Bensalem Himmich - The Theocrat

“The only thing that astonishes me about your interpretation,” said al-Hakim, “is your reliance on the role of imagination. You can astound us even more now by giving your imagination free rein to contemplate your death at my hands.”

“I’m only contemplating death at your hands, my lord,” replied Ibn Sa‘sa‘ confidently, “in a single, utterly unique fashion. In the police record it will state as follows: ‘In that the perpetrator of the above mentioned interpretation has radically supported the cause of the Shi‘a who were burned, in that his words do not conform with their testimony, in that he is a well-known poet-heretic who defines poetry as the revelation of what is inspired by standing in front of a wall in the midday sun when people are taking a nap, in that this poet has extolled authority and seems devoted to it, this poet who claims that poetry is the discourse of waiting in that space which separates us from seizing power, and — in another version — that the most poetic of poets is one who senses that his poetry is an expression of essential weakness and deprivation, and so he strives for power and dreams of it. The police authorities, realizing their duties and ever watchful for the repose of the people, reserve for themselves the right to arrest and interrogate the poet until such time as he reveals the many secrets stored in his heart.’ However, my lord, once I have disappeared for ever, Ghayn, the chief of police, will release a factual report to people, which will say: ‘Rumors have spread abroad in the country stating that Ibn Sa‘sa‘ the poet who had been arrested by our forces died while being tortured by our personnel. In that this is false, we have no alternative but to reveal the following information: the above-named poet’s corpse was discovered where the Nile waters had deposited it. A medical examination determined that he had been killed by a dagger thrust while fighting alongside pimps and heretics.’”

“I’m truly amazed, young man,” said al-Hakim contentedly. “Get out of here before my sword performs your vision for you! Now, Ghayn, bring in the Sufi with no shoes.”

The Sufi did not bother to wait for Ghayn to execute the caliph’s command, but rushed over to stand before the caliph, repeating the phrase, “Be kind to me, O God!” over and over again, and then. “I beg God’s forgiveness; He is sufficient for me, and is good as a trustee!”

“So, shoeless one,” said al-Hakim, raising his voice over the noise of the Sufi’s invocations, “you stand accused of shunning me and insulting my name. Many times I have summoned you to appear, but you have resisted. As with other holy men of God, I have sought your counsel by offering bouquets of narcissus, but you have spurned them. Now here you stand before me, asking God for kindness and protection. And I am still being patient!”

The shoeless Sufi responded: “The Prophet of God — peace and blessings be upon him! — once said, ‘Beware of the councils of tyrants.’ He was asked, ‘And who are tyrants, O most judicious of God’s created people?’ ‘Those who govern by their own order,’ the Prophet replied, ‘who contravene God’s laws by tyrannous deeds and self-deification, and who kill the soul that God has declared sacred. In the next world they are fuel for hellfire, and it is a dire resort indeed. O God, in Your kindness.…”‘

Al-Hakim was furious. “That’s a fraudulent hadith,” he yelled. “It is unauthenticated and false. Your words are sheer nonsense; they trivialize the truth. They represent a lie and a travesty of our moral and religious practice.”

The Sufi tried again. “There can be no word of truth but that the Prophet of God is its utterer. Included in that is what he has transmitted to believers following his occultation by way of dreams and visions. That is still the case today. I myself have seen him — on him be peace! — and he followed up on his previous hadith with this pronouncement (may he be exalted!): O people, a simile is being invoked here, so pay attention. The people to whom you pray in place of God could never create so much as a fly even though they all combined their efforts. If that fly were to rob them of something, they could never retrieve it; seeker and sought are simply too weak. They have not given God his true value; indeed God is powerful and mighty . In my dream I heard his voice — on him be peace! — counseling me, ‘Saint of God, make sure you don’t adjust your words to the world of tyrants. If you do so, your words will immediately dwindle, beset by collapse on all sides. Instead, allow your imagination to confront tyranny with patience, defiance, and creativity.”‘

“How sorry I feel,” said al-Hakim, “for all those people who die otherwise than by my sword. Shoeless one, how much I regret the power I have to kill you. If your fondness for life were not weaker than a spider’s thread, I would have no compunction about consigning you to your grave.”

“How true, my lord,” replied the shoeless Sufi. “If people were like me in disdaining their life here on earth and aspiring to what is more ideal and worthy in their hearts, you would have no authority over them. Your oppression and terror would have no effect.”

“Leave my covering where it is,” interrupted al-Hakim. “Raise it no further! Instead, since you stand here before me, reveal to us the pages of your enlightened ideas. What do you have to say about peace and love?”

“Peace is the pact whereby we all live with each other. If someone else inclines to it, then I follow in my turn, offer him my greetings, present roses and doves to him, and pray for his safety. Then I go on my way feeling secure and at ease. When I feel possessed by love, I declare it to my beloved in beautiful words marked by their grace and charm. I try to fill his heart with sweetness and to become like a tree with fruit always available. For me he is goal and helper, someone to stand by as I proceed on my way. However, if my beloved dies in my arms while I am still alive and cognizant, then I will inevitably weep sad tears, fully aware of the essence of death and that in both beginning and end there is violence and cruelty. Thus I rebel and almost recant.”

Al-Hakim was clearly much affected by this. “What happens when you’re hungry,” he asked, “or when you feel lonely and go crazy?”

“When I’m hungry,” the shoeless Sufi replied, “I intone a verse of the Qur’an and use that as food. If the verse gives forth, then I am filled; if it does not, then I hunt birds and pilfer food from ants. If I feel lonely, either I go out into the desert and yell till the wild beasts ask me how I feel, or I go out among the people and offer radical advice, or else I go and roam outside the city. When I feel crazy, my inner vision is sharpened and empowered. I turn into an eye that sees, a thousand lips that intone transcendent thoughts as I recite what I see. And, because I disclose the truth and counsel rebellion, I am forever being taken off to prison or the mental asylum.”

By now al-Hakim was trembling. “And what about when you’re ill and close to death?”

“In that case,” replied the shoeless Sufi, “I will donate what I have earned to simpletons, read the Fatiha of existence, embrace my dear friends, and say farewell. Then I’ll write on the walls of markets and alleys, on tree stumps and rivers, on gravestones and flowers in cemeteries, I’ll write the instructions of water and daylight. Then I shall surrender my spirit to the elements.”

“Ah, how alike we are!” said al-Hakim, sweat pouring from his brow. “How much I aspire to be like you! If only you could have come to me in my seclusion in the Muqattam Hills, you would have found me there pure and concealed, head bare, countenance transformed, stomach empty. My only companion there was contemplation of the unity of God; the absolute was my only goal. Now go back to your desert and direct your prayers toward forgiveness for all those who go astray and overstep their station.”