf and suluk.

BEIRUT

First of all I flew from Cairo to Beirut on the very dodgy Sudani Airlines with a couple of fellow students, � the pilot appeared to be under the misapprehension that the passenger jet was a crop duster. There was a lot of bouncing on landing. I stayed at the flat of a girl who was writing a dissertation there while trying to rediscover her roots, and set about getting the necessary visas. Syria was no problem - you got a visa when you arrived at the border. That left Iraq, Iran and Kuwait � Kuwait because I was told that you could not travel directly from Iraq to Iran because of the poor relations between the two countries even back then, and so you had to travel by way of Kuwait, going in and then back out again.

My first destination was the Iraqi consulate where I immediately ran into an unexpected problem. The clerk informed me that I could not have a visa without prior authorisation from Baghdad, which would take weeks to obtain, even if it was granted. He sounded very dubious about my prospects. This was no good for me, because I did not have enough time to wait as I intended to be off within a couple of days, but I was not going to miss out Baghdad. I protested that an American I knew who had studied in Cairo had got a visa straightaway (not mentioning that he had lived in Iraq in the past. Minor point) The clerk and I continued to argue for some time since I refused to accept the lack of Baghdad in my travel plans and was convinced that there must be some way of sorting the problem out while he was equally convinced that rules were rules. Eventually a vice consul passed by and noticed us. What was the problem? I explained the difficulty and was immediately invited to have coffee so that we could sort the problem out. The clerk did not look pleased.

Once we were seated in the vice counsel's office, we had a long conversation over coffee about why I wanted to visit Iraq � which was mainly because of its Abbasid past � and the state of Islam in America at that time. His English was extremely fluent as was his knowledge of the state of the things in general. He had statistics for the number of the Muslims in America - obviously a topic close to his heart. Eventually he asked how long I wanted a visa for. I mentioned about what the clerk had told me about obtaining a visa, and he informed me that what he said was true, however they could issue a transit visa for any length of time, so how long did I want? Two weeks should be enough, I thought. He summoned the clerk, who glared at me, and told him to issue me a two week transit visa. He took the passport and was soon back, with another glare, and I had my visa.

Obtaining the Kuwaiti visa was straightforward. They had the same requirement about authorisation, but I pointed out that they could give me a 2 day transit visa without doing that which they did.

Next came the Iranians, and the reception I received there was a shock after all the Iraqi difficulties. This was still the time when the Shah was in power in Iran. I was American? How wonderful! Please, have tea. Have coffee. Have a chair? Cake? How long can we give you a visa for? What can we do for you? I thought to myself that there was a serious problem here when you have the representatives of a Muslim country practically genuflecting at the mention of America. Pathetic, really. Very sad and not at all right. It did not bode well for the future. But I had all my visas and was ready to be off!

Accompanied by my university friends from Cairo, I went to the taxi ranks in the centre of Beirut. The system in Lebanon is that a taxi waits until it fills up with people going to the same destination or in the same direction, and then off they go. When you reach the border, a scrum forms as people frantically try to reach the person who stamps your passport with the entrance visa to Syria. He was standing at a sort of desk which was elevated above the people � to prevent him being overwhelmed by the crowd. The taxi driver offered to get the visa for me, but I decided to do it myself, not really wanting to part with my passport. The man taking the passports spotted me and gestured for me to give him the passport. So I had my visa and had to wait for the others to make their way through the melee to get theirs. And I got a glare from the driver. Perhaps I looked somewhat smug.

DAMASCUS

Once we all had visas, we set out and soon arrived in Damascus, I found a cheap hotel and went to the Umayyad mosque and then to the shops with my friends before seeing them off on another taxi back to Beirut. They required a great deal of reassurance that I would be fine.

There were a couple of problems that arose in the beginning of my visit. When I went first went into the Umayyad mosque on my own, one of the people at the main gate thought I was a tourist and pointed out that there is a special entrance for tourists. I pointed out that I was Muslim. "Did I have a document stating that I was Muslim?" he asked. "Did he have a document stating that he was Muslim?" I retorted. That brought him up short. I do think that they checked me out when I prayed but after that there was no problem and I went there regularly and they soon recognised me and there were no further problems.

One of the women who frequented the mosque once asked me, "Where is your wali?" "Allah is my wali," I replied, not wanting to go into an explanation about being the only Muslim in my family and hence not having a Muslim mahram with which to travel, but being completely sincere in my belief that that was the case. And that statement proved to be true for the rest of my journey because it all seemed to have been protected.

I fell in love with Damascus and completely fell in love with the Umayyad mosque, spending most of my time there reciting Qur'an. The mosque is built around the tomb of Sayyiduna Yahya and also is the resting place of the head of Sayyiduna Husayn. The baraka in Damascus and the mosque in particular is immense. Even the water which comes from the mountains is the sweetest I have ever tasted. Once I was reciting Qur'an and felt hungry, but I didn't want to leave and come back until I had finished the juz' I was reciting. Suddenly a woman appeared from nowhere, placed some koftas in my hand, saying, "Bismillah" and went straight off. I looked at the koftas in amazement. Subhanallah.

One night just before the Maghrib prayer in the mosque, it came into my heart that I should visit the tomb of Shaykh Ibn al-'Arabi while I was in Damascus. At that very moment, one of the custodians of the mosque came up to me and said that we would visit Ibn al-'Arabi after the Maghrib prayer. Subhanallah. It occurred to me at this point that I should be very careful about what I wished for!

After the Maghrib prayer, we went to the tomb of Ibn al-'Arabi. There is a division in front of the tomb - women go to one side and men the other. I walked into the tomb and suddenly it was as something enormous had crashed into me, like a giant wave, and I crumbled into a heap. I was vaguely aware of a couple of elderly women mentioning praying two rak'ats, but I blinked at them in incomprehension. I literally couldn't move and my vision was disordered, somewhat like being under water. The term pole-axed comes to mind. Eventually I recovered enough to pray and pay my respects to the Shaykh, but was still shaky when I left. In retrospect, I have been told that this has something to do with why I find Ibn al-'Arabi not particularly difficult to read.

After a few more days during which I met several people in the mosque and was invited to their houses for meals, I eventually decided that it was time to move on, and I booked a seat on a bus to Baghdad. The people I had met in the mosque saw me off at the bus terminal.

THE ROAD TO BAGHDAD

The bus left Damascus on the way to Baghdad. On the way, we passed through a corner of Jordan. It was rather bizarre. In the tiny corner of Jordan through which we passed, the bus stopped and several Jordanian soldiers entered the bus, brandished their weapons and checked the passports and then on we went. It was a rather pointless demonstration of national sovereignty.

After a certain point the road completely disappeared and we went on our way through the desert. I could only imagine that the driver was so familiar with the route that a road was superfluous. Also difficult to maintain in the desert. Occasionally there were camels which could be seen in the distance or sometimes much closer to us. Roads? Who needs roads? Or suspension on the bus for that matter.

We bounced along and were eventually stopped at a certain point where we had our passports checked. Then our vaccinations for cholera were checked and we continued on. I seemed to provoke a good deal of hilarity since my spoken Arabic was more or less Egyptian. "You sound just like the television!" they said. I thought to myself, "I'm really going to have to watch those gims and 'kida's."

BAGHDAD

When we arrived in Baghdad after an overnight journey on the bus, I found a hotel but, because it had air conditioning, the contrast between the extremely hot weather outside and the air conditioning brought on a very severe cold. Baghdad proved disappointing. I knew that a lot of it had been destroyed by the Mongols or washed away in floods, but I was still surprised by the concrete modernness of it all. There certainly was little to be seen on the outside. I think my impression was coloured by feeling rather ill.

Because of my streaming cold, I would only occasionally grab something from a stall outside as I wasn't very hungry. After a couple of days, a man came up to me in the hotel dining room where I having breakfast and stated, "I'm told that you aren't eating properly."

I blinked. What? How? Is Iraqi intelligence that good? The man explained that he was a friend of the proprietor of the hotel who had noticed that I wasn't eating. He himself had recently moved back to Iraq from America and, since I had an American passport, had been contacted by the concerned proprietor to make sure that I was okay. I mentioned that the cold which I had combined with the heat had taken away my appetite. "Why had he moved back?" I asked. He took out his wallet and let it open and a huge chain of plastic covered credit cards emerged. "This," he said. "I looked at all of it one day and asked myself if this was what I really wanted. So I came home." "In any case," he asked, "how could he be of service? What did I want to see?" I said that I was interested in having a look at the library and visiting Karbala'. Having been where Sayyiduna Husayn's head was in Damascus, I thought it proper to visit the rest of him.

I visited the library and examined some manuscripts, wishing that I had more time or could take copies, and then I was introduced to a family from Karbala' and we drove there.

Karbala

I donned an abayya and we went to the tomb. They warned me not to pray two rak'ats there because it would be recognised that I was not Shi'ite and that might well cause a riot. I must say that I was shocked. At the door of the tomb were little bits of cloth which people had tied onto it in an effort to have their wishes granted. People were kissing the door as they tied on the bits of cloth. We went inside and the clamour increased and then I really was shocked because there were people praying towards the tomb rather than towards qibla. I whispered to my companions, "You know, I can actually see why the Wahhabis destroyed it." "Sssshhhh!" they replied, looking around nervously, "You'll start a riot." This was terrible. I wondered how distressed Sayyiduna Husayn would be to have people taking him as a qibla.

We left the tomb and my hosts wanted to buy me a tasbih. I insisted on wood and not beads made from the earth of Karbala', still put out by the business. Then it was back to Baghdad where I started to pack for my departure on a bus to Basra.

The people from the hotel made sure that I got to the bus station and the bus ride to Basra was long, and, being August, was very hot and dry. It was a relief, though, because my cold started to dry up as well once I was out of the air conditioning.

Basra

Once I arrived in Basra, I was directed to a cheap hotel. When I asked the direction of qibla in the room, this produced a great deal of excitement, and they rushed to bring me a prayer mat and some iced water and put down the prayer mat in the direction of qibla. There was no air conditioning, but there was an overhead fan. A short time later, they came back as they couldn't read my passport since it wasn't in Arabic. Could I please translate so they could fill in the proper form? There wasn't much to see in Basra. I must admit, it was historically the idea of being in Basra that had drawn me. At least I would have in the same physical location where all these great Muslims had lived.

I was, as well, still on the look-out for a Sufi Shaykh who was salik, and was taken to visit a Shaykh, who turned out to be Shi'ite, and froze a bit at the mention of the name Aisha, and so the visit turned into a polite but rather frosty exchange of pleasantries.

It was very very hot. Even with the fan on at night, the only way you can sleep was with a towel wrapped around you neck to absorb the sweat, which was dripping wet by morning. It was, however, dry heat which made it bearable. It was far better than the air conditioning because you didn't have to experience the shock of the heat when coming out of the air conditioning.

Back at the hotel, I mentioned to the people there that I was now heading for Iran and understood that I had to go by way of Kuwait and asked when the bus left. "Oh no," I was told, "There's no problem going straight to Iran. Our friend with a taxi will take you the border. It's a short walk from there to the Iranian border post. No problems! Why bother with Kuwait? They're a pain! Just annoying bureaucracy! We never go that way!" Obviously even back then the Iraqis and Kuwaitis were not too keen on each other. I agreed that it would be easier to go straight across the border.

The next day I was headed, once again, through the desert without a road while my driver and I extolled the virtues of the desert and quoted a few lines of Arabic poetry about the desert to one another. My cold had by now completely disappeared and dried up in the heat. Mind you, it was well over 50� C. Not surprising really. Eventually we stopped in front of a low mound. "It's just over the mound and a short distance beyond that. Just keep on going straight. You can't miss it!" Right. All I could see was desert.

Okay, I shouldered my rucksack and headed off towards the mound, telling myself that I really hoped that this was true and this border post really was just over the mound. Not a good place to be stuck for any length of time. No people. No trees. No water. I climbed up the mound and on the other side I could see a building in the distance. Phew! Al-hamdu lillah! I wasn't stuck in the desert!

I arrived at the door of what was, indeed, the Iranian border post. "As-salamu 'alaykum?" I said at the door which was partly open. A couple of Iranian officials appeared at the door and looked at me amazement. Obviously not a popular crossing place for other than the locals. The people in that area speak Arabic as well as Persian and so I explained in Arabic how I got to be there.

They invited me in and tea was produced once my passport had been checked. They checked my bag and found several books on tasawwuf in Arabic. "Are they all like this?" they asked. "Yes," I replied. They rapidly closed the bag and we had tea. Eventually I asked how I could get into Abadan, the closest town to where we were. "This is the postman," they pointed out. "You can get a ride into town in his postal van."

Abadan

Once in Abadan, where there is really not much to see as it is more or less a oil town, I got a bus straight to Shiraz - the home of the great poet Hafiz, not to mention the poet Sa'di. And gardens. Unfortunately I arrived well after midnight and everything was closed so I had to head for a bench for the night until they opened in the morning.

Shiraz

Once people got up and doors started opening, I went to a cheap hotel and explained why I was arriving at such a strange hour, now having to use Persian. Well, a sort of Arabic Persian. I have discovered that if you can get the intonation pattern of a language right, then most of the time you will be understood if your grammar is a bit off or you don't know a word and then insert one from another language. People don't listen to every word.

I visited Hafiz's tomb, met people and was invited to the people's houses for meals and had a good time there.

Isfahan

Next was a bus to Isfahan, home of the Blue Mosque, making certain to arrive at a reasonable hour. Another cheap hotel and then visiting the mosques and the market. I wanted to get a small Nain rug. Once they discovered I was Muslim, it was back to the house to meet the family lunch, and discuss Islam. Isfahan was lovely and the people were lovely. I was taken around the city and met many families. There is a lot to see and visit in Isfahan. And I got my small Nain rug.

Teheran

Next another bus, to Teheran. One of the professors from college in Cairo had taught English in Teheran in the past, and before I left Cairo, I had arranged to meet him and his wife at Teheran University if we happened to be there at the same time. Once I was in another cheap hotel, I went to the English department of the University, which turned out to be one of the few days when the couple were visiting there. The professor went with me to a bookshop to pick a number of books in Persian with a staff discount. Then I went to lunch with his wife and she explained how to get around in Teheran, where everything was, what to see and how to visualise the place and where to pick up bargains � like a sheepskin coat in a particular market, and the pistachios. There are several pistachio shops which are like sweet shops - different levels of salting, roasting, and so forth.

There was one annoying thing about Teheran at that point. There was a group of young men who had stationed themselves on the main bridge and made noises and comments about every woman who crossed. One day I had had enough. Long skirt, scarf, neck covered, the lot and still the comments. What was their problem anyway? One day I stopped and started to tell them off, using a lot of Arabic in the process. A middle-aged man stopped and said, "Please. Allow me," and proceeded to verbally tear strips off of them in Persian. Impressive use of language. He apologised for their infantile behaviour. They apologised for their infantile behaviour. After that they were very very quiet whenever I crossed the bridge.

Then it was time to move on. There is a limit to what one can do in Teheran and time was passing, so I decided not to go further east, but to turn west and head for Turkey. I purchased a bus ticket to Ankara. The journey was meant to take three days.

Next to me on the bus was a young Frenchman who had been on the hippy trail to Afghanistan and was now on his way home. He was a bit miserable. He hadn't had a good time.

The way the bus trip worked was that we stopped for lunch and stopped for supper and then everyone was left to their own devices to find a place to sleep and had to be back in the bus at a certain time. We were also left to our own devices for meals, but everyone tended to go wherever the driver went.

I fell in with a wali from Pakistan who had an entourage of seven young men with him. He was delightful. Every time you turned around, he was praying extra rakÔats or making du'a'. He had this delightful sweet laugh and hid his face behind the end of his garment when he laughed. I naturally fell in with this group. It was one of those groups where several languages are going on at the same time - English, Urdu, and Persian. In Beirut sometimes a group would be conversing in four languages - English, French, Arabic and Armenian - all at the same time. Sometimes you would find yourself using the wrong language with someone, but it all seemed to work.

Our group would arrive at a restaurant and descend into the kitchen and check it out, tasting various dishes and pointing out what we wanted to eat. As I was Muslim, they all decided that they were my protectors - in a very kind and brotherly way so I had about seven protectors wherever I went! We all ended up at dormitories at night and I had a bit set up for me at one end with a curtain and they had the other end of the hall. We had an incredible time.

The first stop was Tabriz and I was sorry that I couldn't stay for any length of time there. Lunch in Tabriz and seeing it only from the window of the bus. At least it wasn't night.

Back on the bus as our journey continued, the young Frenchman was steadily becoming more morose. It was costing him a lot to get a meal and find a place to sleep. He was spending much more than we were, and was probably being taken advantage of. There were a great variety of prices for the same thing and always subject to haggling. Indeed, the haggling was expected. You weren't expected to accept the first price. I suggested that he join us. Looking at my fellow Muslims, he was clearly rather shocked at the idea and absolutely rejected the idea. For the rest of the journey, he continued to become steadily more and more depressed. The idea of being with a bunch of Muslims clearly was more alarming as far as he was concerned. Quelle domage. I continued to ask if he wanted to join us and he continued to reject the idea.

Tabriz

The next stop was Erzurum in Turkey, and when the bus driver paid for my meal - from the other side of the restaurant, my self-appointed bodyguards told me to be careful and eyed him suspiciously.

The Frenchman got more miserable.

We stopped in Ankara and I got my bag and got off the bus. My bodyguards all got off the bus, made much du'a and said their farewells since the bus was continuing on to its final stop in Istanbul. The bus driver got off and handed me a piece of water melon and said good-bye. Eventually they drove off with a lot of ma's-salama and khoda hafez. Leaving behind a very bemused Turk whom the driver had told to make certainthat I got wherever I wanted to go.

One small problem. He only spoke Turkish. I tried Arabic. I tried Persian. I tried English. I tried French and even Spanish. We did eventually find someone who spoke a little German.

Finally I found that it was easier just to get a bus to the centre of town. I had intended to go on to Qom, but I realised that I was coming down with dysentery. I knew I shouldn't have had that watercress in Tabriz! Unfortunately, I realised that after I had eaten it. So I decided to get a student flight back to Beirut, which I did, arriving back at my friend's flat just beforeI became properly ill.