Bensalem Himmich - A Muslim Suicide

As part of my search for the missing manuscript, memory is, for sure, a precondition for discovering anything, although it is clearly not enough. But when it comes to more dubious bits of information, the only way that their probabilities can be weighed is by recalling each memory, one by one, and my own connection with them. Beyond that, the choices are either to cancel any residual obligations and say nice things, or else to have the doubts linger and grow stronger still.

In order to put an end to these doubts, I told myself that I had to meet Juanita again and raise the topic with her. I chose a safe and suitable occasion on which to do so. When I broached the topic, I listened as she upbraided me. It would be more appropriate, she said, to feel aggrieved over the loss of someone you loved, whether it be an animal or a human being, or over a valuable item that was irreplaceable; but not over a pile of papers that were utterly useless, neither making you rich nor staving off hunger. If she had come across such papers, she said, she would have fed them to the fire or put them out with the garbage if their owner had not claimed them within a reasonable period of time.

"True One," she went on, "when it comes to generosity, understanding, and lofty purpose, I have never encountered another man like yourself. I hereby swear to you on all the Gospels, indeed on your own Qur'an, that I've never seen your manuscript or stolen it. Believe me, or else cut off this hand of mine if you so wish!"

All my suspicions died in the light of her reddening eyes from which shone the clear indications of truth. And with that, any notion that she might be lying simply vanished.

ONCE AGAIN I'M LOST, heading in the wrong direction.

Despair, despair!

What I need to do now is to turn the page and stop looking. From today onward, no more desperate efforts, no more dogged insistence on chasing after a mirage that only leads to another one yet more difficult to grasp.

So, my soul, this is a specific prohibition, a command addressed to you. Sit up and take notice. Tomorrow-Friday-I intend to pray for you in God's house, in the hope that you will come up with an answer or at least some kind of initiative.

I left my house early on Friday and heard my group of seven students summoning each other as though they had been standing guard on my house all night. I glanced around at them; they were following me in a clump, assuming that I was not aware that they were there. I took full advantage of their presence and headed for the perfumers' market where I purchased my favorite vials, along with some toothpicks and incense. I then went to see a bookseller of my acquaintance and paid him what I owed; I also renewed my request for certain titles that I needed. With that I made my way through other markets and locations.

So great was the economic stagnation, lack of money, sense of impending doom, and paralysis that everyone looked utterly glum and disgruntled. I told myself that I might be able to find some relief from the general malaise by taking a walk through a nearby park. I headed for one that may well be the oldest in Murcia. Its courtyards and alcoves were a vivid indication of the general collapse all around: wherever you looked, weeds were overwhelming the plants, and dry rot was eating its way into the trunks and roots of trees. Whatever was left standing and alive was threatened with imminent decay. So, I told myself, here we are witnesses to infection as it transfers itself from the concerns of mankind to the world of plants and even animals. My own anxieties are part of the whole, and God is the only means of escape.

I calculated that it was almost time for the Friday prayer, so I made my way toward the communal mosque, with the seven young men still keeping a close eye on me. People were clustered by the entryway and on the thresholds. There were many male and female beggars as well. My students and other pupils, with some of whom I had become acquainted by now, came over, greeted me, and made a path for me. I meanwhile was doing my best to dispense alms to the poor and needy who stared hard at me as they uttered entreaties and pleas for sympathy. As I listened, I was reminded at times of my own situation, with me uttering pleas of my own for the return of my missing manuscript, and at others of other occasions when, in the very depths of despair, I would pray to my Lord to make me an example and prevent me from stumbling…

After we had performed the ritual ablution, we entered the main courtyard, and my companions gathered around me. I asked them to spread out a bit and not to guard me so closely. After all, this place was God's own house, where believers only gathered to worship and share brotherly sentiments. `Abd al-'Ali, `Amr, al-Sadiq, and some others all proceeded to remind me that the great legislator, `Umar ibn al-Khattab,* the second caliph, had been murdered during prayers by someone called Lu'lu'a, not to mention several other pious and holy men who had suffered the same fate.

"Are things that bad now?" I asked.

"Yes," they all responded, "or even worse…"

And they were speaking the truth. From time to time, various men passed by the place where we had gathered and were giving me hateful looks.

When the time for the Friday sermon was announced, I went inside the mosque itself and sat in one of the back rows that my companions had reserved for me. They sat all around me. After just a few moments of throat-clearing and muttering, there appeared before us the imam of the mosque and his sermonizer, Abu al-Hamalat, the Maliki jurist, who was renowned for his narrow-mindedness and pedantic ideas. He proceeded to read out a sermon that was carefully framed and repetitive; the content had a good deal of bluster to it, but not much meat. He went to enormous lengths to expose the heresy of philosophers, people who, in his words, disguised themselves in the garb of mystics and spiritual guides. He declared that the danger they posed was even greater than that of the Christians. Fighting against such people demanded of Muslims an even more urgent effort. He had other things to say as well, based on outright error and sheer ignorance, the aim being to mislead people and to treat them like idiots. He closed his remarks with a ringing prayer on behalf of Rashid,* Commander of the Faithful; his father, Al-Ma'mun,* the late lamented ruler of Spain and Morocco; and the Muslim community.

We were then called to prayer, and I performed it surrounded by my protective force. I was concentrating my entire being on the One before whom all necks are bowed and who alone possesses life and death in His grasp; He has power over everything. When I had finished praying, 'Amr and his companions urged me to leave the mosque as quickly as possible, and I agreed. As I walked, I was surrounded by them like a sword in its scabbard. Eventually we reached the door, and a hail of stones and sandals rained down on us. With his enormous physique 'Amr picked them up and threw them back. Once we reached the exit door the crowd increased, and people started yelling curses and accusations of heresy and apostasy. I watched as hands were extended in my direction, bent on grabbing what was God's alone; one of them scratched my back with a sharp razor, but 'Amr was quick to grab its owner's hand and deprive him of it in a remarkable show of strength. With that he instructed his companions to take me to a safe location that he named. They proceeded to do so, while he and a group of poor folk kept on repelling their attackers with fisticuffs and a lot of pummeling.

`Abd al Ali led us all to a modest, dark shrine on a back street. The servant welcomed us and lit candles so that we could see where to place our feet and sit for a while. He did not ask any questions but made do with simply providing a box, noting that whatever generous gifts were offered would be spent on orphans, the needy, and travelers. I gave the man the very last purse of money I had, and he launched into a prayer for me and my companions, asking God to protect us against the Christian cavalry and infantry who were making their relentless way toward Murcia. If the poor man had realized that the people we were escaping from were not Christians, but Muslims from our own religious community, he would have been disgusted. He might not even have believed it.