My Days in Mecca 9781935049807

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My Days in Mecca

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My Days in Mecca

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Ahmad Suba’i edited and translated by Deborah S. Akers and Abubaker A. Bagader

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Published in the United States of America in 2009 by FirstForumPress A division of Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. 1800 30th Street, Boulder, Colorado 80301 www.firstforumpress.com and in the United Kingdom by FirstForumPress A division of Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. 3 Henrietta Street, Covent Garden, London WC2E 8LU © 2009 by FirstForumPress. All rights reserved Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data [Ayyami. English] My days in Mecca / by Ahmad Suba’i ; translated and edited by Deborah S. Akers and Abubaker A. Bagader. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references. ISBN 978-1-935049-11-1 (hardcover : alk. paper) 1. Siba’i, Ahmad. 2. Authors, Arab—Saudi Arabia—Biography. 3. Historians—Saudi Arabia—Biography. I. Akers, Deborah S., 1955– II. Baqadir, Abu Bakr Ahmad. III. Title. PJ7862.I18Z4613 2009 892.7'8609—dc22 2009002501 British Cataloguing in Publication Data A Cataloguing in Publication record for this book is available from the British Library. Printed and bound in the United States of America The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American National Standard for Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials Z39.48-1992. 5 4 3 2 1

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Contents

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Editors’ Acknowledgments, vii A Note on the Life and Works of Ahmad Suba’i (1905–1984), 1 Abubaker A. Bagader The Kuttab: Traditional Quranic Education in Early Twentieth-Century Mecca, 7 Deborah S. Akers

n My Days in Mecca n In the Kuttab, 19 The Fortunate Ones, 22 Abjad-Hawaz (the ABCs), 25 Celebration in the Kuttab, 29 Auntie Hassinah, 35 Kuttabs and Teachers, 40 With the Reciters of the Quran, 48 ‘Abbas: The Classroom Bully, 52 Perfect Memorization, 58 In the Advanced School, 60 Sitti: My Grandmother, 65 Recklessness, 76 v

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Contents

Bad Luck, 82 Literature and Knowledge, 86 A Turning Point, 88 The Teaching Chair, 95 Between Journalism and Literature, 101 In the Sawt al-Hijaz Newspaper, 111 Letters and Points, 117 Glossary, 119 About the Book, 125

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Editors’ Acknowledgments

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WE FE E L PRIVI LEG E D F OR TH E OPP ORTU N ITY TO translate and publish Ahmad Suba’i’s richly informative and

highly nuanced autobiography. A number of outside readers generously contributed in different ways to shaping the final text as it appears here. Arab readers appreciated Suba’i’s humor and remarked on the personable dimension of his account. Western readers were sensitive to our need to find a fine balance between editing the text to make it comprehensible to non-Arabic-speaking Western audiences and remaining true to the authorial voice. We are grateful for their feedback, which helped to improve our translation. We also benefited from the valuable information provided by community elders from Mecca who are familiar with the environment that Suba’i describes. They assisted in identifying streets and neighborhoods mentioned in the book that no longer exist, as well as sharing with us local and regional customs and traditions depicted in the narrative that they recognized from their own childhood. We are grateful to the individuals who assisted us during the preparation of this book. Our most sincere thanks go to Dona Straley, the Middle East subject and collection specialvii

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Editors’ Acknowledgments

ist at the Ohio State University library, for her generous help and expert advice regarding the transliteration of Arabic words following the Library of Congress style. We would also like to express our thanks to Kathy Durham, administrative associate in the Department of Anthropology at Miami University, for her help with typing the first draft of the manuscript, and Ashley Chase, undergraduate student at Miami, for her help with various subsequent drafts. We would like to thank Alia Shubaily, a student at Ohio State University, for proofreading the work in progress at various stages. She not only copyedited, but also gave her astute commentary, perceptively calling our attention to sensitive gender issues in the text. Finally, we would like to thank all the other individuals who helped us, in both Ohio and Saudi Arabia, without whose assistance the book would not have been possible. —Abubaker A. Bagader and Deborah S. Akers

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A Note on the Life and Works of Ahmad Suba’i (1905-1984) Abubaker A. Bagader

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MY DAYS IN MECCA (PUBLISHED IN ARABIC AS MY DAYS)

is the autobiography of Ahmad Suba’i, a modern-day Saudi writer, journalist, educator, and social critic, and also one of the earliest modern Saudi historians. It offers Suba’i’s story against the backdrop of the tapestry of Meccan life, rich in its descriptions of a variety of individuals and their interactions within the community, and centered around the events at the Grand Mosque. The double nature of the text as both the autobiography of a writer and the historiography of a place invites readers to approach the book at different levels. The autobiographical material offers a glimpse into a personality deeply rooted in the soil of Mecca. Suba’i’s use of the holy city as a backdrop for his life story shows his deep connection to the cultural currents of the time. During the first half of the twentieth century, Meccans saw a new beginning, as their city underwent a wave of modernization. Suba’i and the young men whom he describes in his book were among the first generation of young Saudis to receive a modern education. They were aware that, given their roles in breaking with the past and building a “new” society, and perhaps a new nation, they had a unique opportunity to constitute a force for change. 1

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Suba’i also wrote The History of Mecca (1965), in which he offered a simplified modern historical narration. While many accounts of Mecca were written by local traditional historians, Suba’i’s pioneering work reflected the city’s distinguished character through a discussion of its political, economic, and social history. Suba’i also wrote Mutawwifs and Hajjis (1953) on the history of education and the affairs of mutawwif, the Hajj operators. In these historical narratives his real interest was contemporary life in Mecca. Through his advocacy for progress and development, he used history only to pave the way to the future of Mecca as he envisioned it as part of a modern Saudi state. Suba’i was a pioneer in shaping public opinion. As a prominent journalist and writer, he was bold and sarcastic in his social criticism of a traditional life that he believed must give way. He was at times inflammatory in his attempts to change attitudes, opinions, and values. Writing about daily life in Saudi culture, he urged his readers to get involved in bringing about social change. Often, he knowingly offered himself as a social scapegoat. His intent was to guide young people without offending the older generation. As he mentions in My Days in Mecca, he served as chief editor of several Hijazi newspapers. Ultimately, he founded Quraish, a specialized weekly magazine in newspaper format, which provided a forum for public debate on issues of change. Suba’i established a theater, as well, which provided yet another outlet for spreading new ideas. Suba’i was, undoubtedly, a man before his time. Given the inherent traditional conservative nature of the devout Meccan community, not all of his attempts to bring about change came to fruition. For example, despite his best efforts, he was unable to successfully promote theatrical activities within the city; the forces against him were too great. Suba’i exemplified what it meant to be a good citizen—a person who tries to utilize all his time for the good of his soci-

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A Note on the Life and Works of Ahmad Suba’i

ety. In his career as journalist, he was prolific on the subject of human rights. He also worked for animal rights. Disturbed by the treatment of donkeys in particular, as well as other pack animals used for transporting heavy goods, he established an organization for the humane treatment and protection of animals. Such interests made him a local personality and leader who was an integral part of the community in which he lived. I remember him stopping by my father’s store in the market on his way to his office. Though he was always preoccupied with abstract intellectual ideas, he never tired of trying to reach out to the ordinary man on the street. He in fact did so with such good humor that he won over anyone who came in contact with him. Suba’i was an educator par excellence. He carried the burden of a new vision that he felt had to be realized, a vision that was shaped by the real problems, needs, and aspirations of the youngest generation. His autobiography depicts a critical period for education in Meccan history. Prior to Suba’i’s birth, the traditional kuttab system required students to memorize the Quran, which, when accomplished, implied an “educated” man. During Suba’i’s youth, the governor, who was the sharif of Mecca, instituted the modern educational curriculum, requiring students to learn math and science, as well as the Quran. Suba’i was among the first generation of Saudi youth to go through this training. He and his classmates inevitably thought of themselves as renaissance men who would move their society forward. Upon graduation from high school, many were hired as teachers to educate the next generation. It is important to consider the historical and cultural context in which My Days in Mecca was written. Suba’i describes the life of middle-class urban Meccans in the early half of the twentieth century. In the text, one can recognize the centrality of the Grand Mosque, the urban structure in the life of

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Meccans, and the topography of the city. Meccans’ multiethnic and sociocultural background is enhanced by the traditional folkloric fabric of the community, giving the city a vibrant and dynamic dimension. Suba’i made it clear that cultural Mecca is more important than economic and political Mecca—that is to say, that the cultural life and interests in Mecca have been the central focus of the life of Meccans. Suba’i considered the traditional kuttab system backward and reactionary. When discussing education, he made it clear that he meant the word to encompass an understanding of life and politics in the city. The kuttab perpetuated illiteracy because it promoted rote memorization rather than reasoning and critical thinking. In Suba’i’s opinion, this form of education only perpetuated despotism and unjust rule. The kuttab style of schooling, coupled with unchecked corporal punishment, also maintained the oppressive conditions of a traditional society and stifled any creative thought in young boys. In the autobiography, we witness the psychological damage that Suba’i himself underwent, and at the same time the making of the advocate for change that he would inevitably become. In his opinion, change required change in mentality and perspective. Therefore, rather than appropriating ready-made solutions that the Western model of education might offer, he sought change from within Saudi society, addressing the society’s individualized needs. In fact, he adamantly rejected input from outside. Within a few decades from the time that Suba’i wrote his criticism of traditional kuttab education in Saudi Arabia, there sprang the new, complex education system that exists today. All levels of education, from kindergarten through graduate school, are easily accessible, and are offered free to all citizens. The budgets allocated for education at all levels and types constitute the highest priority for the government. And echoes of

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Suba’i’s criticism and call for reform continue. The context of My Days in Mecca as a biography of a local pioneering elite forces us to see Mecca as the capital for change in modern Saudi Arabia, rather than, as it sometimes is portrayed, as a conservative antimodernist city. It goes hand in hand with other autobiographies written by Meccans, such as Hamzah Bogary’s The Sheltered Quarter, which discusses the dialectics of traditional modernist discourse, and Mirdad’s My Life, which contrasts the richness of urban and nomadic Mecca. We hope that the reader will find Suba’i’s words to be witty and full of life, as we do. We hope, too, that this book will create new familiarity with Mecca, the cradle of Islam, and that the city will become more human and real to the reader in the course of the pages that follow.

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The Kuttab: Traditional Quranic Education in Early Twentieth-Century Mecca Deborah S. Akers

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AHMAD SUBA’I’S MY DAYS IN MECCA IS SIGNIFICANT IN A

number of ways. It is an autobiography of an Arab boy growing up at the turn of the century, as well as a narrative about traditional life in Mecca. It also provides a historiography of the kuttab, the traditional school for Quranic recitation and the primary means of education until it was supplanted by the modern educational system in Saudi Arabia. Through depicting the anxieties of a young lad who is trying to cope with the traditional mores of a strict social environment, the memoir shows the reader what life was like in the kuttab for that generation. Indeed, much of Suba’i’s account relates the trials and tribulations of young boys studying in the kuttab and the changes that took place within the system. To a great extent, it was Suba’i’s experiences in the kuttab that shaped this highly acclaimed literary figure upon whom was bestowed posthumously one of the highest Saudi awards, the State Award for Merit in Literature. Suba’i was born in Mecca in 1905 and died in 1984. He lived during a period in which Saudi Arabia underwent immense transformations (Ochsenwald 1984). This was a time when the country was caught up in political and economic 7

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rivalries between global powers—the British, the Germans, the French, and the Ottomans—and their respective allies (Barr 2006; Ochsenwald 1984, 1990). Part of Suba’i’s narrative unfolds against the backdrop of these broader geopolitical events. His story takes place when the Hijaz was under the dominion of the Ottoman Empire, and Mecca was administered by Husayn ibn ‘Ali (1855-1931), the sharif, as the governor of the Hijaz was traditionally known at that time (Ochsenwald 1984; Teitelbaum 2001). Sharif Husayn is a colorful historical figure mentioned in My Days in Mecca. He spearheaded the Arab revolt against the Ottomans in 1916 and declared himself king of the Hijaz until he was supplanted by ibn Saud, who conquered the region in 1924. Although Husayn lost power, his sons received political compensation, being crowned by the British as kings of transJordan, Syria, and Iraq (Teitelbaum 2001). As we learn in My Days in Mecca, Suba’i was present when Sharif Husayn roused the Meccan crowd to revolt against the Ottomans. He recounts how the Arabs captured the garrisons of Mecca and Medina and deported the Ottomans from their homeland. Suba’i describes Sharif Husayn as a governor who was concerned with the flow of life in the city and with the dayto-day affairs of his people. In fact, Suba’i depicts him as often wandering surreptitiously around Mecca, spying on the functioning of schools and government offices to assure their proper operations. He relates one incident in particular, where Sharif Husayn made a secret inspection, turning up unannounced at the school where Suba’i was teaching. As a consequence of this visit, the sharif enrolled his grandson, Talal ibn Abdullah, as a pupil in that school. Sharif Husayn was responsible for founding what Suba’i calls nontraditional schools. Compared to the traditional curriculum of the kuttab, these new schools made available a

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broader array of subjects that included secular topics alongside the more customary offerings of rote memorization and Quranic recitation. Among the subjects mentioned in Suba’i’s account are calligraphy, mathematics, literature, rhetoric, theology, jurisprudence, and history. Also offered at that time was an advanced program in which the brighter students could take science classes. During the period that Suba’i describes, kuttabs were found in various quarters throughout Mecca. They were either part of the local mosque, or held in private homes under the tutelage of a qualified reciter of the Quran. Classes for boys were often held in mosques, while Quranic schools for girls were based in private homes under the direction of a female Quranic reciter (al-Baadi 1982). A significant figure in Suba’i’s life was his tutor Auntie Hassinah, who held classes for young girls in her own home. Suba’i bemoans how his father forced him to take additional Quranic recitation classes with Auntie Hassinah, who agreed to tutor him after her female students had completed their lessons for the day. In the kuttab, a class typically consisted of 20-30 male students who were assigned to a single room. The boys sat crosslegged on the floor in rows, facing the teacher at the head of the class. The beginners would have with them a wooden writing board, on which their lessons were written in clay. The lesson could not be erased until it had been memorized. Suba’i decries the monotony and tedium of having to devote endless hours and days of his childhood to kuttab learning, with no breaks or recess. He further notes with much consternation that summer vacations did not exist, and lessons droned on throughout the year. The only breaks that the kuttab pupils had were Eid holidays and graduation celebrations. Suba’i’s account amply illustrates the frustration of undergoing the traditional kuttab education in Saudi Arabia.

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Childrearing practices of the time dictated corporal punishment as a necessary part of a young boy’s schooling. As Suba’i tells us, when a father enrolled his son in the kuttab, he would instruct the teacher to use the harshest means to accomplish the task of educating his child. “Spare the rod, spoil the child,” was the belief, and severe punishment would kill no one, for no one dies before his time. This belief underwrote a system in which teachers were free to impose a range of punishments that included striking with a stick or rope, caning the bottoms of feet, and publicly chastising the student. Corporal punishment was such an integral part of the kuttab system that the atmosphere and discipline in the classroom depended on it. In fact, Suba’i tells us that, without the threat of beatings, the learning process could even come to a standstill. Under an indulgent teacher, students could spend an entire year and learn nothing. For instance, Suba’i describes how he and his classmates took advantage of their Quran teacher, the kindly Shaikh Isma’il. They would take control of the classroom and spend hours in horseplay with impunity, much to the detriment of all concerned. It was only after the unfortunate Isma’il was dismissed, and a disciplinary shaikh put in his place, that order was restored and learning resumed in the kuttab classroom. Another aspect of Suba’i’s narrative is how the strict discipline imposed upon him by his father and the kuttab culminated in a period of rebellion and restlessness in the young boy. Suba’i describes the kinds of mischief to which he surrendered during this phase of his life—much to the horror of his mother and grandmother, who attributed his bad behavior to some innate character flaw in him, rather than blaming the unreasonable restrictions imposed upon him. Gifts, flattery, and favors were all offered as means of enticing teachers to be diligent in teaching their lessons. Thus, part

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and parcel of the kuttab system was the parents’ knowledge that the students would provide certain menial tasks for the teachers, such as running errands and sometimes even helping to clean their homes. Life at the kuttab could be bleak and onerous for a young boy. However, as Suba’i relates, the students took advantage of the various chores they were asked to perform outside of class. These brief interludes away from the classroom gave them momentary respite from the exhortations of their teachers. Suba’i’s experiences in the kuttab reveal the pedagogical method of the time, which amounted to lessons being taught by way of rote memorization, endless repetition of words and phrases, and recitation of the Quran accompanied by rhythmic rocking to and fro. Suba’i complains bitterly that the underlying rationale of this method was never made clear to him as a student. With his distinctive brand of humor and imagery, he conveys how the mysterious principals of reading and grammar as taught by his mentors baffled him. At one point in the narrative, he describes an encounter that he had later in life with a former grammar teacher from his kuttab days. Their interaction highlights how Suba’i still had not figured out the method for learning the alphabet (abjad-hawaz) by which he was taught all those years ago. In My Days in Mecca, we witness Suba’i rethinking the traditional educational system and questioning the pedagogical wisdom of his predecessors. Students subjected to this system of rote memorization faced a daunting task. Aside from mastering the Quran, they were required to commit to memory entire books, some of which were comprised of thousands of lines of prose along with lengthy commentaries. Memorization seemed to take precedence over all other cognitive or intellectual skills. Suba’i relates how undergoing this process for many years left him with only a minimal grasp of the basic rules of grammar, and

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he emphasizes that memorization did not automatically lead to greater insight or comprehension on the part of the student. The relatively few who were blessed with the infinite capacity to easily memorize did well at the kuttab. For the average student, however, it was another matter. Suba’i writes about the various strategies that he and his classmates developed to fool the teachers into thinking that they had mastered their lessons. While such strategies enabled these students to get through the school day, it left them, as Suba’i tells us, doubting their own intelligence. Some, resigned to the fact that they were incompetent, took measures to fortify their bodies for the inevitable whippings by toughening the soles of their feet on the hot marble floors of the mosque. Suba’i himself was convinced that memorization was beyond him. But there is far more to Suba’i’s story than his years of misery in the kuttab. He reveals to us another dimension in the life of a Meccan schoolboy, the social aspect of human relationships. He describes the friendships, rivalries, and conspiratorial schemes hatched by the students to have a good laugh at the expense of the teacher. He also describes how the students’ accomplishments were momentous occasions for joyous celebrations. Whether a boy had mastered the shortest section or all the chapters of the Quran, the event was marked by a magnificent party and disbursement of presents and coins to the teachers and their assistants by the student’s family. Some of these celebrations took the form of a great public procession through the neighborhood with the honored student, dressed in finery, riding high on horseback. The honoree was accompanied by family members, teachers, and classmates, who also wore ceremonial garb. They all sang as they made their way through crowded streets, while neighbor women watched from their windows and threw salt to ensure good luck. The torture that the students endured in the grueling and monotonous ses-

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sions of the kuttab thus also had great rewards for them. Suba’i notes that these were among the most enjoyable times that he could remember, and he laments the passing of such traditions. Although all of the kuttab teachers were men, Suba’i illustrates for us the influence of women on children’s education and intellectual development. For instance, both Auntie Hassinah and his grandmother, sitti, who taught him poetry and folk tales, were important figures in his early years. The rich imagery and fantastic tales that these women passed onto him as he was growing up would form the foundation for his creativity as an author. To Suba’i’s father and members of his generation, the primary purpose of education was for the pupil to learn the Quran, so that they might understand and abide by Allah’s laws. Moreover, someone who had mastered the Quran could take advantage of various professional opportunities. For example, because she had memorized the Quran and texts relating to the life of the Prophet, Auntie Hassinah—a former slave—not only acquired respect and prestige, but also could earn her living as a teacher to young girls in her home. For a man, such skills afforded the opportunity to become a religious scholar (or ‘alim), a teacher, or even the master of a kuttab. In fact, despite his faltering performance in his early years, Suba’i eventually found himself, to his own surprise, taking up the profession of teaching. In the narrative, Suba’i describes how he went into business and, failing at that, fell back on the skills he had acquired in school and became a teacher of the Quran. Entering the circle of educated teachers, he experienced a shift in status, as the teaching position represented a considerable elevation in rank and prestige. It is ironic that, when he first became a teacher, he relied on the same ideal of strict discipline that he had complained of so bitterly as a child.

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It was during the 1920s, when Suba’i and his peers were barely past adolescence themselves, that the new trends in education in the Hijaz found further expression through offering rudimentary secular education to boys. Three decades later, with the establishment of the Ministry of Education, the education system in Saudi Arabia underwent considerable expansion, including state-sponsored secondary schools and a university in Riyadh. And in the 1960s, schools for girls were inaugurated. Suba’i emphasizes the role of the new schools not only in helping him to find a new direction in his career, but also in shaping the consciousness of an entire generation of students who acquired an eagerness for learning. He relates how the group of young men with whom he taught felt privileged to be instrumental in ushering in a renaissance in Arab education. This generation, he reports, produced the pioneering literary figures in Saudi Arabia. My Days in Mecca charts the beginnings of this remarkable burst of growth in the educational system, as well as the beginnings of various genres of literature and the publications of Arabic newspapers. It also describes Subai’s own development as an author and the impact of his contemporaries’ works on his own writings. This memoir is an evocative reflection of a time of great transition in Saudi Arabia. Bibliography al-Baadi, Hamad. 1982. “Social Change, Education, and the Roles of Women in Arabia.” Ph.D. dissertation. Palo Alto, CA: Stanford University. Barr, James. 2006. Setting the Desert on Fire: T.E. Lawrence and Britain’s Secret War in Arabia, 1916–18. London: Bloomsbury. Birks, J. S. and Rimmer, J. A. 1984. Developing Education Systems in the Oil States of Arabia: Conflicts of Purpose and Focus. Durham

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The Kuttab City, England: University of Durham Centre for Middle Eastern and Islamic Studies. Hurgronje, C. Snouck. 1971. Mekka in the Latter Part of the 19th Century: Daily Life, Customs and Learning. The Moslims of the East-Indian Archipelago. Leiden: Brill. Ochsenwald, William. 1990. The Hijaz Railroad. Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia. ———. 1984. Religion, Society and the State of Arabia: The Hijaz under Ottoman Control, 1840–1908. Columbus: Ohio State University. Saudi Arabian Cultural Mission in the United States of America. 1991. Education in Saudi Arabia. Washington, DC: Saudi Arabian Cultural Mission in the United States of America. Teitelbaum, Joshua. 2001. The Rise and Fall of the Hashemite Kingdom of the Hijaz. London: C. Hurst & Co. al-Zaid, Abdulla Mohamed. 1981. Education in Saudi Arabia: A Model with a Difference. Jiddah: Tihama.

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MY FATHER named me Ahmad and my mother gave me the

nickname Ahmad Hammadah. I can still hear the song my mother used to sing when I was a child. “Ahmad Hammadah, the sweetest part of the fruit. His mother loves him and his father loves him even more!” To this day, I remember how my mother spoiled me. Even as I sit here writing these lines, I recall the lullabies she sang as she held me in her arms. Desperate for a son, my father was equally affectionate. I arrived late in his life, and he dreamed I would accomplish great things. When I was young, my father took me to the kuttab, the Quranic school at al-Shish Alley near al-Mudda’a quarter, and paid extra money to assure my admission. He asked the teacher to take special care of me and to be as tough as possible with me, repeating: “Sir, the flesh and sinew are for you and the bones for us. Sir, you are entitled to break his bones and we will fix them.” This signaled that the student’s family gave the school leave not to spare the rod in providing their child with an excellent education. My father did not forget the kuttab’s supervisor, who played a crucial role in the educational process at that time. The supervisor showed neither tolerance nor kindness to the children under his authority, unless a student appeased him by offering a few coins from the morning allowance given by his father. Usually, the student would otherwise use these coins to buy some sweets like fufalat jinjawa or tubtab al-jinna.

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My father whispered some words in the supervisor’s ear, and tucked money in his pocket. The supervisor seemed pleased and replied: “Uncle Salah, go and don’t you worry about your son. We will treat him like the son of our sayyid, the master of the school. And I will look after him as if he were my younger brother.” True to his word, he took care of me like a brother, but one stripped of his will. And the supervisor was given guardianship like one who knows only how to count the few pennies the boy carried with him every morning to buy fufalat jinjawa or tubtab al-jinna. Under his tutelage, I was placed with a small group of beginners my age, where he tried to motivate us to repeat after him as he recited the first two letters of the alphabet, “Alif, a vertical short line without a dot over it, ba’, a horizontal line with a dot under it.” He used to repeat this in tune, singing it in a long high pitch. My father made sure that I had everything I needed for school. He bought me a writing board carved with figurines, with a hole for a rope to carry it. He also bought me cleaning powder that when mixed with water would be used to erase what was written on the board. He also provided me with a copy of the 30th and final part of the holy Quran. They used to print this teaching text according to the Baghdadiah rule governing how to teach, write, and pronounce the alphabet. We had to start with the first chapter in this text to be able to read and recite the opening chapter in the Quran. We ended with ‘Amma Yatasa’alun. That left us with thirty different parts and 114 chapters to master. In hopes of making me literate more quickly, my father instructed the teachers to speed up the lessons as much as possible, even if it meant the liberal use of slapping and other types

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of corporal punishment. He trusted my teachers completely, certain I would learn without delay. The teachers, of course, took their job seriously. They were as tough as my father wished them to be and regularly disciplined us by generously thrashing us with a falagah, a big stick with a knotted rope at the end—part and parcel of the kuttab system. This served as the primary educational technique used to motivate children to memorize their lessons and complete their homework. The general guideline I grew up under, both in the kuttab and at home, was to “Teach your child how to behave even if you have to beat him, for no one will die before the day it is written for him to die!” Those were my wise elders, may Allah forgive them. They did what tradition dictated, right or wrong. Thus our small bodies suffered as victims of their vision of the world. But that is another story.

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The Fortunate Ones

n

THE TEACHERS split us into groups. They divided us accord-

ing to our social status, as was everyone in society in those days. Among us were “the fortunate” ones, privileged by their fathers’ social position, wealth, and influence. Also among us were “the miserable” ones: the poor, the orphans, or children of fathers of low status. My father’s position was neither an asset nor a liability; and so I avoided the miserable ones. Richer than some, he owned a slave who served me and accompanied me to the kuttab. But even so, I belonged to a small group of students bordering that abused group, which explained why my parents gave my teachers the privilege of breaking my bones. Thus, I was lumped into a category I would call “the truly miserable.” Many chores filled our days. Some of us cleaned and wiped the school floors, some scoured the toilet, and some fetched water to wash the writing boards. Others filled the teacher’s glass with water and poured water for the supervisor if he was thirsty. The duty of waving a palm leaf fan fell to us as well, whenever it was too hot for the teacher. If he asked us to, we even had to massage his feet. The teacher often gave me his shoes to take to the shoemaker, Uncle Jabir, for repair. His shop was at the end of al-Mudda’a quarter. I waited until the repairs were done and brought the shoes back. Sometimes, the teacher ordered me to take sacks of groceries he bought for his mother to his house. When I made the delivery, his mother made me do housework, like wash the dishes or babysit.

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My father knew of these services that I had to perform, but they did not seem to bother him. He believed in complete obedience to the teacher. He often said: “Be grateful. One must consider oneself the slave of whomever teaches him even one letter of the alphabet.” Pleasing the teacher was regarded as the means of excelling in the classroom even if it meant serving the master and taking care of their shoes. Today when I reflect back, I would encourage parents to moniter such activities at school. When parents allow this to happen they are permitting the school to take away the child’s sense of self-worth. Instead parents should be helping the child to build his self-confidence correctly. After all, at that time, we were the weak ones. This put us at the mercy of circumstance and the ill temper of the teacher. If one of the students did not sit in his assigned place, or if he quarreled with the student next to him, the teacher lost his temper and hit the first child within his reach. Invariably, the teacher’s switch landed on the back of one of the poor children. Lacking the wisdom of modern educators, but knowing the foolishness of harming a rich student, the teacher always chose to vent his anger on one of us disadvantaged. Standards of discipline, and hence the school’s reputation, were maintained by punishing this lot, without risking the wrath of the families of the élite. Every time the teachers beat us, they seemed to regain their good mood. It was as though inflicting pain on the limbs of the unfortunate somehow remedied their ill temper. I once complained to the teacher when the son of Aydarus and the son of al-Safi chased me in the market place, shouting insults at me in public. As I recounted the incident through a veil of tears, the teacher studied me and then the fortunate ones, my abusers. He decided it wiser to teach me not to bother him again and asked me to repeat what my tormentors had

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said. When I gladly did so, he pretended to be very upset with me and thrashed me with his stick saying, “Don’t use such unacceptable language in the classroom!” While I choked on my pain, the teacher turned to my tormentors. “See what happens when you behave in this way?” he said sternly. “You boys need to smarten up and behave!” May Allah forgive our kuttab teachers. They only acted out the wisdom of their time, but their actions left scars deep in our souls. I hope our generation has the wisdom and compassion to treat our children with more kindness.

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Abjad-Hawaz (the ABCs)

n

I WOULD BE lying if I said that the kuttab did not bother me,

for my young mind could not comprehend then, what I came to understand later. One activity that gave me some respite was running errands for the teacher at the kuttab or the suq, or his home. This was not at odds with what I wanted to be doing at all. The simple tasks I carried out for the teacher gave me the playtime I needed. Running errands was far better than repeating after the teacher the letters of the alphabet along with my classmates. It was much more pleasant than shouting in the same rhythm: “Alif, without a thing over it, ba’ with a dot under it.” We did not understand the meaning of the letter alif. Actually, we did not understand the letter without a thing over it, nor did we understand the dot under the letter ba’. For months I was not allowed to erase this lesson and write a new lesson on my board because I had not yet mastered the secret of the alif or ba’. I could not accept how dull my mind was, how I was unable to memorize this lesson. My failure meant that I could not go beyond my first class in school or move to the next lesson. An added complication was the fact that I was coerced into doing many special chores for the teacher. These chores prolonged my stay in the kuttab, since the knowledge of alif without the dot eluded me. Rather than getting placed in grades or classes, we were grouped by our mastery of chapters from the Quran. When asked about his level inside the kuttab, a student would reply, “I’ve mastered the so and so chapter.”

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Nothing bothered my father more than when someone asked him, “Which chapter of the Quran has your son reached after spending a whole year in the kuttab?” I used to answer unabashedly: “Aliph without a thing over it!” I felt no shame in my apparent shortcoming. I continued at this level for months, even through my second year, until finally I mastered the alphabet. At that point, my teacher wrote something new on my board: “Abjad hawaz hutti kalaman sa’fas qarashat thakhath dhathagh.” I had to learn a new ordering of the alphabet. Nothing was harder for me than this lesson. I still remember the day the teacher’s assistant repeated “Thakhath dhathagh,” emphasizing each letter, but my lips wouldn’t provide me with the help I needed. I just could not imitate him. The sounds were trapped in me as though I were a small baby unable to talk. When I grew older, I thought about the relationship between the order of those letters and my entire previous experience of learning letters, but I found no reasonable explanation for why my teacher used this new ordering of the alphabet. “Abjad hawaz hutti kalaman sa’fas qarashat thakhath dhathagh.” Were these words in Arabic? Or were they foreign words taught by the kuttabs to make it tough on us? Were they intended to teach a specific concept in order for us to move on to the next lesson? Perhaps they were names of some good jinn the student had to learn by heart in order to master his lessons? This certainly was a more archaic way of teaching the alphabet. Once I mentioned this to my grandmother because of her fondness for such phrases, claiming they were the names of the kings of jinn. My grandmother used to know the names of the People of the Cave, a Quranic story in which people fell asleep and woke up 300 years later, and she would repeat them as

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protection against evil spells. So, I asked her about this order of letters in the abjad and how it helped children learn. She did not like my line of questioning and said: “We are people who learn from our elders and obey what they say.” Then she shook her prayer beads in my face vigorously, saying, “May you soon end this heresy against the wisdom of the shaikhs and their elders!” I never did agree with my grandmother. Instead, I lived with my heresy and suffered trying to find a balance between my own reasoning and what I inherited from our traditions: all sorts of nonsense that the human mind can hardly bear. I saw the teacher’s assistant when he was much older and I was about middle aged. I asked him about the strange order of the abjad hawaz alphabet. He said, “The alphabet is merely the 28 letters of the language.” “I knew that already,” I replied, “and I can also see how this ordering is valuable and very helpful for those who resort to books of magic like the zohar. But my question is, why should a child learn the alphabet this way?” He gave me a silent, scornful look. I remembered that glare well from the old days in the kuttab. Then he walked off and I was glad to see his back as he beat a hasty departure! At the time of my youth, however, I somehow muddled through the alphabet, simply storing the letters in my memory. So, without actually learning anything, I advanced in the kuttab to other lessons that I have almost forgotten. However, the clever teacher’s assistant was watching me closely and realized that I was parroting the lesson from memory. When he asked me what I was reading, I regurgitated a few lines. Skipping some words, he pointed to a few lines down to find out whether I was reading blindly. But I was even more clever than he was, for I had memorized the whole board and each word in its

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place. I knew the words even outside their context. As for individual letters, only Allah knew the extent of my ignorance. This experience was very painful to me. I learned some letters thanks to constant repetition, but as far as what they meant and how to use them, I failed to comprehend most of it because of how it was taught. For two years I suffered in this manner at the kuttab on Gushayashiyah Street.

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Celebration in the Kuttab

n

IN THE KUTTAB, we didn’t have any recess for playtime, as they

do in most of today’s schools. Back then, a somber air defined the teaching staff. They enforced a strict schedule. The idea of having a break appalled the teachers. They criticized it severely and made fun of its supporters. Even some of the students themselves agreed with them and remained loyal to the old ways. Their parents joined in severely criticizing the modern school system. Fathers used to prefer discipline over the wayward behavior so apparent in students who played on their way to school and had fun during breaks. In the fathers’ opinion, schools were meant for keeping the children busy, studying their boards all day long. In this way, schools were supposed to keep children off the streets and out of trouble. To keep us busy studying and away from mischief, we spent most our time tied to our boards. Led by the assistant, our heads nodded up and down in beat to some monotonous tune, in the same manner as a conductor with an orchestra. There was no respite from this harsh routine, other than to claim to be thirsty or to have the need to go to the toilet. A student would raise his hand and ask permission. The youngest among us would bounce up and down with his hand up in the air waving toward the teacher, waiting to be noticed and given leave. Most of the time the teacher granted permission, except when he felt the student was trying to fool him, or when he was in a bad mood.

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I don’t deny my own attempts to trick the teacher, and I usually asked permission to leave every day, just for fun. Since he was onto my ruse, I did not always receive his consent. Sometimes he would refuse and say: “Sit down, son of a thick plank. By Allah you are not leaving this room until you have completed your memorization.” But it seems I was not bashful. If he said “No,” I just pestered him again! Actually, his refusal provoked me to ask to leave even more. Sometimes when the teacher was busy, I plead with his assistant instead. The assistant then checked to see what the teacher was doing. If the teacher was busy with someone else, the assistant would nod, permitting me to leave the room. I appreciated this kindness and asked students to buy some sweets for the assistant at the end of the day. There was a system regarding going to the toilet, which was strictly followed: The teacher put up a cardboard. On one side was written “vacant” and the other side said “occupied.” If you reached the toilet and the board read “vacant,” then you knew that you could use it after turning the board to the other side. Although I was unable to read the board, I was smart enough to figure out the difference between the two words and use the board accordingly. I used to go to the toilet without actually needing to. All I wanted was a break from the boredom and that was the only way. But once I closed the door, I didn’t know what to do next! I would stand up straight, arms and legs restless, but there was not enough room to move around. The bathroom was barely the size of a cage at the circus. Sometimes I came up with new tricks. I still remember one day how I scrambled on top of the water tank and sat crossed legged on its wooden cover. I filled the jug with water and poured it all around the corners of the room, imagining myself as the soup seller in the market,

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who used to stir his big spoon in the soup pot and then ladle it out into the bowls of the customers. My imagination carried me far. I would even speak to myself, “Hey you, hand me your money. Take away your bowl, brother. O.K., I’ll give you more soup. What do you want, even more?!” If the teacher could hear me, he would have thought I was crazy and would have probably expelled me. Most people would not admit to the childish acts I am recording here. But those pranks relieved the boredom that swallowed up our days in the kuttab. We suffered so many restrictions. We were forced to spend most of our school hours staring at our boards, trying to endure the endless monotony. Our only breaks were to drink water, pay a quick visit to the bathroom, or when cleaning our boards at the corner of the courtyard. As for summer vacation, that too was an unheard of innovation, considered a great waste of time and energy. The kuttab did not allow winter or summer to interfere with its program. We used to have fun on Fridays, however, as well as during Eid holidays and graduations, when families celebrated one of their sons completing a section of the Quran. This accomplishment deserved commemoration, whether the shortest section or the whole Quran had been mastered. Parents promised the teacher and his assistant a magnificent party along with many presents, coins, and a grand feast! Regardless of whether their son advanced to the opening chapter, Fatihah, or finished the shortest section, they regarded both as excellent occasions to celebrate. Smart teachers took advantage of these occasions. As a student came closer to completing each section, the teachers would announce to his parents, “Be patient, wait until the end of the month, by then you will be proud of what your son can do.”

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Then he would say to the boy, “Listen to me, you must work hard. Otherwise I will have to beat you. I’m telling you this in front of your father!” The teachers did not break such promises. Even before the end of the month, the child’s father would announce the exact date of the celebration. His son would finish on time, regardless of the method used. Since our teachers sought religious merit in teaching the Quran, it did not matter how they achieved their ends. We used to call such celebrations israfah and iqlabah. Each of these names signified a special level of completion. Israfah celebrated finishing the first chapter of the Quran. If I am correct, israfah was a simpler and a smaller party whose participants did not exceed the kuttab population. The child’s father and some of his very close relatives might attend to hear his child recite the opening chapter of the Quran, which would be handwritten in red and green that day. When the child finished, the teacher was kissed and congratulated for his efforts. He would then be given some money. Presents and colored rock candy would be handed out to all those in attendance, as well. When the party was over, the teacher would announce “Okay boys, fidus for you!” While I was not sure of the exact meaning of that word as a child, I understood that it meant we had the rest of the day off! Iqlabah, if my memory serves me correctly, meant having the kuttab drop its usual rules for the day. On that day, we would not be corrected, or shouted at, or receive any beating. It was an excellent day. The student being honored dressed in a long robe, a belt around his waist, a turban on his head, and traditional Ottoman slippers on his feet. These clothes were worn only on special occasions, and were usually kept tucked away at the bottom of the family’s dresser. The teacher appeared in his long darabzun dress that he

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only wore on holidays. It had embroidery on the chest and a collar made of Chinese silk. Over that he wore a vest that buttoned under his beard. Finally, he donned a cap on his head with a scarf wrapped around it that was embroidered by the best tailors in Kashmir. The teacher then ordered us to stand in line. Those of us dressed in the most shining and glittering robes with the most marvelous turbans stood in front. The teacher directed his assistant to lead the procession toward the party at the home of the parents of the student being honored, while he remained in the back where he could control the lines himself. The procession moved its way to the party location. There, our honored peer would receive us sitting on a horse, its saddle decorated with silk and brocade and the reins studded in glittering precious stones. Family, relatives, and neighbors surrounded him on the horse, welcoming the guests. Our sayyid, the head of the kuttab, led the procession and signaled to his assistant to keep the students in line. The mothers leaned out their windows, in a continuous row of neighboring houses, throwing salt from their sills to ward off evil spirits and to keep away the evil eye. Then the members of the procession would take a solemn walk through the neighborhood, led by the honored student on horseback, in his hand the board on which was written the chapter of the Quran he had reached. As the lines of singing students moved in unison, the streets crowded with curious onlookers eager to watch the revelry! The boys continued singing until they had finished touring the main streets and returned to the honored student’s home. There, a feast awaited the students and their teacher. As the revelry wound down, the teacher was presented with all sorts of presents from the student’s family and relatives. These occasions were the most enjoyable of my school

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days. I wish those traditions had not vanished. Nothing took their place. Such happy occasions used to renew our lives and give us something to look forward to!

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Auntie Hassinah

n

AUNTIE HASSINAH used to live near us. A pious woman from

one of those distinguished Meccan families, she used to be the slave of a sharif. When she was freed, the sharif ’s family married her to one of their ex-slaves, and she moved in with him to a house near ours. Her husband, Uncle Mahbub, was a proud but poor man. Auntie Hassinah had to work to support the family. Auntie Hassinah was educated at the house of her masters, learning from those materials available for women at the time. She had actually memorized the Quran, having read it cover to cover countless times. Then she learned how to recite Barazanji’s verses of poetry chanting beautiful tunes to it. She used to perform it among the women during mawlids, celebrations of the Prophet’s birthday. She could also recite poetry such as The Burdah and The Hamziyah by heart. She distinguished herself with her recitals of these poems whenever there was a gathering of women. She also excelled in reading books of prayers such as Dala’il al-Khayrat, and The Jawshin’s Hisb as well as other prayers and religious recitals. For all of these accomplishments, her friends considered her to be well-educated. Naturally, people made use of Auntie Hassinah’s exceptional skills. They sent their very young children to learn the art of reading the Quran from her, and to recite some poems and mawlids under her tutelage. Her house was almost like a traditional kuttab, except that only female students attended it. Male

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students were not allowed, for fear that they would get into mischief and disturb the female students. In addition to teaching, Auntie Hassinah kept busy cleaning her very modest home. She used to take great care in dusting her furniture, and despite its simplicity, her house was so neat and beautiful that I still recall its every detail vividly today. Most of the rooms were covered with pieces of rugs, which Auntie Hassinah arranged into a well-coordinated carpet. What a smart woman she was! She turned one corner of her house into a kitchen, and out of small tiles she made a toilet and shower area. The walls and steps were all spotless. You just couldn’t see any dirt! Auntie Hassinah’s home was no exception in the neighborhood. Housewives used to copy and compete with each other in matters of tidiness and spotlessness. They dressed well and furnished their homes tastefully. They also paid a great deal of attention to their cooking. Their houses were model homes in terms of cleanliness and decor. As our neighbor, Auntie Hassinah realized that my recitations of the Quran and religious poetry were not accurate. So she agreed as an exception to receive me, a male student, at her home, after the last female students had left for the day, in order to help perfect my recitations. I was not a stranger to her home. When I was little, I used to play with her students in her courtyard. Also, my mother frequently sent me to her on one errand or another. Some nights, I would accompany my mother when she visited Auntie Hassinah. But my situation as Auntie Hassinah’s student made me dependent on her instructions and stipulations. This made all the difference. She began to impose her will. “Hey boy, don’t ever enter the house without putting on the wooden sandals. And you stand up here to wash your face, hands, and feet. You wash them using the cup. Don’t you dare

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touch the drinking cup when you’re covered with dirt! Boy, stand still and wait until your feet are dry.” Per her instructions, whenever I visited and went up the stairs of her house, I stood outside in the hall waiting until she finished cleaning the washbasin with water. Then she filled a pitcher, handed it to me to wash my hands, face, and feet. Only after my feet were dry did she let me enter. When I sat down to learn my recitations, she ordered me to open the Quran to the ‘Amma section and place it on a stand that was shaped like an x. Then she picked up a peacock feather and pointed at the word she wanted me to read, imitating her pronunciation correctly and clearly. Her teaching style was not much better than that of the kuttab. The only difference was the addition of the stand and the peacock feather. After spending some days with Auntie Hassinah, I began to get bored. Her class was an extra pain. While my classmates played games in the open lots of the neighborhood, I was forced to take Auntie’s special classes. What was worse, I had to repeat what I had learned all day long at the kuttab. My father was exceedingly happy that Auntie Hassinah was tutoring me. He would say to my mother, “Now we don’t have to worry about him running around in the alleys and wasting his time. Finally we can say that Allah has set our son on the straight path. Whatever he does not get in the kuttab, will be covered by Auntie Hassinah’s classes. She is a great, pious woman. Thanks be to her! May Allah open the gates for our son Ahmad’s success.” My poor father is to be excused, for he was brought up unlettered, and illiteracy left in him a deep sense of discontent. He tried to compensate for that as best as he could and as much as he knew how. He believed that my success depended on unremitting persistence, so there was to be no

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running around with my classmates in the neighborhood. He would say: “My son, make sure that you take your ablutions before the afternoon prayer, and then recite the Quran until it’s time to perform the sunset prayer. After that, you can do whatever you want, so long as you continue reciting until late evening prayers, then you can eat your dinner and sleep! If you follow this schedule, you will wake up having memorized your lessons.” May Allah bless his soul! Father did not realize that this long daily program of his was the reason for my failing in school and my inability to be a clever and creative student. He did not realize that the long hours of studying the ‘Amma section of the Quran was more than I could bear. He did not understand that I should have been allowed time to fulfill my desire to play and recharge my mind so I could resume studying and master the next day’s lessons. Father’s injunctions merely reflected the beliefs of his contemporaries. Many fathers thought that playing was not only a waste of time, but a sign of mischief that needed to be disciplined and punished. So, father kept me busy with a full schedule. He decided that I should follow a long and well-planned daily program, to which mother and Auntie Hassinah agreed. This added to my inability to learn my lessons, and the pressure actually left me totally apathetic. The deprivation made me unruly outside the classroom. Whenever I had the chance, I would explode and get into all kinds of trouble. I did so with such deviousness that father, mother, and Auntie Hassinah strongly believed I was naughtier than any of the other children and that I could be compared to no one but the Devil himself! But father never tried to figure out the reason behind my misbehavior. He never gave any thought to curing it. None of

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our relatives or neighbors had a solution for my wild escapades, to be able to suggest a rational reason why I behaved so. Instead, they all decided there must be some sort of deviance in my nature, which was responsible for my behavior. Some even told my father: “Shaikh Muhammad, rear your child well. Even if you’re tough on him it doesn’t matter, for he will not die until the time of his destiny!” This inspired father to set me on the straight and narrow path by preparing all sorts of switches and whips to execute this noble mission. So whenever I lost a coin, or the bread board fell off my head, or my pen’s nib broke, or someone claimed that he saw me leaving my slippers at the neighbor’s doorsteps and playing ball with the other children, or if I fought with the bean seller’s servant, my father always solved things by using the whip. He gave me no chance to defend myself. Regardless of the calamity, he would not spare me, except with a torn and bleeding body. My father’s harshness left deep scars inside me as well, making me stubborn, bullheaded, and reckless. It also taught me to face hardships that others feared. It proved to me that, whether I was guilty or innocent, the beating would take place anyway, so why not be guilty just to avenge myself? I admit that this disposition stayed with me for much of my life. Later, I read many psychology books that pointed out the faulty reasoning behind my upbringing, so I worked hard to remedy them. Without this knowledge, I would have remained stubborn and confused like so many who suffer from such treatment. Auntie Hassinah was convinced I had a wicked and devilish nature, and my mother agreed that there was something wrong with me. Most of our neighbors and acquaintances thought so, too. My father took it upon himself to guide my behavior with the help of the rod. I had to clean up my act, my unruliness had to vanish!

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Kuttabs and Teachers

n

IT TOOK ME a long time to finish my studies at the kuttab. I

also frequented Auntie Hassinah’s for many months, but without much progress. I could not master the alphabet, and it was agreed upon by all that my reading skills were merely recitations from memory. Then, it was suggested to my father to move me from this kuttab to a different one, located near Bab al-Duraybah—one of the gates of the Grand Mosque of Mecca—and later to one at Jabal Hindi. I kept changing schools until I finally ended up at the grand kuttab established by Shaikh Muhammad alKhayyat, a well known scholar and educator. This kuttab, located in the al-Mudda’a quarter, was divided into classrooms of different levels. Shaikh ‘Abd al-Ra’uf al-Saban was a student at that time in one of the upper-level classes. It was there that I finally learned how to tell words apart. My fate in the new kuttab was not much better. But attending all of these kuttabs for so long enabled me, after six long years, to finally finish the ‘Amma section. I was also able to make out, with extreme difficulty, some words from my father’s letters, which he insisted that I read for him. During his reign the Sharif of Mecca, Husayn ibn ‘Ali, opened the first Arabic school, near Bab al-Salam, another gate of the Grand Mosque. He appointed Shaikh Muhammad alKhayyat to run the school. So Shaikh al-Khayyat moved his own kuttab, along with its students, to the new location. I was among the students who were involved in this transfer. In the

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elementary classes we learned calligraphy, arithmetic, and subjects such as jurisprudence, theology, dictation, and reading, all of which were necessary for preparatory school. My progress pleased my father, but he wanted me to do even better. He had high hopes for me. However, he was dreaming of a future for which I was not suited. Since I was not exceptionally bright or a quick learner, it took me a long time to even grasp my lessons. My father scoffed at me saying, “Here is the son of the textile vendor. He is not much older than you, but he is an excellent student of Shaikh al-Dahhan’s at the Grand Mosque, may Allah bless him. Here is another example, look at the son of the watch vendor. He is even younger than you, but his handwriting is so beautiful. Here is the son of the seal maker at Bab alSalam, he can recite the Quran in his father’s shop with the precision of a professional reciter—and look at you, it’s as though Allah has blinded you.” I endured this sort of verbal abuse, and worse. It troubled me, but it seemed my father did not realize the destructive power of his words, and that made me lose confidence in myself. If only he had known, may Allah bless him, that it would have been much better if he had encouraged me. That could have allowed me to achieve what he desired and move forward in the system. But he was like many others, who thought they understood what was best was for their sons. When he asked to see my handwriting, I showed him a line written by the teacher called the mashaq, or model, claiming it was my own writing. But he threw it back in my face and shouted, “What sort of calligraphy is this? This looks like the handwriting of a devilish spirit rather than handwriting learned at school. Soon enough, you will tell me that you are a failure, you will tell me that at my grave, won’t you?” Then, while shouting nonstop, he said, “Now show me the

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master’s writing.” I showed him a line of my own crooked handwriting, and as his eyes fell on it, he smiled and said, “Look at this excellent calligraphy, look how clean and well ordered the lines are!” Before he finished his sentence I laughed out loud saying, “You don’t realize, father, that this beautiful handwriting is actually my own, and the handwriting that you did not like was the master’s calligraphy.” When he heard this, my father burst out angrily, “Get out of here, you wicked boy! So you’re making me the butt of your jokes? How dare you insult me? Let me tell you something! I can outsmart twenty fools like you. Everyone, look at this liar, my son. For God’s sake get lost, or I will beat the living daylights out of you!” So I left, all the while my anger boiling inside me. But, in all such exchanges, my father always won. Father, and many like him, thought that criticism was an excellent method for raising children. He was my father, what could I say? The reader might think that my father’s dissatisfaction with the teacher’s handwriting made me feel better about myself, to which my father would not admit. For him, being critical made him righteous. Such harsh upbringing was thought to be for the good of the children! As days passed by, my father’s hopes for my success intensified, and he became anxious about my future education. He wanted me reading and writing all the time, and would not allow me to waste even a second of my precious study time. So, whenever I needed to rest, I used the same technique at home as I did in the kuttab! I went to the toilet to spend some time doing nothing, just to relax! My education was an important topic; it used to take up my father’s time with his friends, peers, and neighbors. He would say, “Ah, my friend Hamzah, I don’t like how my son reads. It is

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not very good. I really don’t know why he is so slow. Maybe somebody placed a curse on him? What do you think? Shall we go together to see Shaikh al-Khuzami at the Grand Mosque and ask him to teach the boy in Quranic recitation after maghrib prayers?” On his way to evening prayers, he would even pass by Bab al-Duraybah to look in on the Turkish seal maker, to discuss my education with him! “The boy still can’t sharpen his pencil. His handwriting seems not very good. I really don’t know why this boy is so thick and stupid. I used to teach him three important deeds to make him a master: sharpening the pencil, making a good seal, and writing in straight lines! But the poor boy can’t do anything right. It’s as if someone placed a curse on him, he is so stupid. What do you think Sabri Bey? I feel it might be a good idea if the boy spends an hour or two under your supervision, maybe he will become more skillful with his hands.” So more hours of my life turned into classes in learning how to sharpen pencils and make seals and write in straight lines! If my father stopped by his friend Uncle Sa’id al-Hawwat to buy something, their conversation soon turned to my problems in learning. He asked, “Shaikh Sa’id, would you write some model lines for my son so he can try to copy your beautiful handwriting? I’ll send him to you after he finishes his class at al-Muhrji’s shop!” So, I went as father ordered to Shaikh Sa’id al-Hawwat to pick up the model lines of calligraphy—a line with an angle from the right to the left of the page, a crooked line! It read, “Oh master, the role model of all those who are noble, the master of all notables, may Allah prolong your life and keep you wealthy.” But when al-Muhrji saw the model line written by alHawwat, he became angry and shouted, “Is this your idea of

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good handwriting? What nonsense is this? Has your father lost his mind, too? What’s going on here?” Then he threw me out. I returned to my father, who went to see al-Muhrji and begged him to take me back. Then he ordered me to hide the handwriting of al-Muhrji from al-Hawwat and visa versa. Evidently, the two belonged to different schools and used different calligraphic rules for writing. When father got together with some of his friends in the café, the conversations there soon turned towards my schooling: “Do you know someone to teach him arithmetic?” “What do you think of Uncle Shakir, the Egyptian?” “Uncle Shakir teaches near the Bab al-Salam, doesn’t he?” And where was the free time that I would use to go to Uncle Shakir? My time was spread thin between school, al-Muhrji, Shaikh al-Khuzami, al-Hawwat, and studying at home. But that did not stop my father! Friday was a free day, and I had no other commitments. So I found myself at Uncle Shakir’s, learning the multiplication table, aspiring to recite it by heart. However, I failed miserably. My father found me waving a single page in the air, while daydreaming about playing kabat in al-Marwah with the other children. This upbringing became increasingly difficult for me to bear. Uncle Shakir came up with the following math problem for me to solve: “A pond was filled with water from three taps. The first tap will fill up the pond in fifteen minutes, the second will fill it in ten minutes and the third in five minutes. If we open all three water taps at once, how many minutes will it take to fill the pond?” “We will add the minutes, Uncle Shakir.” “Okay, add them together.” “I did. It is thirty minutes. That means the pond will be filled in 30 minutes. So…”

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“Boy, think about it! If one tap could fill the pond in five minutes, how could the three taps combined fill the pond in thirty minutes? Does this make any sense?” Father rushed in to comment by saying it was wrong, even though he was very much pleased by this word problem. He said my answer was not logical! During this time, I returned to my daydreams of playing kabat with my friends, but then I had to abandon my daydreaming. Uncle Shakir said, “Come on, it can’t be thirty minutes.” “What if we subtract them, Uncle Shakir?” “Subtract what from what? There are three numbers, so what do we subtract from what?” “If we add ten to five it equals fifteen, and then subtract it from fifteen.” “Then what’s the answer? What will remain?” “What remains is zero.” “Will the pond be filled up in zero minutes?” “The pond will fill in zero minutes.” “No, that is not reasonable.” My father nodded, agreeing with Uncle Shakir, that it couldn’t be right. I returned from my daydream and understood that my answer couldn’t be right. So I thought hard and said, “Uncle Shakir, we have to multiply them.” “Multiply what by what, boy?” “Multiply two digits, that will be enough.” “What about the third digit? Where will it go?” “There is no need of it.” “You’re playing around, boy!” Father agreed with him. As was his usual opinion, I was playful and not good for learning. “Then multiply, just show me what you can do.” “Okay, Uncle Shakir, I’ll multiply them.”

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“Okay. Multiply, show me!” “We say five times ten is equal to fifty.” “Why didn’t you multiply five times fifteen? That would be better, wouldn’t it?” “I did not multiply five times fifteen because I did not know how, Uncle Shakir.” “Okay. Let’s say you multiply five times ten and you get fifty. What does that mean?” “It means we fill the pond fifty times?” My father moved nervously, about to slap me in the face. But Uncle Shakir asked him to be patient. Father then shouted, “Son, who said to fill the pond fifty times? We just want to fill it once. That must mean we will fill it in fifty minutes?” “No, Father that is not correct!” “Then what is the correct answer?” “We divide it, Uncle Shakir.” “Divide what by what?” “Divide all the numbers with each other.” “Show me, divide them.” “But I haven’t learned how to divide, I just heard about it now.” Uncle Shakir lost his patience, he grabbed the paper from my hand, and solved the puzzle using a simple algebraic equation to end up with the answer that the pond will be filled in around two minutes and a fraction of a minute. Uncle Shakir, by being able to come up with this solution, became a hero in my father’s eyes, and my father repeated, “This makes sense!” I too thought that it made sense, but I didn’t know how he had arrived at the answer. How could a kid like me understand ratios and algebraic equations when I barely knew the multiplication table! Uncle Shakir turned to my father and said, “Uncle Muhammad, don’t worry. Formal schooling is abominable! If

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the boy can’t even figure out such a simple problem, it gives us a good idea about the type of education our children are getting.” My father would agree that formal schooling was not really good for educating children, but alas, what else could be done?

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n

DURING THIS TIME, Husayn ibn ‘Ali, the sharif and governor

of Mecca, began to anxiously incite a revolution against the Ottomans. He met with the noblemen of Mecca and the Hijaz, trying to persuade them to revolt against the despotism of the Ottomans, and establish a new way of life for themselves. He addressed the Meccan shaikhs as such: “Gather all the able-bodied young men at Suq al-Layl that you can. We need their support. This is your homeland. We want you to be masters of your own destiny, to rule yourselves by yourselves. My children and I are here to fight for you. “Sons of Zamzam, rise up! This day is yours. “You, umdahs of the neighborhoods from al-Ma’abdah to Jarwal, as leaders, you all know what we must do. Call the brave young men to rise up. Listen, the Ottomans are promising false freedom. They want to shame our women. They want them to walk in front of everyone without a veil. But we are a people whose religion dictates modest dress. What do you say?” Voices roared in the council of the nobles. The men hit the ground with their canes and collectively repeated: “Oh Sayyid, we are behind you. We’ll do whatever you wish. Your pain is our pain. We can tolerate so much, but not the degradation of our women. What would you say, oh shaikhs? Hey Abu Sadiq, and you, Abu Siraj, don’t you agree?” A hubbub rose all over the council.

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“We agree with you. Whatever our Sayyid wishes, is our command. We can tolerate anything but shaming our women.” The council adjourned, and everyone departed. Each umdah contacted the nobles of his neighborhood and young rebels began to secretly come together. It was assumed that some local Turks caught wind of the clandestine activities in Mecca and may have reported it to the authorities. The uprising was surrounded by a cloud of vague, confusing rumors and inexplicable events. Even the Turks who caught onto the young men’s plans to revolt could not give accurate accounts. Sharif Husayn fired his first bullet on the 9th day of the month of Sha’aban, marking the start of the Grand Arab Revolution. Young men from all neighborhoods moved toward Ijyad quarter to surround the Ottomans in the fort and fire on whoever sought shelter inside it. Other young men from all neighborhoods of Mecca moved toward Jarwal quarter to surround the garrison and others went to al-Hamadiyah and other police stations. Those inside were given the choice of surrendering or being fired upon. The small stations laid down their arms in the first three days of the revolution. Then the fort capitulated a few days later, followed by the garrison. The Ottoman police surrendered as well. The Ottoman soldiers were taken captive and prepared to be deported out of the Hijaz. After a very short period of time, the garrisons in Jeddah, Yanbu’ and Rabig gave in with almost no resistance. The garrison in Medina held out for some time, until its leaders got the news that World War One had ended, and Istanbul had surrendered to allied forces. Then the Ottomans in Medina sought peace. Sharif Husayn had recruited hundreds of young warriors, some of whom fought in the siege of Medina. Some even went north to Syria, supported by the allied forces until Damascus fell, and Faysal, son of Husayn, was crowned king.

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The Arab Revolution continued on. Events erupted daily. Once the Arabs had successfully expelled the Ottomans, we were concerned to have our young Meccan men return home safely. We eagerly waited to be united under Faysal Ibn Husayn’s leadership and to support his efforts to start a renaissance of reform. These reforms directly affected me, when he began by opening new non-traditional schools. At the time, I was a good student at the preparatory school at Bab al-Salam, though my father believed that the new schools were good for nothing. We were told that when we were finished with our preparatory studies, the government would place us in the Fort of Jabal Hindi School to study advanced sciences. I did not understand everything that was said to me, but I clearly understood that there was activity in our school. Also, I learned that our sayyid wanted to improve our education system. In fact, the word “sayyid” came to be used as a title in those glorious days to refer to Husayn ibn Ali, the King of the land, and would no longer be used for the principal of our school. I overhead my father conversing with Auntie Hassinah, telling her that my principal Shaikh Ghazzali had come to ask my father’s permission to move me to the new school system in the Fort of Jabal Hindi, where I would learn the new sciences which would be taught there. Otherwise I would be left behind at the old school and continue to recite the Quran by heart. But my father had to decide which school to place me in. He consulted Auntie Hassinah: “Everyone memorizes the Quran. That would be perfect for my son. I will die one day and what will happen to my son? He should be able to recite the Quran from memory, as much as he can, what do you think, Hassinah?” Auntie Hassinah took the matter very seriously. She thought for awhile and then said, “There’s nothing better than reciting the Quran by heart. In the future, if this boy is in need

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and you’ve died, he could have his own Quranic school that would earn him a good sum. Uncle Muhammad, I would advise you to trust in Allah, and to leave the boy in his old school, learning to recite the Quran by heart, unless you want him to be an ‘alim, a religious scholar? My father sat up straight, blew the smoke from his cigarette, and then said thoughtfully: “Auntie, he could take his time and become an ‘alim. But if he memorized the Quran and was able to read well, using good intonation, then it would be better for him than becoming an ‘alim. Let us trust in Allah’s wisdom!” That is how my fate was decided. Even though I was right there, no one asked my opinion. Actually, if they had asked me, I may not have known what they were talking about. And if I had understood what they were saying, I would have asked them to put off their decision so I could have more time to play with the other children.

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n

CLASSMATES who the school said had finished their prepara-

tory lessons were transferred to the Jabal Hindi School. I and about thirty other boys were instructed to stay where we were. We were assigned to one room, and on the door they put a sign which said, “The Class of Reciters.” They brought in Shaikh Isma’il to teach us to recite the Quran and to study some other basic subjects in addition to our recitations. But Shaikh Isma’il taught us none of the basic subjects or the sciences, and only taught us Quranic recitation, if one could call it that. Shaikh Isma’il was the first teacher we had who did not know how to shout at us nervously or use the whip on our backs. So we were not afraid of him and did not pay any attention to him. We got into all kinds of trouble that way. Our teacher used to suffer from severe headaches which did not go away until he sneezed. For this reason, he always had matches and some cotton handy in his pockets. At the start of the morning session, he might forget what we were supposed to have memorized for that morning. He would wrap cotton around the tip of a match and insert it into his nostrils. Then he would start to sneeze. Once he started sneezing, he forgot about everything. It was then that some mischievous student would steal his matches and cotton, and Shaikh Isma’il would search for them in vain. When he finished a round of sneezing, if after some time

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he could not find his matches, he did not argue with the students, but searched in his jacket pockets for new supplies. He would wrap cotton around a new match, and then as he turned around he might find the match and cotton that he had lost. He never bothered to ask about the invisible hands that abused him. He was satisfied to lay out the newly prepared matches as if nothing had happened. Silent giggles echoed in the class. With time, they erupted into one or two loud laughs. But he would simply turn in the direction of the source of the laughter and repeat: “Boys, you should be ashamed!” He soon returned to stuffing the matches up his nose, forgetting the whole matter, and sneezing once again. Some mischievous kids teased him by catching a fly, attaching a piece of straw on its back and releasing it. Everyone broke out in laughter upon seeing a fly with a tail buzzing around. Shaikh Isma’il quickly turned to the side of the room, and the laughter ceased in that corner. But soon, laughter would erupt from another side. Whenever Shaikh Isma’il felt that matters were getting out of hand, he silently looked down and searched for a new piece of cotton to treat his nose! If the fly landed on his nose, with its straw tail between his eyes, he would shoo it away. He probably controlled his own fit of laughter, fearing that the students would mock him! When the cotton matches and sneezing session finally finished by the end of the first period, he would get ready for the next period and shout at us, “Who learned his homework by heart?” Most of us claimed that we are ready, though none of us really were! The first student to recite kneeled directly in front of Shaikh Isma’il, sitting on his knees. As he prepared to recite, another student quietly snuck up behind our unsuspecting teacher and opened the Quran so the student sitting in front had a clear view of it. Of course the student read with no prob-

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lem, all the while pretending to recite from memory. This operation was repeated as we each took our turn lining up to “recite” before the class. It seemed that our mutual interests led us to cooperate in this way. But sometimes there were exceptions. For example, a snitch might secretly give the teacher heads up by informing him of what was going on, thinking he would gain some special privilege. But Shaikh Isma’il was such a good guy, he feigned disbelief of those students who tried to rat on their peers. He responded by bringing the matter up in front of the class. He announced to the class what they had told him and exposed their names. He might ask, “Ah ‘Abbas, is it true that you opened the Quran behind my back for your classmates to read? Husayn Abu Qurah and Sa’d Jan Shah told me so. But I won’t believe them until I see it with my own eyes. Then I’ll decide how to discipline those rascals.” The boy, ‘Abbas, got very angry because he was the class leader and had the final word over the rest of the students. His eyes squeezed shut, his voice grew harsh, and he flailed his arms about as he returned a flood of oaths to the teacher, refuting these accusations. He put on an excellent act before the teacher, convincing him that he was telling the truth. He then murmured some prayers, asking for Allah’s forgiveness. ‘Abbas then turned with a theatrical sneer toward the students who had told on him, and made a menacing sign of slitting their throats. The students shouted, “Sayyid Shaikh! Look, ‘Abbas is threatening us!” ‘Abbas’s face changed by the time the teacher raised his head. His smile disappeared and he swore that he had made no such gestures. The teacher, convinced by his excellent act, asked the rest of the students, “Is it true boys, what Abu Qurah says about ‘Abbas? Or is he lying?” The students replied loudly together, “Oh Shaikh Isma’il, he’s lying!”

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‘Abbas had won the round. He made a few more threatening gestures in Abu Qurah’s direction, this time more subtly. Since no one would support him, Abu Qurah quit complaining. Defeated, he sat down. ‘Abbas was not an ordinary boy. Strong and brave, he was very cunning and enjoyed fooling the other students. Everyone feared him. He was also an excellent actor, and could easily bluff the teachers. On the whole, he was popular with his classmates and enjoyed being funny and having a good time. He usually did not mean to hurt his friends. He just wanted to have fun. This boy led the class very well. We wished our teacher had his talents. If he wanted to pull off a prank, he told us about it. We usually enjoyed his antics. Rarely did anyone stand up to him, or that poor soul would share Abu Qurah’s fate! One time, ‘Abbas told his classmates that he would fart in spurts of twenty. They kept count and did not laugh out loud so the teacher would not catch on. Then he farted, one decibel at a time, in farts that started silently, and tentatively increased in volume. The teacher could hear these sounds, but didn’t know what was going on. He turned right and left and asked, “What was that? Do you hear what I’m hearing?” The students stifled their laughter and denied hearing anything. ‘Abbas then put on the airs of a very serious student who was totally involved in his class work with no time for fun. His face conveyed total concentration. He acted as if he knew absolutely nothing about the disturbance. The teacher asked him, “‘Abbas, did you hear that?” “Not at all, you must be hearing things!” The teacher flicked his ear with his index finger once and listened closely, but he did not hear the sound again. He then turned to ‘Abbas: “You’re right, there must be something wrong with my ears!”

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‘Abbas would advise us: “If Shaikh Isma’il hits you, then put your hand where he hit you and scream loud, very loud, pretending that the pain is just unbearable, and then leave the rest to me.” That was some of his best advice, for if our shaikh were to hit a student, something he rarely did, the shouting surprised him so that he did not know what to do. He then turned to ‘Abbas as if seeking help. ‘Abbas rushed to the student and calmed him. He then said to Shaikh Isma’il: “Teacher, it’s okay. Hitting him was wrong, but thank Allah it did not leave a permanent mark. He will not do that again!” Shaikh Isma’il then felt guilty and murmured some prayers, asking for forgiveness from the Almighty. If ‘Abbas wanted to raise havoc, he hid one of Shaikh Isma’il’s leather sandals exactly when he knew that he was leaving for the toilet. Once Shaikh Isma’il realized he was missing his sandal, he shouted, “Boys, has anyone seen my sandal?” ‘Abbas then ran around, pretending to look for the missing sandal. In the meantime, he gave the teacher his own sandal to use while he continued the search! When Shaikh Isma’il returned from the toilet, he found the class empty, except for two or three students, including ‘Abbas, all busy turning over floor mats and looking for the missing sandal! Shaikh Isma’il asked: “But where did the rest of the class go?” ‘Abbas volunteered, “I formed them into groups to search for your sandal. Other students from the other classes may have hidden it.” Shaikh Isma’il didn’t know what to say. But he knew from experience that it would be safer to keep quiet. For the rest of the day, the students came in and out without doing anything serious. By the end of the afternoon, they mysteriously found the sandal and ‘Abbas won the day. ‘Abbas sometimes hid some of Shaikh Isma’il’s money kept

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tucked under the teacher’s seat cushion. He might hide half of the notes, and whenever Shaikh Isma’il angrily asked about his missing notes, ‘Abbas would volunteer to look for them. Again he created chaos in the class. But, at the end of the day, the hidden money reappeared and was returned to Shaikh Isma’il, and the students had enjoyed some hours of fun! It was in this way that a whole school year passed, and Shaikh Isma’il’s recitation class did not really learn anything serious all year. If some of us actually had memorized a chapter or more of the Quran, there were many more among us who could not reiterate even a couple of lines without cheating. Finally the administrators decided that our good-hearted shaikh had failed in his duties, so one day they politely dismissed him. He remained angrily silent. At the end of the day, he said farewell to all of us with tears running down his cheeks. ‘Abbas cried genuine tears with him. That was the last day with our teacher, Shaikh Isma’il. We learned later that ‘Abbas visited the shaikh in his solitude at Bab al-Duraybah inside the Grand Mosque and gave him some alms that he likely had stolen from his father’s shop!

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n

AS WE BEGAN our classes the day after Shaikh Isma’il’s dis-

missal, the principal came to our room. He was a very tall man, and next to him stood a man of similar height. The principal said, “Welcome dear shaikh. Listen boys, I really don’t want to hear reports that you have misbehaved. Do you hear me? You know what I will do to you. Please shaikh, make yourself at home!” Shaikh Ahmad Zahr al-Layali did feel at home. He sat down in the center of the room where Shaikh Isma’il used to sit. ‘Abbas said right away, “Good morning, dear shaikh! We are all here under your command.” But the shaikh did not like the way ‘Abbas presented himself. He quietly turned toward him and gave him a long piercing stare. ‘Abbas felt the glare of the new teacher resonate deep inside him, and immediately understood that the shaikh disliked his behavior. Shaikh Ahmad asked us how much we had memorized from the Quran, and actually quizzed each of us in turn. He had us kneel close to him and instructed us to recite the chapters and verses we knew by heart. No one in the class was really up to the test, and most of us failed. ‘Abbas, our delinquent leader, realized for the first time that he must keep quiet. Shortly, Shaikh Ahmad finished. Then he stood and walked slowly around the room looking at each of us as if trying to figure our future potential and the intentions of our souls. When he turned his back, none of us dared follow him with our eyes,

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for we thought he might be watching us with another set of eyes on the back of his head! He took his seat on the cushion and briskly dictated his instructions. He said, “We have not memorized even a word of the Quran. Tomorrow, we will begin our lessons with the first surah of “The Cow.” Every one of you must memorize a full page, and your memorization must be perfect. Do you hear me? It must be perfect! Boys! I will not accept more than one mistake per page. Do you hear me?” We were obliged to listen and do as he had ordered. Out of fear of our teacher, we started to come early and busily moved our lips as we tried to memorize our lessons perfectly. Some of us lagged behind, but soon, Shaikh Ahmad taught us what it meant to take his orders seriously. He could either discipline students or shatter their dreams in life, those dreams that they used to live by! As for ‘Abbas, his leadership diminished as his opportunities to create havoc faded and his ability to pull pranks dwindled. Instead he dragged himself wearily up the steps of the school, murmuring prayers to protect him from Shaikh Ahmad’s wrath, all the while reciting the Quran as diligently as he could. As for the dimmer students, they resorted to toughening the bottoms of their feet by walking on the hot marble at the Grand Mosque, to thicken the skin. This, they hoped, would help them bear the whipping Shaikh Ahmad would give them on the soles of their feet.

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I SPENT ABOUT three years memorizing the Quran, until I

became one of the top reciters and received high grades on my final exams. This enabled me to gain entrance into the advanced school, where science was taught. I joined a cohort of new students who were smarter than I was. They could actually follow what the teacher was saying. As for me, since I had always resorted to learning everything by rote, I had a difficult time grasping much of anything. To help myself, I created a system for learning the points that the teacher made in class. Using large-sized paper, I jotted down most of what the teacher said, verbatim, until I had filled both sides with my notes. If the page filled up and there were still more notes to take, I would jot that down on the top margin. The funny thing was, once the page was full of notes from all sides, I would write on the top “Suba’i’s Newspaper Issued When Needed.” This helped me, as much as it hindered. For whenever a teacher asked a question from a previous lesson, I was always the first to answer, repeating his exact words back to him. This sometimes pleased the teacher, who did not realize that my answer was repeated verbatim, and that I might not even understand the notes I had taken. This strategy kept me ahead of those classmates who could not follow most of what went on in class and who came to depend on my notes. Don’t assume that our studies focused purely on comprehension. Sheer memorization was still the most basic and

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important skill required of us. Most of the time, our teachers asked us to memorize the text, the notes, and even the commentary on the notes! For literary pieces, it was not enough to memorize the text. We also had to commit to memory the biographical notes on the poet, critical notes on style, the context of the particular poem, meanings of some of the stanzas, or lexical meanings of new words. As such, I suffered from my inability to memorize any better than my peers. Not surprisingly, I enjoyed creative writing; there, I did not have to memorize a thing. I kept a special notebook to write in, where I collected what I liked from the folk stories of Sayf ibn Dhi-Yazan, Hasan al-Basri and “The Seven Girls” and “The Conquest of Syria.” I would take notes of any quotes that I thought I might be asked to write about. I especially remember what I had heard Auntie Hassinah recite: “Time is quick like sudden explosions, one after another. Some may help you ascend, others may pull you down. There are turns of fortune that may help you feast on mutton, and in others you may eat nothing at all.” I liked Auntie Hassinah’s words very much and jotted them down in my special notebook, until I got to creative writing class, where the subject was “Treacheries of Time.” Then I wrote at length and concluded my essay with those lines of poetry. The teacher read my essay out loud in class and asked the other students what they thought. That was a great day for me. I had finally surpassed many students who used to be better than me in memorizing. Despite that one success that I had, I continued to struggle with my memorization. The Arabic teacher, who wielded the stick, ready to strike, forced me to memorize the Book of Grammar. Under the duress of that threat, I succeeded at last. Even though, once I memorized one section I would forget

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another, his continuous drilling and testing obliged me to keep memorizing, nonetheless. By my good luck, the same teacher was appointed to teach us Arabic, and he knew how to force me to memorize the famous book, Alfiyah by ibn Malik, comprised of a thousand lines of poetry. However, his success was incomplete; for while I memorized some lines, I stubbornly resisted learning other lines of this long poem. He tried as hard as he could, but I just gave up and failed. At that point, he had to surrender and let me be. While I admit that I suffered greatly in memorizing the Book of Grammar, as well as Alfiyah, I have lived Allah knows how long without appreciating the use of this on improving my linguistic skills and competence. Though the grammar teacher explained the meaning of our lessons, my ability to memorize expanded so much that there was no room left in my brain for other skills. As a result, I had minimal understanding. Evidently, my brain could not take it anymore! Since I couldn’t follow much of anything, I passed without really learning much grammar. Years later, I made so many grammar mistakes that I was forced to go back and reread many of my school notes to review the basics. If I had not done that, I would still not have managed to appreciate grammar. Ironically, when I felt the need, I sought help from a grammar teacher with whom I was good friends. I begged him to give me some grammar lessons, which he did generously. But I did not continue the tutorials, for after a few meetings I thought that he was elaborating way too unnecessarily. I reviewed my old notes and arrogantly announced to my friend that I understood grammar well enough. When I tried to show him my notebook, he shoved it back at me and said, “Please, just leave me alone. Find someone else to show off to. You’re not a serious student.” So, I left.

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In the Advanced School

You may wonder how I passed my grammar exams. Actually, the good heartedness of our teachers contributed to my success. Though written exams were required in calligraphy and arithmetic, the rest of the lessons, including grammar, required oral exams. In those exams, we would sit on the floor in front of two or three shaikhs who were perched on chairs, and we were called on one by one: “Oh my good student, who is your father? I know him, he is a good man. Now tell me, have you memorized your history? Do you know it by heart? Do you hear me, my boy? How did the battle of al-Qadissah take place? Not really like that. Don’t get flustered, slowly. Yes, repeat the whole story from the beginning again. It seems that you did not sleep well last night. Your recitation is not that good. Oh, Shaikh Isma’il, what do you think? Do you think we should give him six out of ten? It’s okay, let us give a couple more points, his father is a good man.” “Okay I’ll give you an extra point, but you promise you will memorize your lessons next time!” “Yes sir, may Allah be kind to your father, bless his soul. Please make my grade 8 or even 9, out of 10. May Allah keep you in good health!” “I don’t know about that.” “What do you think Shaikh Omar?” “It’s okay. He may improve later and become a good man too!” In this type of exam there was no need to cheat. Our teachers were really good-hearted people, whose kindness led them to be considerate for the student under pressure who stayed up all night preparing! They didn’t behave like policemen trying to trap us, as may be the case today. Interestingly, I remember a shaikh, a most esteemed scholar, who served as an examiner for some of the classes. When he asked the student a question and the student answered, he

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would watch the student’s lips move. Sometimes he even gave the student the answer by letting him read his lips! Those were my teachers, kind and loving. Ultimately, they wished their students the best, even if they used dreadfully ruthless methods the whole year. Their panache for strict discipline was merely because their generation believed so strongly that it was the only way for students to learn at that time.

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n

I HAVE SPOKEN about my life at school and how that shaped

me, but it may be appropriate to also speak of my life at home. As I mentioned before, my father reared me, despite his great affection, with a firm hand. For his generation, love of one’s children meant one thing: tough love. He did not tolerate any arguing back, may Allah save his soul. His orders were to be obeyed without question. Whenever he heard about my unruliness, whether at home, out on the street, or at school, he believed all of the stories he heard to be undeniable truths. He disregarded any explanations that I offered in my defense and accepted no circumstances that could justify my behavior or ease my punishment. Even listening to my side of the story violated his idea of good conduct. My father held other firm beliefs, as well. The custom of how one dresses was respected at all times. Wearing the turban and the regional igal on the head, tightening the belt around the robe, and putting on the traditional shoes all had to be in accordance with the standards of public attire. To be around my father, one had to obey special rules of behavior. If I sat in front of him, I had to sit in a way that showed absolute respect and submission. No matter what, I was not to say a word, state an opinion, or laugh, for that was considered disrespectful of a son in the presence of his father. These rules left a deep psychological mark in me. To this day, I recoil from old traditions, and I may not conform to polite rules of conduct in social gatherings, unless I am forced

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to do so. I have been known to stand out in a crowd, talking too much or arguing much more sharply than is merited. As for my mother, she made little impact on those around her. The poor thing was busy trying to balance her love towards me with her respect for my father’s wishes concerning my discipline. When my father died and left her alone to raise me, she could not assert his strict parenting style, given her own weakness. So I abused her good nature and made myself the king of the house by forcing my wishes on those around me. My unruliness erupted like a volcano. During that time, when I terrorized those around me, I encountered a new force, one with its own color, style, and method of correction: sitti, my grandmother. Sitti was my mother’s mother. She lived submissively for the first part of her life in the home of her husband. When her husband died and her daughters had grown, she became liberated from the ties that bound her. She vowed to devote the rest of her life using her prayers, rug, and beads reciting certain prayers and religious chants that she knew by heart. She had learned these prayers from older women when she visited the Grande Mosque or when they attended a study circle with a religious scholar, near the well of Zamzam. My grandmother loved to tell stories about the pious who walked on water or through the air. She also told many stories of those who could walk great distances in a short period of time. They could spend the morning in Mecca, the afternoon in Jerusalem, and the rest of the day in the islands of Wag Wag, a truly faraway place. Sitti believed strongly in invisible spirits who controlled the corners of the earth and those who oversaw the world’s affairs. She repeated most of their exotic myths and folktales. Whenever we offered any objections to her tales, she’d worry

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her prayer beads between her fingers and pray that we not lose faith, that faith not be stolen from our hearts. Once, she told us the parable of an arrogant man who shoved aside a poor grubby man praying next to him in the Grand Mosque. Allah wanted to punish him for this misdeed, so He made him pass gas. Even if it was unintentional, the man was so ashamed, he didn’t know how to leave the crowded mosque to find water again for his ablution. He stared at the dirty beggar, and as he stared, he found himself walking inside a tunnel in the sleeve of the man, where he found water to perform his ablution. Then he could return to his prayers. As he finished praying, he looked back at the beggar to ask for forgiveness and asked to become his disciple as it is done in the sufi way. The beggar replied, “If you insist on being my disciple, you should know that I am the servant of a prostitute.” “Yes, I still want to be your disciple,” the man said. And so he accepted. Then the beggar told him, “Follow me to the prostitute’s house.” As they approached the prostitute’s house, she spotted them from the window. Meeting them at the door, she said to the beggar, “So you told him my secret? Go away, you are fired.” Sitti then commented on the story: “That prostitute was actually a saint who just pretended to sell her body to draw hate and anger out of people. It was her sacrifice that brought her closer to God.” Often, I’d test my sitti by asking questions like “If you were a judge, would you prosecute such a prostitute or just let her be? Would you leave her alone for fear she may be a saint in disguise?” “My son, don’t carry on like that, otherwise you will be banished from Allah’s mercy!” I asked her, “But doesn’t this beggar’s religion teach him the

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importance of cleanliness, so that people won’t be repelled by him?” “Your Lord is the Lord of hearts,” she replied. “But Allah requires of us to be clean.” Then she shouted at me, “Just go away! Leave me alone! You are disrespectful, agumentive, and naughty!” Often, she would lose her temper as I debated with her. But despite everything, she favored me over the rest of her grandchildren by telling me fairytales. Sometimes my quizzical little mind just made her laugh, and she called me her “philosophical boy.” She memorized most of the surahs in the ‘Amma section in addition to the chapters of Yasin and Waqi’ah from the Quran. Since I had agonizingly memorized the whole Quran, I loved correcting her whenever she made a mistake. “Oh sitti, you are not really reciting the Quran. You did not pronounce even one word correctly!” “Get lost,” she’d reply. “The Lord is the Lord of hearts and all that matters are one’s intentions!” Siiti also knew stories from history, among them, that of the minaret of Bab al-Wada’ in the Grand Mosque, which was built where Bab al-Salam is now. When the Prophet Muhammad entered the mosque via Bab al-Salam to circumambulate the Ka’bah in his last hajj, the minaret walked behind him, and when he passed through the gate, it followed him. The Prophet turned and asked the minaret, “Where are you walking?” The minaret replied, “I’m going where you are going!” But the Prophet forbade it. So, the minaret remained where it was, weeping until today. The faded inscriptions on its side are proof of its weeping. I did not know then that the minarets were new buildings, introduced long after the time of the Prophet. So I did not

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question sitti on that part of the story. Instead, I teased her only about the walking, since minarets can’t walk. Sitti gave me a piercing stare, praying to Allah to put me on the right path. She repeated, “Get lost boy, your Lord is the Lord of the hearts!” This meant for sitti that Allah only considered one’s intent, not what one actually does. From the stock of her stories came one concerning the well of Zubaydah in Mecca. Sitti said that it was connected to the Tigris river in Iraq, because Zubayda the wife of the khalif, Harun al-Rashid, was loved by the king of jinns. When Zubaydah performed hajj to Mecca, she suggested that he provide the people of Mecca with water from the Tigris. The jinn who loved her gathered his fellow jinn together and ordered them to build channels from Iraq to Mecca. Water flowed that night and continues to flow today, quenching the pilgrims’ thirst. Another one of sitti’s stories was about a man who dropped his cane into a well in Medina. Later, he found his cane in Zamzam in Mecca, more than 400 km away, because the water of Zamzam runs from the mosque in Medina to Mecca. On the 15th of the month of Sha’aban, it is said that the water of Zamzam mixes with that of heaven to make the well overflow. Those lucky enough to drink from it that night are in essence drinking water from heaven. In her stories, sitti also told about the source waters for the Nile springing from a well on the borders of paradise. Sitti had a wild imagination. She used to say that nonMuslims wore hats to cover their eyes, for fear that their hearts would embrace Islam were they to look at the wonder of the sky. She would even say that when a Mazdaian woman suffered during labor and she wanted to pray to Allah, those assisting her would bring her a bag that she would hold to her mouth so she could scream out the name of Allah into it. Then those who

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had helped her would take away the bag ensuring she would not become a believer through the ordeal. Among sitti’s tales—may Allah forgive her—was that of the ox that carried the globe on its horns. Whenever one of the horns started to tire, it would carry the globe on the other horn. “That’s how the earth quakes and trembles,” she would say. She also told stories about some islands named Wag Wag. She said that the trees on these islands nodded like the heads of creatures, whispering, “Wag Wag!” It was strange that she believed these absurd stories, but stranger still was the fact that I later found all of these incredible stories written in books. Some authors tried to connect them to an esteemed religious scholar, or even considered them, mistakenly, to be part of the Prophetic tradition. Sitti was superstitious. She would not clean her house immediately after a guest left, thinking that doing so would prevent the guest from returning. She poured water after travelers to ensure their safe journey. She refused to wash clothes on Monday, for it was said that a companion of the Prophet lost his son after washing clothes on that day. She also believed it was bad luck to sew a dress while it was being worn or sweep the house at night, or buy charcoal during the month of Muharram. Too often, we listen to our elders and accept what they tell us. And sitti, Allah bless her soul, didn’t realize the tragedy of merely agreeing without discussing the facts of the matter. Whenever I asked, “Why is that bad?” she would shout at me saying, “Go away boy, you argue too much!” For good luck, when a baby tooth fell out, sitti would instruct us to toss it up high toward the sun, repeating, “Oh sun, take my baby tooth away, and give me strong, permanent teeth in its place!” Sitti had a story for every occasion, though they were usu-

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ally exaggerated greatly and were concerned primarily with saints and the supernatural. She liked to tell stories like that of al-Khidir, stories the elders of her generation used to tell. Even today, I am amazed by how much she could recall. How did she know all those things? I feel sorry that circumstances did not afford her a better education. She would have been an excellent student. She could have accomplished so much, given the chance. Alas, her legal guardian did not provide her with such an opportunity, so she was left with fairytales and myths, which she passed on to the next generation. What a loss! Sitti knew characters from many tales that only professional storytellers could know, like dajirah, the female devil, or hawl al-layl, the wicked jinn that appears only at night, and the seven female jinn. We used to spend nights huddled around her, listening as she told stories that left their marks on our impressionable young minds. Those stories gave us all sorts of psychological complexes. To erase their influence would take a lifetime. I used to take advantage of sitti’s superstitious beliefs, making up stories about jinn and spirits as it fit my needs. For example, I often had to run errands for our family in the evenings. I was obliged to help, but really didn’t want to be bothered. So, as I went out the door, I would run right back in, pretending to be frightened. I would then claim that I had seen the female devil, calling me “Come dear one, come closer to me.” Speaking loudly enough for sitti to overhear me, I would claim the devil’s legs looked like those of donkeys, which I knew would upset sitti. She would fold me in her arms while telling the others, “My goodness! That was the devil woman!” Upon doing this she would order the others, “Don’t ever ask him to leave the house on an errand after dark. Let’s not take any chances.”

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This way I scored high with my lie. Sitti would be nervous and tearful, and I would get out of doing what was asked of me. Once poor sitti became ill. She used to drink only Zamzam water. Each day it was my responsibility to fill the jar of water from the well at the Grand Mosque. When I dallied and did not return promptly, I would be tempted to take advantage of sitti’s nerves. Once, I went to her pretending to be speechless with fright. I told her, “I saw a hand appear from a crumbling wall near the stairs where we used to keep the keys. I saw it with my own eyes, while holding tight to the jar of Zamzam water I had filled for you. The hand grabbed the jar, but I snatched it back and came running home.” Sitti then said, “Son, I’ve told you before that you have a special vision. The hand must belong to a devilish jinn, who abhors the holy Zamzam water.” I said, “The hand looked exactly like Shaikh Ahmad’s.” The shaikh I feared was a relative of sitti’s. She was at odds with him, though she thought he was a pious man. She cried and said, “Yes, he was upset with me. He might not have wanted you to bring me water from the Grand Mosque. It is up to him. I swear I loved him, and Allah knows that I forgive him. You should not bring me any more water from Zamzam. May that please him.” So my cleverness freed me from fetching water from Zamzam for sitti. After that day somebody else was assigned the chore. Sitti, however, still could not fully sort out the problem. Did the restriction have to do with me bringing the Zamzam water? Was it okay if someone else brought it? The poor woman could not get out from under this dilemma. As far as she was concerned, she had no power over what she believed. She accepted whatever she was told. Her mind was closed. She did not question tradition. That has been the dilemma of Muslims throughout many

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periods of their history, well before it was sitti’s dilemma! As she told me, “Once I was invited to al-Zahir, in the outskirts of the city. Late that evening, my son brought a donkey. I rode the donkey with my son walking in front, leading the donkey until we reached the edge of town. I grew afraid on the deserted road and ordered my son to stop at the tomb of Shaikh Mahmud ibn al-Adham. There, I recited the Fatihah chapter of the Quran and poured out what was in my heart. After that, we went on our way. We hadn’t gone too far, before a bareheaded Bedouin wearing no shoes surprised us. He was walking in our direction, as if he was appointed to guard us. I grew even more fearful when I saw him; but I got a hold of myself, and the bedouin accompanied us without saying a word, until we ended up in al-Zahir, where he just disappeared. “Sitti, did your son see the bedouin too? Was he really there?” I asked. “I asked him, and he assured me that he did not see a thing,” she replied. So, I speculated about such an apparition. But today, I don’t find such talk deserving of my time, since it was proven to me time and again that sitti’s powers of imagination could do wonders. On another occasion, sitti gathered her daughters and grandchildren at a relative’s home to play al-Fa’al, a fortune telling game. Many housewives played al-Fa’al by reading from a booklet called The Prophet’s Luck. In it were short biographies for every prophet, relating how each suffered as he tried to spread Allah’s teachings. A table of contents listed the prophets’ names and the page numbers of their biographies. The person playing would begin by reading the opening chapter of the Quran and then would tightly close her eyes. Then she would put her finger on a name in the table of contents and opening her eyes, she would read the corre-

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sponding biography. In this way, each player had her fortune told. When they brought that booklet one night, I read every lady’s fortune. The man of the house sat nearby in the same room, busying himself with some work. However, I noticed the shaikh seemed upset by what we were doing, and that he disapproved of the way I recited the Quran. So I decided to play a joke on him. I passed the booklet to his wife, and when she put her finger on a name, I looked up the biography and began to recite the relevant verse from the Quran. There was nothing insulting in the book to her or her husband, so I invented my own insults. I pretended to read that her husband had a beard like a goat and horns like a cow, and a voice like a donkey. I did not know where my words came from, but just let them pour out. The shaikh listened to all of this with only scant attention. But when he heard me exaggerating shamelessly, and saw the women listening raptly, he quietly approached me and said: “Would you point to where you are reading?” The book fell from my hands. I was too perplexed for words. Then he asked sitti to explain, but she could not say a word. The shaikh asked her: “Where did this boy read all that? Take the book and ask him to show one word of what he was reading. He is rude and you people are idiots, to be so easily duped. Where are the words he claims to be reading?” Sitti shouted at him, for she had clout over all her relatives, “What you say is true; these words are not in the book. Actually, his are the words of good wishes. They float in the air and are replaced by something else. It is merely good wishes for you and nothing else!” Sitti was actually convinced of what she said. Her imagination soothed the situation for her daughter, grandchildren, and

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the shaikh’s wife, who did not dare utter one word of objection to me. The shaikh withdrew to wherever he had been sitting. It seemed he discovered that arguing with idiots was a waste of his time, especially in this silly matter. May the Lord forgive my sitti in her grave! In her ignorance, she was the worst teacher. She taught us irrational things and filled our minds with nonsense that we still believe today. My memories of sitti remind me of how much we need to educate our women. Our great faith commands us to educate them so that they are better persons and rear their children well!

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n

WHEN I APPROACHED my teens, I felt that I was becoming a

man and that it was my right to direct my life as I wished. Sitti was an ally in supporting my cause for she saw things differently from my mother. “There’s nothing wrong with him. He doesn’t need to go to school anymore. He doesn’t lack any subjects. He’s reading fine, you should have heard him reading to me the story of Sayyid ‘Ali and his fight with the jinn. What is it you want? For him to go down to the Grand Mosque and become a scholar?” Finally, she was able to impose her will upon my mother. “That’s enough,” she said. “Leave him alone and let him chose a trade that can provide a decent income to support you.” Sitti and mother decided to take a chance on me. They would let me go to the market and get whatever I wanted, as long as I provided the staples we needed at home. They did not know how eager I was to go to Barhat al-Marwah, for I had never before been allowed to hang out there with the other boys. The thought of joining in without any restrictions fired my imagination. I used the excuse of learning a trade and making money as a way to escape the house and mess around as much as I wanted, just like the street boys did with no one checking up on them. Sitti issued her command for me to go to the market, followed by a recommendation to my mother: “Give him one golden guinea from the box and let him get a job. God willing, he’ll excel at earning money like his cousins. If not, he’ll become the butt of everybody’s joke.”

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Unconvinced, mother went to the family chest and reluctantly removed one guinea. She asked, “What kind of work will you get?” “Oh sitti,” I beseeched my grandmother, “Tell her it’s none of her business. Tell her she knows nothing about the real world!” But sitti rolled up her eyes to pray: “Ya Latif ! Ya Latif ! Ya Latif ! Oh, gentle Protector!” She gestured emphatically to my mother to give me the golden piece and raised her index finger as if to add, “Oh Lord, we depend on you!” Allah did eventually answer sitti’s prayers and fulfilled her wishes, though it would take a long time. I plucked the golden coin from my mother’s fingers and ran past her, rushing toward the stairs. As I reached the street, I thought seriously about what I might do, now that they had agreed I was grown up and free to act on my own. It was the first golden guinea I had ever held in my hands. How beautifully it glittered! How astonishing its power! I wondered where to keep the gold coin. Should I hold it tightly in my fist? Should I tuck it inside my belt, where I might lose it as I ran? Should I put it in my pocket, but it may fall out? What about tying it in my headdress? But what if I forgot my headdress somewhere while I played? So I decided to exchange it for smaller silver pieces, keep some in a belt, and bury the rest near our door stoop. Excited, I rushed to the bazaar to exchange the coin. But when the first exchange merchant inspected my coin, he threw it back at me declaring it was not pure gold, despite its color, glitter, and beauty. I went to another merchant, and another. They all said the same thing, that it would not amount to much. I figured I must sell it for whatever I could get, so I accepted five, instead of seven silver pieces in return. Then I hurried back to our door stoop and buried three of the silver coins, keeping two aside.

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Back at the bazaar, I bought a cotton bag, which had two pockets and put it in my money belt, letting the ends hang down my waist. It made me feel so grown up! Suddenly, someone grabbed me by the collar: “Hey, Abu Hammadah! All the boys are going to al-Shuhada’ to eat salig, cooked rice with meat and milk. Don’t you want to come with us? It will cost you a silver coin. You need half for the donkey ride and another half for the meal.” Of course I would love to go with them, I thought. Whatever descends from the sky, the earth has got to receive! Yes! I would go with them. But what would be my excuse for spending the night away from home? Mother and sitti were both waiting anxiously to see the profit I had made from the gold piece and to hear where I had found a job. I handed over the silver coin and promised to join the boys for dinner. Then I returned home where I told my mother and sitti: “Look mother, here is one riyal, it is my earnings for the day. Sitti, look what I’ve done! I went to the auction, bought some things, and resold them within an hour. My profit was one riyal. What do you say, huh? Aren’t I clever?” “Clever? Marvelous! May Allah bless you with many riches!” “Listen, mother, tonight is a full moon. The folks at the auction invited me to a party held at al-Shuhada’, what do you think? They’ll be upset if I don’t join them. I want to spend the night there, but you may not approve and get mad at me.” Sitti spoke up before my mother: “Son, if they are good people, then go ahead and join them. But be careful, use your head. We won’t say a word if it’s just an innocent party. Trust in Allah and his saints.” Sitti turned toward my mother and said, “Give him a blanket, let the boy join the young men and have fun.” Mother gave me a sleeping bag. She looked at me once, as did sitti. It was a thoughtful, perplexed look, the look of one who is unsure of her decision.

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The donkeys carried us like the great horses carried their knights. Until that day, I had never had the luxury of riding a donkey. I only knew my father’s house, the kuttab, the mosque, and Auntie Hassinah’s home. Now I decided to ride the donkey and prove that I belonged in the company of these tough young men. I lost my balance several times over the beast’s back, but I held tight onto the saddle. Once, the donkey even threw me, and I was so mad, that I hit it with a stick, just like the other boys when they were thrown from the donkey’s back! After a long trip, we reached Wadi al-Zahir, a great open space crowded with young men. Each group of revelers occupied a separate area in the wadi, using lanterns to mark their territory. Fires flared under their cooking pots. Some boys spread out, playing games like kabat, or competed in racing or jumping, while others who were more serious sat under the lanterns and played chess or moved from one singing circle to another. Hasan Jawi, a famous Meccan singer, performed for one gathering, and Salih Halwani entertained yet another group nearby. I was ecstatic that night. There was no game I did not try, no competition I was not party to. I played hard, especially at kabat, a rough and tumble game of strength and bravery. We divided the players into two teams facing each other across a straight line. My team selected me to invade the other team’s territory. I tried to tag one of the other players and return home without getting caught. When I lightly touched an opposing player, he was declared dead. It was only when my clothes were torn to shreds that I was finally tagged and out of the game. The players continued until the other team lost all its players. So our team was the winner. We played the game many times over before we passed out with exhaustion. I made new friends that night, and many acquaintances as well.

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When I got home, my mother and sitti saw my torn clothes and concluded I had gotten into trouble. But I convinced them that my clothes were torn because they were old and easy to rip. After that night, my relations with the street boys in our neighborhood improved. I even made friends with boys in other neighborhoods. I conned my mother into dipping into her chest of coins and giving me more gold pieces, claiming that my work at the auction was taking off and that some of the young boys had begun working with me, pooling their money and time. This was far from the truth, however. There were no deals, nor work at the auction, nor any young men working with me; only street boys, and all they did was fight with each other. I carelessly blew away the money I took from my mother on trifles. What’s worse, I turned into the most badly behaved and aggressive of all the boys. I carried a big stick with me, ready to pick a fight, and I hit everything in my way! Dogs, donkeys, camels, anything I passed. I even got into fights with the animals’ masters, and sometimes with the store owners. With my left hand, I would take a gold coin from my mother, and with my right, I would give her some small change of riyals, claiming they were profits from my business. Things did not continue that way for long, of course. My mother’s gold coins were dwindling. As she gave me a new coin, she would tell me how many were left, alerting me to the dangers of draining our savings. But I was too busy having reckless fun. The boys and I spent most of our time at the gates of Barhat al-Fal near al-Mas’a. We would sing, “Oh, ten, who told you to dare? Oh, ten. Ask the stone to walk!” Ten was the nickname of a tough boy, who we believed could take on ten bullies at one time. He was one of our enemies, and we would taunt him when he got too close to our neighborhood.

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In the evenings, we would hang out near the barbershop belonging to the father of one of our gang. One time, I asked about the wedding procession from the house of al-Filimban – whether or not it would enter our turf. “Never will we let them cross the border!” said one of our group. “Look you, Tahir, you, Batanjha, and Abu Rayyis. Take Abu Sinkit with you and alAshram and the al-Dahdah boys and hide behind the mill over there. Sahlul, Mutabaqani, Abu ‘Aruj, and I will stake out the abandoned lot near you. When we see the lights of the procession come towards us, we will whistle to you. If they reach the edge of our neighborhood and keep going past it, then no harm is done. But if they enter, you have to throw stones at them. Hit their lanterns, candles, and anything else they are carrying destroy everything. After that, use your sticks. Don’t let them walk in the middle of the road. Hit their heads, shoulders, eyes, anything! Our goal is to keep them from trespassing. What do you say, al-Dahdah, and you al-Ashram?” We all agreed to his plan. “Let’s get to it boys! Let’s protect our territory, like the German and French battle lines!” At the barber shop we would pull pranks on passersby. We would roll up one of our friends in heavy material like a piece of luggage. Then we’d ask one of the porters to carry our bundled up friend. As the porter attempted to heft the bag up on his head, our friend would suddenly jump out, frightening the poor porter who ran off. Sometimes we would call another unsuspecting porter. One of us would take him to the alley of a nearby house and ask him to go in. Once the porter was inside, our friend would sneak out and lock the door from the outside, leaving the poor porter stuck in the house. Finding himself captive, the miserable porter would cry, annoying everyone within earshot. Finally, someone would free him and he would leave in tears. We would be hiding around the corner watching. We would then laugh heartily and congratulate ourselves on our gag.

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n

ONE NIGHT my mother told me that the gold coins in her

chest were almost gone and that the one she offered today would be my last. Her voice had a quiet, serious tone, and there was no mistaking her meaning. I overheard sitti praying in the next room: “Oh Lord, may you guide Ahmad, son of Jawahir! Oh Lord, let no one make us the laughing stock in the neighborhood!” Her prayers touched my deep-rooted recklessness, and it suddenly felt as though I was awakening from a long sleep. My conscience whispered to me: “What will you do, Ahmad, after you have spent this last gold coin? Will your friends give you money when you’re down and out? Will you find someone who will rescue you? Will anyone respect you when you’re broke?” These thoughts occurred to me for the first time and awoke dormant feelings inside me. I felt obliged to take action. The next morning I left very early in the day for the wholesale produce market, hoping to spend my last gold coin purchasing vegetables that I could resell in retail. However, I could not find any buyers, even when I dropped the prices lower than what I had paid! I tried again the next day, but my luck was no better. I asked myself, is this the bad luck people talk about? Or are there some circumstances that have nothing at all to do with luck? This type of thinking led me to consider the concept of luck. Did it really exist, or was it used as a means to justify failure when no good explanation could be offered?

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Sitti did not consider luck merely as a motivation in life, but rather thought of it as a fact, something alive or quasi-alive. She used to dream about luck a lot and was able to predict its appearance in her coming days. She used to say, “It looked in some of my dreams like a slave, which indicates he provides services. Sometimes it takes the shape of a highborn master, which means that one will suffer from serving him.” All of these absurd myths were concrete facts as far as sitti was concerned. But today, with our broader horizons, we dare not accept such things. Today we challenge the mysteries and puzzles that cannot be arranged or organized into some sort of a law. I may meet someone I don’t like, but I can’t explain why I don’t like that person. I may study his conduct; then perhaps I’ll find a fault in his character that could justify my dislike. Or I may like someone and yet still find much wrong with his character. Then from where does my dislike spring? Or my admiration? Maybe all these things are mysteries, very fine matters that defy analysis. My bad luck accompanied me whenever I got a job or tried a new plan, until one of my relatives said he had a small store for me that I could personally run. The idea sounded reasonable after the failures I had encountered. I was disgusted by having deceived my own family, and imitating my buddies’ wicked deeds. My relative’s idea would enable me to settle down and have some stability. I would be busy, but would also have time to think about my foolish choices and the bad company I had been keeping! He loaned me money and told me to add onto it whatever remained from the last gold coin. With that sum, I stocked the store and prayed secretly that this would be a new beginning for me. But it seemed that Allah had other plans. Business was poor. No one was eager to buy from me, and nothing could encourage me to continue!

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I wasn’t the type to share my secrets. I didn’t want people to know my exact situation. So in front of my old friends I looked like a small time unlucky merchant. In front of my sitti, I appeared to be a man who was on his way to success. But my relatives didn’t know anything about me other than that which was admirable. * * * The people in Mecca used to celebrate the festival of the Egyptian and Syrian mahmal. We would tease the guards of the mahmal ceremony and the pilgrims who sought blessings from anything that glittered. Whenever I told sitti some of our adventures, she reprimanded me, reminding me that the mahmal symbolized the saddle ridden by Fatimah al-Zahra. But her explanation did nothing to stop my teasing. The mahmal ceremony focused on the arrival of the hawdaj from Egypt – this was a pyramid-shaped dome built to fit on top of the camel’s saddle, from the side were embroidered curtains. It was sent each year from the government of Egypt as a symbol of the Egyptian hajj caravan. It entered Mecca on the back of a special camel, accompanied by a military band. The mahmal was greeted by a clamoring reception that continued until the procession reached the Grand Mosque. The mahmal would move several times in al-Mas’a, at Bab ‘Ali near the Grand Mosque. Then with great ceremony, the camel would kneel down and the mahmal would be lifted and carried to one of the corners of the mosque. There it would remain under the watchful eye of a guard until the end of the hajj, when it left with the pilgrims. The boys and I used to enjoy imitating the mahmal celebration. We’d tie sticks together to form a crude pyramid, which we’d cover with an embroidered shawl pilfered from one of our

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homes. Then we’d slip in close to the mahmal in the mosque, and try to make the pilgrims seek blessings from it, as if it were the mahmal of the son of Fatimah al-Zahra. The guard would shout at us and call on some of the servants at the Grand Mosque to chase us away. But we would sneak back later in the day and repeat our antics. Some poor naïve pilgrims would fall for our prank, others yet would laugh at us. But we continued our game until the servants of the mosque saw us and would chase us away with sticks. I was driven to get into mischief and would do just about anything to avoid work and kill time, all because I was brought up so strictly. For too long, my father had kept me from growing up like a normal child, and his despotism naturally drove me to rebel, to act out against what he valued. If left on my own, I would have played with other children and grown up a normal boy. But my father’s tough rearing made it so that I was ready to explode at the first opportunity. I do wish fathers today understood the consequences of restriction. If children were raised differently, our country would harbor fewer troublemakers and criminals.

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Literature and Knowledge

n

I LOVED READING, as it was a refuge from my troubles. But I

had difficulty finding the wisdom that I sought in books and when I did, there was no one to guide me to further reading. At this time, I happened to come across the stories about Hasan al-Basri and sly Dalilah, as well as some passages about Tawadud, the slave girl, who mastered all the sciences and was more intelligent than all the scholars of her time. I also read the story of clever Hasan, the brave thief whose love of a female jinn took him to the island of Wag Wag where he was able to see what is beyond this world. Those stories enchanted me with their fantasy worlds and their exotic romances. They carried me away from my troubles, igniting my imagination and leading me to other times and places. I encountered the epics of Sayf ibn Dhi-Yazan and al-Zahir Baybars, and books narrating the conquest of greater Syria. I came upon debatable science in “The Beauty of Flowers,” “The Wonders of the World,” and “Mysteries of the Sea.” Like a thirsty bedouin drinking bad water, I soaked up everything that I read. I went deep into what I read, writing down summaries of the stories, writing different chapters under my name in books no larger than my palm. I gave them flashy names like, “Rare News in True History,” and “Science of the First Ones and the History of the Previous Ones.” I liked to learn about the seven different levels of the earth

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and the different jinn population at each level. I also read about the sources of the Nile and how it originally flowed from paradise! I very much enjoyed the nonsense and creativity behind these tales and would copy parts of them verbatim in my notebook. I was not even embarrassed to sign my name in bold letters at top or bottom of a page. Sometimes I also added some honorary title to my name, like “the great professor,” or “the one and only professor.” I was enthralled by these captivating tales of faraway worlds and would read them more than five times with sheer delight. In particular, I loved their simple style. They were written in much the same language that everyday people, like my sitti, use.

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A Turning Point

n

MY WORK in the store continued for months, during which

time I had to borrow even more money. I could relate to the scornful writings of an author who described the trials of his friend saying, “If he traded in lamp oil; Allah would have eliminated night!” Indeed, no one seemed to have any need for my merchandise. I can’t deny that whenever I remembered this saying, I worried that the government would pass a law against selling tea, which would make my already bad luck even worse. Luck was only dream, not a reality for sorts like me. One morning while I was manning my store an old friend stopped by. It had been a long time since we last met. His visit was a turning point for me. He felt it was his duty to rescue me from wasting my life away and help me take a different path— not necessarily a happier one, though it would free me of worry over money. “Don’t you know the Quran by heart?” he asked me. “Not only do I know it by heart, but I mastered recitation with perfect pronunciation at the kuttab.” “What would you think if we added you to the list of staff to teach the Quran at school?” I sat down, thoughtful for a moment. Inside, I was overjoyed and would have kissed my friend’s hands, thanking him profusely for his help, but I did not want to show my excitement. I did not want my friend to think I was so desperate to quit my business. “But don’t you think that I’ll be jeopardizing the freedom

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I’ve gained as a merchant, in exchange for the limitations and ties of a teaching post?” I countered. My friend had to use all of his powers to persuade me to change my mind, arguing that what I thought might be limitations were just not so. He thought he was convincing me to see that being a teacher was much better than being a merchant. Little did he know that I had dreamed of just such an opportunity. I was soon hired on as a teacher in the local school, and immediately felt that this was a change for the better. I came in contact with people who were cultured, well-educated, and refined in their conduct. I could feel the difference between my life in the store and my position within the higher class of school teachers. This presented quite a contrast with the rowdy boys who used to be part of my rough and tumble crowd. No doubt the teachers’ conduct was more polished by the education they had received. In contrast, the folks in the neighborhood were less refined, but natural. They remained wild – tough guys who derived their self-worth from their brawn and daring. Even my colleagues were not so well educated compared to those who taught higher level classes. Their teaching skills were less than desirable. Most had only graduated from a kuttab or, at best, from a modern school at elementary and junior levels. And we were all very young, the eldest of us being less than twenty years old. We were grateful to the authorities for the opportunity they provided us. The Directorate of Education selected us to fill vacancies in some newly opened schools and school administrators were obliged to train us. We were all enthusiastic about the opportunity to educate a new generation of students, hoping we would lead the new renaissance. The students in our school were obedient to our instructions and tried hard to please us, just as we had done as youngsters in the kuttab.

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The teachers’ seats in the classroom were simple wooden chairs. The students tried to make these comfortable for us, piling on pillows and draping soft comfortable covers over them until the chairs resembled a bride’s throne on her wedding night. Even though I was not yet a mature man, I was pleased to be indulged in this way. We enjoyed our right to discipline the students and we satisfied our spitefulness by choosing a firm switch. We released our aggression on the poor students, whom we whipped mercilessly. We also enjoyed our faculty meetings. We were almost of the same age and intelligence, and we shared limited experience. We spent our evenings laughing and playing games suitable to our age, though they were less suitable to our social position as teachers. Our days were more enjoyable than I had ever dreamed of when I began my work at the school. School time was not rigidly scheduled, so we sometimes dismissed the students early so we could have more time to enjoy each other’s company. My friend, ‘Abd Allah Khujah, who is now well known as a leader of night extension school, loved to laugh, joke, and create an atmosphere of fun that few could imitate. We enjoyed talking to each other, running back and forth between classrooms and the principle’s office. Some nights, we rode donkeys in a great procession, starting at the gate of the school and ending at Wadi al-Zahir or Ri’ al-Kuhul, which was then at the outskirts of Mecca. This was all done in a manner most unsuitable for school teachers, though I feel that we were excused since even the oldest among us was still a teenager. At one time, the Directorate of Education was headed by Shaikh ‘Abd Allah al-Zawawi, who found there was no need for the previous principle who suffered so from our noise, games, and wild behavior. Instead, he chose one of us to be the new

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principle. So my friend ‘Abd al-Wahhab Khayyat, older than all of us by only a few years and more solemn, took the reins over our group of playful young men. His twisted mustache presented an image of a mature young man who deserved to be respected; yet we persisted in our fun and games, even during our formal meetings with him. He was distinguished by a serious face, yet his somber expression would often give way to the joyful atmosphere common amongst us. He succeeded ably in his mission, yet he failed to satisfy the standards of the Directorate. What I recollect from that time is my envy for ‘Abd alWahhab Khayyat. I wished I had a moustache like him, to twist at times of crisis or when I had to confront some mischievous boys. I did not hide my envy; actually I once visited him in his office and said, “Shaikh, today I got a new piece of hair in my moustache and I started to twist it as you do. Unfortunately as I was doing that I it fell out.” He could not control himself; he laughed and laughed. Although he had a strong serious personality, ‘Abd alWahhab was quite a social person who loved singing and playing the ‘ud, which sometimes made him forget his position and invite us to his home for a party. There he would sing a number of Egyptian songs popular at that time. These parties would usually end with a feast, which would cost each of us at most three piasters. Once, we were happily gathered at ‘Abd al-Wahhab’s home when someone knocked on the door. We quieted down and rushed to hide our musical instruments, since at that time King Husayn had banned parties where people played and sang. An hour later, when we had returned to our music, someone knocked on the door even harder. I rushed to the upper floor of the home to see who was banging on the door. I saw a man of medium build at the door who knocked again and then disap-

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peared around the corner. We took this as a sign to stop singing and relied on jokes and story-telling to entertain ourselves. After much investigation, we determined the person who knocked on the door was King Husayn himself. He was seen by the mayor’s assistant that night crossing very dangerous alleyways at the top of Jabal Hindi. The next day, King Husayn ordered our principle to the palace. There, the King asked, “I heard loud music was being played in a house in your neighborhood. Can you tell me if this is true?” ‘Abd al-Wahhab didn’t lie. “That’s my house being reported. I was the one playing music for a few of my friends, teachers from the school. It was a harmless gathering, where we did nothing questionable.” King Husayn was pleased that ‘Abd al-Wahhab had told him the truth. “Son,” he said, “Teachers like you must stay up late at night preparing their lessons, not wiling away their life with nonsense. I’m telling you, you must spend your time doing something useful.” As ‘Abd al-Wahhab requested permission to leave, the King added, “You seem like a smart young man. I would like you to teach my grandson Talal, my son ‘Abd Allah’s boy. Admit him into your school. It would be good for him to mix with the other students. Let him study with them. Take care of him, but be tough on him and train him well. Don’t spoil him by showing preferential treatment. I want him to have strong character.” The next day, Talal bin ‘Abd Allah, who would later be the King of Jordan, joined our school. ‘Abd al-Wahhab placed him in a special classroom with a select group of the smartest students. As Prince Talal continued attending our school, he began having problems. At one point, someone informed the King that the school was covering up for the young Prince. So, King Husayn paid a surprise visit to observe one of his classes and

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saw his grandson fighting with a classmate. Upon seeing this, the King shouted for someone to bring the school principle to him. When ‘Abd al-Wahhab appeared at the scene, the King ordered him to discipline Talal by caning the soles of his feet. “I put him in this school so that he and the others would understand there is no difference between the royal family and everyone else. I’m telling you, the students here all are equal. I repeat, equal!” Early one morning before classes, King Husayn again visited our school unexpectedly. Students had started to arrive. They gathered in the schoolyard and waited for the gate to open at its official time. As usual, the principal arrived before the teachers and staff, and had the gatekeeper open the main door for him. He went straight to his office and then, as was his habit, he went out on his daily tour of the school. Though he was certain the gate was locked and no one was inside but him, he was shocked to hear footsteps descending the stairs from the top floor. He turned to find the King standing in front of him, in royal dress. The principal trembled, for how could the person before him be the King? Why would King Husayn leave his grand palace to spend the night in a school building? Furthermore, how could he gain entrance? The building was locked. Only the gatekeeper could open it. If the gatekeeper did indeed let King Husayn in, he would have said something. Could the man be a jinn impersonating the King? Other such thoughts perplexed ‘Abd al-Wahhab until he heard King Husayn ask, “Where have you been, and where are the teachers? Why haven’t you started school, when it’s already so late in the morning?” ‘Abd al-Wahhab was too stunned to say anything. Indeed, he could make no sense of the man’s words and simply left him standing there, and turned to walk away, down the stairs. In a few minutes, the gatekeeper opened the door for the King to

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leave. ‘Abd al-Wahhab could overhear him ask the gatekeeper, “Where is the principle? The teachers? This is nonsense!” The principal’s legs began to quiver, and he quietly sat down on the cold marble. At midday, he was still sitting on the stairs, where the teachers found him. He had not gotten over his shock. Then people heard what happened, and rumors began to spread all over the city. After people gathered further facts, the story began to come together in this fashion: the King had received reports that the municipality’s office workers were not beginning work early in the morning as was mandated, but came in later in the day. Wanting to get to the bottom of the matter, the King set out just after dawn to the municipality building, where he checked each of the offices. He found no one. After inspecting the municipality, he climbed onto the rooftop and saw that it was next door to the school. Spotting a ladder, he made it over to the school’s rooftop. Then he walked down the stairs from the upper floor, hoping to investigate how things were going there. He had not taken into consideration that the school’s official starting time was even later than the municipality’s. So by the time he had left, the school was echoing with rumors, which made civil servants in both buildings tremble with fear. Suddenly, they were all eager to get to work as early as possible.

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The Teaching Chair

n

YEARS PASSED. We continued teaching at our posts. Although

we were young, the fates of hundreds of children were in our hands. In return, we received a handsome and respectable monthly salary even by today’s standards: twenty riyals. Life at school remained boisterous and full of play, for how could it be otherwise in a place where the teachers were not so much older than their students? We differed only by our size. As I recall, there was one day during Ramadan when the school program ended before noon prayers. The students left the building but we didn’t. The school with its empty classrooms became an open inviting space in which to run, jump and play water games. We were soaking wet by the time we finished and didn’t care a bit if we damaged the furniture by the time our games were over. Our principal didn’t participate in our fun and games. Sometimes he stood aside and laughed at our crazy antics. But mostly, he distanced himself from our silliness, and grew tired of our behavior. He felt that his position dictated he should intervene. So he shouted at us, in order to maintain some degree of decorum and control. But alas, we did not fear him, and none among us behaved rationally! The Eid break came and and it was time for the school to empty and be free of us, but we continued to gather there for some fun. We even disregarded ‘Abd al-Wahhab when he gave orders for us to stay away until the end of Ramadan. But when he got an order from the Directorate of Education, we were obliged to comply. Sadly, we left. Later, we were bothered to

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learn that ‘Abd al-Wahhab visited the building alone to enjoy the quiet. It seemed he had forced us to leave the building so he could enjoy it behind our backs! I asked: “Who will help me take revenge on the principal?” Initially, none of my dear friends dared support that endeavor, except for ‘Abd Allah Khujah who said: “I will, I’ll help you!” The others asked, “But what will you do? How will you take revenge?” I explained, “We’ll nail the doors shut and lock up the school. This will prevent him from entering, just like he has prevented us from getting in!” My friends agreed to my plan. “But how will we pound the nails in without drawing attention?” they asked. Instead, I came up with the idea of fetching some of the dozen ceremonial poles we’d stored on the roof, and using them to jam the doors. If anyone had seen us creep up the stairs carrying those poles he would have been convinced that we were out of our minds. We wedged the poles behind the door, leaving enough space for us to escape, got out, and then pulled the door hard so that the poles pushed it tightly shut. But ‘Abd al-Wahhab was smarter than we thought. When he tried to open the door and couldn’t, he peeked through a small hole and saw the poles jamming the door. Immediately he knew we had something to do with it. He called in some workers from the municipality so he could make a full report of the situation. Then he asked some of them to enter the school by jumping over the rooftop and remove the poles from behind the door. So, our revenge had failed! ‘Abd al-Wahhab sent his report to the deputy director, who turned out to be an extremely nice man who simply chalked up the incident to our being young and immature. He even noted that we were hard working. He concluded it was ‘Abd al-

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Wahhab’s duty to get us under control and ended by saying, “Son, life goes on and they will grow up. Let’s pray their behavior will improve. We can only wait and see!” ‘Abd al-Wahhab decided to play down the matter. When I visited him during Eid he told me the full story. I listened closely as if I had nothing to do with the incident. When he finished, I volunteered to investigate, in all confidentially, of course! “I’ll ask around and report what I learn.” He said, “Go ahead. May the Lord help and guide you.” His prayers could have meant many things. Perhaps he was actually saying to me, “You are my primary suspect.” I froze out of fear of being discovered. Then I rushed to tell my friends I had been appointed to investigate the case. They had a good laugh! I decided to find out what happened to ‘Abd al-Wahhab’s official report filed with the deputy director and decided to pay the older man a visit. He received me asking, “What do you want?” “I would like to ask you an official question,” I replied. The deputy director liked nothing more than being asked about matters of business, for it gave him a chance to show off. He said, “Well, how did things turn out?” “The principal and the teachers reached an agreement over the incident at the school; in fact, a couple days ago we celebrated with a party in his home,” I replied. “Ah, it must have been a party with music!” he asserted. “Oh well, we heard several poems and some singing, since it is Eid. But what really matters to all of us is that you not be upset by the official report that ‘Abd al-Wahhab filed!” I said. He said, “The report is still under the cushion in my sitting area, go and bring it. It’s on the left.” I dashed to the cushion faster than his hand could point to it.

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He said, “Tear it up. Tell your friends that after today, I really don’t want to hear anything more about this juvenile incident.” May the Lord bless his heart; he was from a uniquely forgiving generation. We used to love to transform any opportunity into an occasion to have a feast and would invite the notables and the high officials of the city, headed by the King himself. We even invited some of our brighter students to give speeches, for the King used to like to listen to the rhetoric despite the less-than-stellar quality. The officials at the Directorate of Education resented how we presumed to invite the King ourselves, rather than place the invitation through the director’s office, as protocol dictated. When we decided to have our annual school party, we quickly rushed to the King’s palace and solicited a date from the royal office for him to attend. By the time the office of the Directorate found out about the event, they would learn about King Husayn’s acceptance and it would be too late for them to do much about it. On one occasion, the Ottoman Sultan Wahid adDin, who was a guest of King Husayn at the time, came to our party accompanying the King. I had prepared a glorious speech about the history of the Hijaz, touching on the subject of how some of the Ottoman Empire’s conduct was unacceptable. I praised our King’s efforts to save the Hijaz from Ottoman rule and, not realizing that I should not upset our Ottoman guest, I charged ahead, detailing criticism after criticism in my speech. The King attempted to ameliorate the situation. He asked, “Why don’t you say something about the pan-Islamic union . . . stress our joint brotherhood.” But I couldn’t follow what he meant at all, and since all my concentration was on the paper that I gripped in my hands, I could not think about panIslamism or anything else, for that matter! I could barely read what was written in front of me.

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But it was so hard to walk away from the podium as a failure, that I paused for a second, took a deep breath, and then started reading the same material all over again. The King tried to stop me three times, and seeing how dense I was, he exclaimed: “Enough, Enough!” I left the stage in disgrace. I worked as a teacher in that school for years during King Husayn’s reign and during the time of the Sa’uds that followed. I learned much from teaching, more than I ever did as a child from even the best of teachers that I had. The love of teaching and reading stayed with me. I read the stories of Abu Zayid Hilali and many others like it that was told in the style of the common man. Then I moved on and studied the biography of Ibn Hisham and the history of Ibn al-Athir. I felt like I was debating with these writers on what they had written, agreeing with what I liked and disagreeing with what I didn’t. Once I ran into Shaikh Mahmud Milyani, and he talked about a number of new books and authors. He asked me if I had read much modern Arabic literature. I wasn’t familiar with any of the books he mentioned and had nothing to contribute. Because the word is the same, for good conduct and literature, I had always thought literature was simply a means to enable an educated person to conduct himself better. I didn’t realize that literature was actually a field of study, like languages. But Shaikh Milyani continued to discuss the topic at length, without even noticing my ignorance, and I finally caught onto this new meaning of the word “literature.” He handed me a book he recommended, al-Rihaniyat by Amin Rihani, which I began to read that night. I was astonished for the first time to encounter a modern book, one so different from the religious compilations I had memorized or my sitti’s mythologies. I felt like I was on a plane for the first time, entering a new territory. I liked this modern style; I enjoyed the author’s technique

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and his imaginative storyline. I was eager to find more of these books so that I could be enriched by them. Days later, I found a book by al-Raf ’i entitled The Moon’s Conversation, which I enjoyed tremendously. It left a strong impression on me, and I tried to imitate it in my own writings. Afterwards, I read several books by Gibran Khalil Gibran. His style, ideas, and perspective grabbed a hold of me. Gibran’s books left their imprint as I developed my own style; I learned a lot from his writings, though he did not follow the general rules common among writers then. It was through him that I learned how to be a social critic. His writings erased a lot of the taboos I had inherited from my social and cultural environment at home, at the kuttab, and on the street. I wish writers realized that their pens leave an impact on the hearts and minds of their generation. My deepest hope is that they fear Allah in what they write and do not abuse or falsify facts, and that they work for good in all that they create.

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THE OTTOMANS wanted to be granted the honor of serving as custodians of the two holy mosques and of the city’s residents in the Hijaz. They also wanted the Imams to honor them by mentioning their names in the Friday liturgies. However, it did not cross the Ottoman’s minds to do anything to help the citizens develop their lives—not even the bare minimum. They did not open new schools other than to offer programs which served as the “Turkanization” of Arabs or to prepare another generation to serve their bureaucracy. A few Muslims from India or locally from within the Hijaz felt they must do something and volunteered to establish schools such as the al-Sulatiyah School and al-Fakhriyah School in Mecca, al-Falah School in both Mecca and Jeddah, and Dar al-‘Ulum in Medina. Also, some families of scholars from Hijazi cities assumed the responsibility of teaching in the Grand Mosque, in what they called “learning circles.” Without this personal care provided for the sake of Allah and the land, the Hijaz would have suffered from universal illiteracy. At the end of the nineteenth century, some literary figures began to appear like ‘Abd al-Muhsin al-Sahhaf and ‘Abd al-Wahid alAshram who were poets in Mecca. Also, ‘Abd al-Jalil Baradah and Ibrahim al-Askubi appeared in Medina, with some wellknown poets arriving in Jeddah and al-Ta’if. But their numbers were few, and they were only as creative as traditional poets could be.

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During this same time period, some of the Ottoman leadership felt it was time for the Hijaz to publish its own newspapers in Mecca. They wished to express the opinions of Mecca’s intellectuals and unify the hearts and minds of the citizens around the sultans. The constitutionalists’ demand for reform reached Mecca and the official civil servants. In the early 1900s, the propaganda reached the civil servants because it appeared in the al-Hijaz local paper established by Uthman Pasha using a private press. This press served the Ottoman constitutionalists as much as it served the Ottoman authorities; after that it served the Hashimites and expanded its uses. After many new printers were added, the press was obliged to move from its original place, behind the finance department in Ijyad, a quarter in Mecca. In 1883, the al-Hijaz paper consisted of four sheets pages. Its editor was the chief scribe of the Ottoman wali, the highest Turkish officer in the region, assisted by Ahmad Jamal Efendi, the state general secretary. Later, Ahmad Hajji Efendi and Shaikh Mahmud Shalhub joined as well. When the constitutionalists revolted against the khalifa system, they were able to utilize the al-Hijaz daily paper as a forum to spread their ideas. After that, they founded yet another paper, Shams al-Haqiqah, though this publication was shortlived. The al-Islah paper appeared in Mecca and its chief editor, Adib al-Harawi, was a Lebanese journalist. Only twenty issues of this paper appeared before the Ottoman authorities shut it down. In his book “Our History,” Muhammad Sa’id al-‘Amudi states that these newspapers had no literary or political value whatsoever. Nor did they leave any lasting impressions on the hearts and minds of the youth of that period. He quotes from the Shams al-Haqiqah newspaper: “Whoever wants to write and publish in our newspapers, on any subject, must be thor-

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oughly objective and impersonal. Our high standards cannot be colored by our writers’ personal opinions; being objective means that you are writing with the guidance of Allah for the sake of the country. Don’t you remember what Moses said in the Quran? He upheld the public interest over his own. What he wanted to do was save his people. Like Moses, writers should keep the fear of Allah before them. The editors should edit the columns so that their content remains accurate. Our columns should fall within the boundary of honesty and truthfulness. They should not slander or criticize people. May the Lord make us the main source of information for the public and keep our readership happy.” There appeared during this period such great poets as Muhammad Subhi Taha. But those poets later vanished. When King Husayn revolted against the Ottoman constitutionalists, he abolished the Turkish schools and established Arabic schools in their place. He opened four schools in Mecca, and one or two schools in the other big cities. He brought Shaikh Kamil al-Qassab, who recruited members of the ‘ulama from the Grand Mosque to assist him in shaping the new curriculum under King Husayn’s guidance. These primary and secondary schools, in addition to the alFalah, Sulatiyah, and al-Fakhriyah schools, played a major role in shaping minds and reared a whole new generation of students who were able to read and write instead of only memorize and were enthusiastic about learning. It was this generation that produced our pioneer literary figures. King Husayn didn’t see the need for higher education as we see it today. He didn’t like the idea of a university education; nor did he approve of sending students to study outside of the country. He used to say, “What we know is enough; we shouldn’t be influenced by Western sciences.” Despite his provincial outlook, King Husayn ordered the

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publication of al-Qibla newspaper when he announced the independence of the Hijaz from the Ottomans in 1915. The purpose of al-Qiblah was to defend the ideas of the Arab renaissance. It was edited by Fu’ad al-Khatib, Muhib al-Din alKhatib, and Ahmad Shakir al-Karmi. Another publication that appeared at this time was the alFalah, a Syrian newspaper published in Damascus that was owned by ‘Umar Shakir. When Damascus fell into the hands of the French, Shakir immigrated to Mecca and sought permission from the King to publish his newspaper there. Permission was granted. But before long, Shakir had a disagreement with the King and al-Falah was shut down. Furthermore, King Husayn didn’t want Syrians to work at the al-Qiblah and asked Shaikh Husayn al-Saban to reside on its editorial board. An agriculture magazine was also published at this time, along with the establishment of the School of Agriculture; but that magazine only produced three issues before it too was discontinued. Even during this period of narrow mindedness, the young intellectuals in Mecca grew to love reading and literature. The King, however, felt that they ought to read classic literature and not waste their time with modern literature. So King Husayn’s era passed without the publication of any great literary works, but the passion for reading and learning grew in the hearts and minds of the young men. After King Husayn abdicated, the seat of government was moved to Jeddah, under the reign of his son, King ‘Ali. As the government moved so did the city’s nobles and the educated. In Jeddah, the al-Hijaz paper appeared; owned by Shaikh Muhammad Salih Nasif, the newspaper welcomed poetry and essays by young writers from Mecca, Jeddah, and the rest of the region. When King ‘Abd al-Aziz came to the Hijaz, the newspaper Barid al-Hijaz moved to Mecca. It was was edited by Nasif but was renamed Sawt al-Hijaz and was published regularly as

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was the new government paper, Umm al-Qura, edited by Yusif Yasin. During this time of transition, young writers found a forum to express their views in the Sawt al-Hijaz newspaper, some of them excelling as poets and essayists. They produced mostly literature and social criticism, becoming celebrities in their own right. A number of them even started their own literary circles in Mecca, Jeddah, and Medina, where they exchanged opinions. Those discussions would have constituted an excellent volume of literary criticism. Some of our more celebrated writers made their names then: Muhammad Surur Saban, ‘Abd al-Wahhab Ashi, Muhammad al-‘Amudi, Jamil Maqadmi, ‘Umar ‘Arab, Husayn Nathif, among others. They used to visit Shaikh Muhammad Surur Saban, who owned a large bookstore located on Yusifi street in Mecca, with a literary corner next to it. They also used to go to Shaikh Muhammad’s home in the Misfalah quarter, where they spent their evenings discussing literature. New names of intellectuals appeared in Mecca, adding to the influence of this pioneering generation. Among those names were Muhammad Hasan Faqi, Husayn Sarhan, Ahmad Ghazawi, Ahmad al-‘Arabi, ‘Abd al-Salam ‘Umar, Amin ‘Aqil, ‘Abd Allah Fada, Hamid Ka’ki, ‘Aziz Diya, Muhammad Sa’id ‘Abd al-Maqsud and Ahmad Suba’i. In this milieu, I was a young man teaching in an unknown school. I tried my pen without letting others know that I was writing. But I did ask myself, should I publish what I write? One day I gathered my writings and presented them to Shaikh Muhammad Surur, then a shining star among our writers. I expected him to laugh at me, but he controlled his reaction and remarked, “Young man, I don’t have a newspaper to publish this in.” I asked, “Would it be suitable as a book? And would you help to fund its publication?” He said, “Sure, I would be happy to!”

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“How much will it cost?” “About twenty guineas…” “Okay, I’ll pay ten and you pay the rest.” “Okay,” he said. I delivered the manuscript and ten guineas—my entire fortune—to him. I asked what he would suggest for the title of the book. He recommended, “Ink on Paper.” I should have taken that as a hint, that the Shaikh wanted to save me the embarrassment of publishing the book, but my judgment was clouded by my limited experience with such things and my joy at the idea of becoming a new author. Shaikh Muhammad put the manuscript and the money on one of the shelves in his office, and I left anticipating the publication of my book. In the following days, every time I passed Shaikh Muhammad, I would ask, “How is the book going?” His standard answer, which he repeated whenever I asked, was, “It hasn’t arrived, yet.” Months passed, and I dreamed about my book. Would its jacket be yellow, no, maybe green? Would it be thick, thin, tall, or short? I was not able to get a straight answer from Shaikh Muhammad and couldn’t figure out a thing from his body language. I had planned to travel to Egypt, where he had said my book would be published, so I asked, “Shaikh Muhammad, would you give me a letter of introduction so I can pick up copies of my book while I am there?” As usual, Shaikh Muhammad seemed unperturbed. He wrote a letter of introduction for me and gave me the address of the publisher in Cairo. When I went to the publisher’s office, which was headed by Ustadh al-Zarakali and presented the letter he said, “What my son, what book? I never heard of it.” What had happened? Was my book lost, Allah only knows!

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Back in Mecca, I rushed to Shaikh Muhammad and asked about my book. He thought for a long time and then said, “My memory fails me. Did you give me a manuscript and money with it?” Finally I understood what was going on! So I asked him to hand me back my manuscript. He gave it to me, accompanied by the ten guineas. After that, I attempted to publish some of my writings in the daily papers. The first essay that I sent out to the chief editor of the Sawt al-Hijaz newspaper, Shaikh ‘Abd al-Wahhab Ashi, was rejected. I didn’t want any of my friends to know! But when Ustadh Muhammad Hasan Faqi replaced Shaikh ‘Abd alWahhab Ashi as chief editor, it seemed that he needed essays to fill in spaces in the paper, and finding my rejected essay on his shelf, he decided to publish it. That was quite a day for me. I closed the classroom door and began to dance while I read my article in print, slowly pronouncing every word. My contemporaries were also actively publishing. More names began to appear in Jeddah and Medina that made their mark. In Jeddah, there were Muhammad Hasan ‘Awad, Hamzah Shahatah, and Mahmud ‘Araf. In Medina, there were ‘Abd alQadus al-‘Ansari, Muhammad Husayn Zaydan, ‘Ali Hafiz, ‘Uthman Hafiz, ‘Abd al-Haq Nakshabandi and many others whom I cannot recall. Let us return to Mecca, for a young man amongst the first generation there deserves some attention. Muhammad Sa’id ‘Abd al-Maqsud loved literature with a passion and sought out opportunities for employment among the best writers. He started out as an accountant in the Umm al-Qura paper, which then was headed by Ustadh Rushdi Malhas. When Malhas was also appointed to work in Riyadh at King ‘Abd al-Aziz’s palace, he delegated matters of administration and editing to ‘Abd alMaqsud. But ‘Abd al-Maqsud forgot his job was to simply edit

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the government’s official news, decrees, ordinances, and orders and instead let his pen flow, signing his writings as the “Sifter.” He produced long serialized essays known for their unprecedented frank critiques, thereby transforming the status quo of the land and its traditions. ‘Abd al-Maqsud used to gather us at his home in Mecca to discuss matters that were of great importance to our generation. Someone suggested that we should have an annual gathering in the open expanse of Mina where our young intellectuals could hear lectures by the ‘ulama notables, thinkers, and scholars from amongst the pilgrims. ‘Abd al-Maqsud played a major role in fulfilling this vision and received enormous encouragement from both Shaikh Fu’ad Hamzah, the deputy minister of foreign affairs, and Shaikh Muhammad Surur Saban. He even received financial support from Shaikh ‘Abd Allah al-Suliman! We continued to hold our annual meetings in Mina, and after we spoke on a topic, we invited pilgrims to give lectures. Years later, this same pulpit became a stage for sectarian and party politics and its use as a forum for hosting original literary presentations were lost. Long before that, the young intellectuals were active in a number of charitable events as well as other worthwhile projects. On one occasion, they learned that a group studying in Italy to become pilots and mechanics was returning home. In one of their meetings, they decided they would give the graduates a warm and well-attended reception. So they rushed to Jeddah to meet them as the group arrived. They shouted out the names of the graduates and carried them on their shoulders, parading around the streets of Jeddah. They announced too in their newspaper, Sawt al-Hijaz, that they would hold a public reception for the graduates at the main gate when they came to Mecca. Masses of people gathered to celebrate the arrival of the new graduates.

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There were no chairs at the reception venue, not even a tent; it was simply an open lot chosen for its position in the shade of a valley. The young men set up a stage in the center where the graduates could stand with all of the others around them. One by one, speakers welcomed them home. Some recited poetry; others gave studious accounts of the importance of the occasion. When the festivities ended, a procession of cars appeared down the main street, which were welcomed by shouts of praise for the graduates that rang out throughout the neighborhood. Once during Ramadan, the young men decided that everyone should boycott imported sweets on Eid, finding it best to serve only local dates and nuts. They announced this in the Sawt al-Hijaz paper and to everyone they could. They supported the idea wholeheartedly, hoping others in the city would follow their example. On another occasion, the young men announced in the Sawt al-Hijaz paper that they were soliciting donations for a charitable project. They wanted to build a factory or workshop that would benefit the poor. So they organized volunteers who sold one piaster coupons to the public. They hoped to repeat this effort every year until they had gathered enough money. But some of the volunteers did not work as hard as they were supposed to, and the results were disappointing. What money was collected was put into a savings account, and no further efforts were made toward reviving the project. Today, I wish the modern generation would pick up where those young men left off with this worthwhile project. Ustadh Muhammad Sa’id ‘Abd al-Maqsud began to call attention to the need to present writings from the Hijaz to a wider audience, and promoted the publication of an anthology of young Saudis. Writers from Mecca, Jeddah, and al-Medina began to send in their best work, and ‘Abd al-Maqsud organ-

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ized a committee to review the stories. The project was funded by Muhammad Sa’id ‘Abd al-Maqsud and his friends, the Director General of Radio and the Press and later by Shaikh ‘Abd Allah Balkhayr. The end product was a book entitled Wahi al-Sahra, “The Inspiration of the Desert.” This book encouraged an even younger group of writers in Mecca in those days, led by ‘Abd al-Salam al-Sasi, who wanted to publish their own anthology. Al-Sssi gathered a group of bright young Hijazis to contribute to this next volume. Among them were ‘Abd Allah ‘Arif, Husayn ‘Arab, Hashim Zawawi, Sayyid ‘Ali Fad‘aq, Hamad al-Jasir, ‘Abd al-Majid Shubukshi, Husayn Khizindar, Muhammad ‘Ali Qutb, and ‘Abd al-Hamid Mashkhas, who wanted the older generation of writers to take their work seriously. Al-Sasi ultimately published their entreaty under the title, Nafathat, “Expectations.” Today, those young idealists are senior citizens. Some of them are still recognized as established literary figures. It’s as if in front of me were all these young writers, and many more who looked up at us, who came first, with astonishment. We were talented in their eyes early on before they became famous in their own right. It probably didn’t occur to them that they would have the same fame that we had.

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n

DAYS PASSED before I learned that Shaikh Fu’ad Shakir had

chosen me to work as an editor at Sawt al-Hijaz under the guidance of Shaikh Muhammad Salih Nasif under whom I had apprenticed as a journalist. He was not a high-ranking professional editor, but he was intelligent and a keen critic. When the ownership of the newspaper was transferred to the Arab Press Company under the management of Shaikh Muhammad Surus Saban, he invited me to join as a director. I was to work with Ustadh ‘Abd alWahhab Ashi, Muhammad Hasan Faqi, and Hasan ‘Awwad on the editorial board. We made a great team; I helped with editing and they helped me with the administration. My salary was fifty riyals a month to their thirty. Eventually, I received up to ninety riyals a month, as the director of the Arab Press Company, director of the newspaper, and as the chief editor of the paper. It was a huge salary for the time, though the job was demanding. If you added my other work for several honorary societies such as secretary for the Society to Defend Palestine, the Red Crescent, al-Haram Library, and several other committees, whose names I have forgotten, then you would realize how busy I was! At that time journalism was a budding profession in my country. We were coached by new teachers who had mastered jurisprudence, Arabic rhetoric, and who studied Arabic poetry, but they, too, were inexperienced in this new field.

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We regarded journalism as more than news and images. To us, it was a forum where we could communicate our views about social problems and bring about change. We wished that we could express our ideals in editorials, but the environment in Mecca in those days was not conducive to our radical views. Instead, we were supposed to live in our backward ways and suffocate, even while our youthful spirits cried out for change and progress. Our audience simply resisted anything new or thought to go against old tradition. In those days, I would frequently be met by people on the street who would deride me: “You have put shame on us with your articles. May the Lord shame you too! Pilgrims look upon Mecca as the holiest of places. People who come here respect us and our city. But here you are, criticizing us. May Hell take you quickly away so that we can be free of your irresponsible writing!” I argued that other people might respect us even more if we were truthful about ourselves, and that we would not progress and improve the quality of our lives unless we really tried to remedy our shortcomings. Once I received a letter at the newspaper that said, “Don’t print anything about non-Muslims. Better yet, just don’t send the paper to me anymore. Take my name off your subscribers’ list!” Once when I wrote an article criticizing some of my own conduct as a mutawwif, the other mutawwifs got so mad that they brought me to a meeting and threatened to beat the hell out of me. After that, I made up a folktale to represent some of the situations of the mutawwif. I claimed that one of the jinn shaikhs had visited our country as a pilgrim, and when he returned to his country he published his observations in a newspaper owned by a group of female jinn living in the Empty Quarter. I was simply translating their comments. After I had published several stories, some of the editors ordered me to discon-

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tinue the articles, claiming that since they did not know the language of the jinn, they could not be certain the translation was correct. I was enthusiastic about the issue of education for girls, and wrote several articles in support of it. My enthusiasm agitated many. I became the subject of severe criticism, and some even ostracized me. So I was forced to broach the subject indirectly, writing letters from the perspective of a girl who described her early education and the attention and care she received from her father and brother. This enabled her to taste the meaning of life and she began to develop her ideas, making her a better and more social being. Those letters drew the attention of a young woman from a well-known Meccan family who wrote in response. I used this opportunity to let this woman exchange opinions with my imagined female character long enough that most of the readers thought there was a real debate going on. One day, someone from Mecca visited me in my office, asking me about the real names of these two girls. I told him that the journalist’s code of honor prevented me from revealing the identity of my informants; but he insisted, claiming good intentions. He said he wished to marry one of them, for it pleased him that girls were finally being educated. I told him that unfortunately, given the nature of the matter, I was one of his two girls. Then I gave him the family name of the other. He rushed to the family and asked for the hand of their daughter. The family consented. Today, she is the mother of five who has raised her children well. * * * The Sawt al-Hijaz paper used to publish special issues on holidays such as Eid al-Fitr. Once, while I was shopping during the

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Eid, I found that copies of the paper had flooded the market. To my surprise, I overheard a remark as I walked past one of the shops. It was a kuttab teacher whose school was close to my home. I lingered to hear some of his opinions without being noticed, hoping to learn something about what people were thinking. I heard him say, “I read in Sawt al-Hijaz today, the Ottomans moved into Central Africa. After they arrived there, they crowned one of the old caliphs as head of government.” I hadn’t heard that, and was shocked that such news had been published by my paper without my knowledge. I approached the old man and asked him to tell me in which issue and on what page this news had appeared. The man scoffed at me saying, “If you had read the paper, you wouldn’t have missed the news!” “But my friend, I did read the paper today, but maybe I missed it. So would you show me where you read that, if you have a copy of it?” He looked at me as though I were an idiot, “Even if you read it, would you be able to understand it?” I didn’t like his snobbish put down one bit. However, to placate him I replied, “Well, if I can’t understand what I read I’ll ask people like you to explain it to me.” He was appeased by my answer. He turned to untie the rug that he carried under his arm and pulled out a copy of the special issue; it was rolled up very carefully. Slowly, he scanned the pages until he found the article. He pointed to it and ordered me to read it. The news ran as follows: “A diamond belonging to the Ottoman collection was auctioned in Asmara, Ethiopia. It sold for an exorbitant fee to a Central African merchant who bought it for the crown of the king.”

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After reading the article through to the end, I understood how the man mistook the final destiny of the diamond in Central Africa for some sort of Ottoman caliphate to take over! I asked myself whether it would embarrass the man to point out his erroneous conclusion. Meanwhile he persisted, “What’s wrong with you? Can’t you read? Read and tell me what it says!” I suddenly decided to have some fun with him, because sometimes ironies can be hilarious. So I read the news, pretending to have problems making out the words. “How tall and handsome you look. What a shame, you can’t read!” “It’s not my fault, my father didn’t teach me!” From the way he looked at me it seemed he didn’t recognize me, even though his kuttab wasn’t that far from our house and we lived in the same neighborhood. Anxiously, he inquired whether I would be interested in joining his classes at the kuttab. He reassured me that he could teach me to read in a very short time, underscoring how wrong it was for a strong young man like me to live in ignorance. I relished my joke on him so much that I decided to accept his offer. We agreed on a day and a time when I would come to the kuttab to begin my lessons. On that date, I arrived in the kuttab to find fifteen students, all of them under nine years old. Each held tightly in his hands his reading board. Some used it to threaten his fellow classmates or to swing it in the air. Their shrill voices pierced my ears. Looking in the corner of the room, I saw the teacher lying on a cushion, fully asleep. One of the students volunteered to wake him up. He grabbed the teacher by his shoulder and after struggling for a bit, he succeeded in arousing the man who sat up in front of us, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

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“Hello, brother,” he said. “I dreamed that you were standing in front of the class, reading out loud from the Quran. That’s a good sign. In no time at all, you’ll be able to read well, Allah willing!” “Son,” he said, calling on one of his students. “Bring me your board and let’s see.” The boy handed his board to our teacher. He ordered me to sit on the floor like the students did, erect and with my knees together. Then he began to repeat the alphabet: “Alif, alif, ba’, ba’, ta’, ta’, tha’ tha’.” He believed that if I repeated those four letters more than once, it would not be difficult for me to read them by myself. So imagine his surprise when he pointed to alif, but I pronounced it as jeem! “Jeem? What’s wrong with you, brother? How did you get the letter jeem? We are still at the first letter, alif.” He then pointed to ba and asked me to pronounce it. I said, “Sad.” “Who taught you the letter sad? And when did we get at that?” Then he pointed to ta’ and asked me to pronounce it. I said, “Qaf.” “Oh brother, you are actually an idiot, which is why you can’t learn anything!” He then pronounced a new letter from one of the four letters, and I repeated after him exactly, letter by letter. However, as soon as he left me on my own, I pretended that I could not read a single letter. The teacher got so mad at me that he snatched the reading board from my hands and said, “Please leave! Find someone else to teach you the basics!”

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Letters and Points

n

IF DURING my story you found me contrary in certain situa-

tions, please don’t judge me too harshly, for I was spoiled as a child. No one dared force me to do what was good for me. They cared only about pleasing me. Also, don’t be surprised if you’ve noticed I was timid when I should have been daring; my mother taught me to fear jinn and ghosts. Sitti taught me about the mythical animal al-bu’bu’ that eats children, the ghost of the night hawl al-layl, and the female jinn al-dajirah who hurts young ones. In short, they brought me up in terror! You would laugh if you knew how inclined I was to believing in the supernatural. What I inherited from my elders penetrated deep into my psyche, though to this day, I still resist myths and folktales. To purify such pollution takes persistent work, and the results will only benefit my children and grandchildren. Once I ran to sitti, afraid of a dog that followed me home. “Don’t be scared,” she said, “Dogs can’t walk upstairs!” This nonsense left an impression deep within me, along with many other notions of its kind. And for years, I continued to believe that dogs couldn’t climb stairs! This is enough to prove the importance of paying attention to what we put in the minds of our children. My father was happy when I was born. But when he decided I was getting too spoiled, he turned tables upside down and used his stick to teach me lessons. If we had a chance to study the behavior of deviants, we

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would find that about ninety percent of all criminals, thieves, and killers in our society suffered from some mental disorder. But perhaps, they were just victims of being raised by ignorant parents. Once I heard a man preaching from the pulpit deride those who work hard for their living. He said that they worship the material life. Such nonsense has contributed to creating a generation that has little respect for work values and ethics. He twisted religious texts to justify his opinions. I am convinced that he had some problems deep inside. By chance I had the opportunity to get to know him and study him closer. I discovered he was a sadist; he had some pathology that needed to be treated. His religious education was very shallow; it did not touch deep enough within his soul to cleanse it, nor to make him a kinder man, gentle and loving toward others. In our society, there’s nothing we need more than to learn how to raise our children, especially in their formative years. Every disobedient, arrogant, defeated child is a victim of bad upbringing. We’re all responsible before the Lord for what we do to them.

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Glossary

n

abjad hawas hutti kalaman sa’fas qarashat thakhath dhathagh: the Arabic alphabet in the traditional order as taught in the kuttab. abjad-hawaz: the Arabic version of the ABCs. alif: the first letter of the Arabic alphabet. ‘alim (pl. ‘ulama): a scholar of traditional Islamic studies. ‘asr (salat al-): the third of the five obligatory prayers performed in the mid-afternoon. See also salat. ayat: verses of the Quran; each chapter comprises numerous ayat. ba’: the second letter of the Arabic alphabet. Bab al-Duraybah: one of the gates of the Grand Mosque in Mecca. Baghdadiah rule: the traditional text for teaching kuttab students in Mecca how to read and write in Arabic. baraka: divine blessing that brings happiness and prosperity. Barhat al-Marwah: a famous plaza near the Grand Mosque where Meccans gather on special occasions. dajirah: a mythical nocturnal creature said to haunt the alleys of Mecca with the shape of a human and hoofs of a donkey. Dala’il al-Khayrat: a famous collection of prayers for the 119

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Glossary

Prophet Muhammad, divided into sections for daily recitation, written by Moroccan scholar Muhammad alJazuli. It is particularly popular among Muslims in North Africa. darabzun: a traditional dress for men worn during Quranic processions, especially after a student has mastered reading the entire Quran. ‘Eid: literally “festival”; refers to one of the two Islamic holidays, Eid al-Fitr and Eid al-Adha. falagah: a special stick used for punishing students who fail to memorize their lessons. Fatihah: the opening chapter of the Quran. The central prayer of Islam used on all special occasions and recited during the five daily prayers. fufalat jinjawa: a traditional Meccan sweet, prepared for children on special occasions, made of sugar, flour, sesame paste, and pistachio nuts. Grand Mosque: Islam’s holiest site and the annual destination of Muslim pilgrims performing the hajj. See also Kaaba. Gushayashiyah Street: a well-known street near the Grand Mosque in Mecca, though, since the expansion of the Grand Mosque, it has been integrated into the complex. hajj: the pilgrimage to Mecca prescribed as a religious duty for Muslims to be carried out at least once in their lifetime. hajji: a man who has performed the pilgrimage to Mecca. A woman is called a hajja. Haram: sanctuary or holy site in Islam. Specifically, the area surrounding the Kaaba in Mecca. Hashimites: descendants of Hashim, the great grandfather of the Prophet Mohammad and ancestor of the Beni Hashim clan of the tribe of Quraysh. Beginning in the tenth century, the Sharif (religious leader) of Mecca and its emir (leader) has been a Hashimite.

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Glossary

hawdaj: a seat with a canopy on the back of a camel. hawl al-layl: a fearsome mythical creature of the night tales of which are used to scare children, akin to the boogeyman. Hijaz: the western region of the Arabian Peninsula bordering on the Red Sea, which includes both holy cities of Mecca and Medina. Historically, it had been an independent kingdom until it was united with Nejd to form the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. igal: a special black cord used to hold men’s traditional headdress in place. Ijyad: a well-known urban quarter in the southwestern part of Mecca near the Grand Mosque. iqlabah: a traditional celebration to mark the occasion when a student has mastered the reading of the entire text of the Quran. It takes the form of a procession of the graduating student and his classmates, followed by a feast offered by the student’s family. ‘isha (salat al-): the last of the five obligatory prayers performed in the evening. See also salat. israfah: a celebration marking the occasion when a student has learned the first chapter of the Quran, during which sweets, rock candy, and presents are handed out to the teachers and students at the kuttab. Jabal Hindi: a mountain in northeastern Mecca. Present-day working-class neighborhood. jinn: the jinn figures greatly in the folk traditions of Meccan people. A spirit that inhabits the earth and can assume various forms; a genie. Kaaba: Islam’s holy sanctuary inside the Grand Mosque, which houses a sacred, twelve-inch black stone. kabat: a traditional Meccan game played by boys, similar to tag. kawther: water from paradise, famous for its taste and purity. khalif: the civil and religious leader of a Muslim state.

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kuttab: an Islamic school for children, frequently attached to a mosque where boys are instructed on the Quran. maghrib (salat al-): the fourth of the five obligatory prayers performed at sunset. See also salat. mahmal: carrier; ceremonial letters brought on camelback during pilgrimage from Egypt, Syria, and Yemen by the sovereignty claimed by those governments over the holy cities of the Hijaz. It was stopped in recent years by Saudi authorities. marwah: a fan used by students in the kuttabs to keep the teachers cool. al-Masjid al-˘aram: See Grand Mosque. Mawalid: festival on the twelfth day of the third month of the Islamic calendar, Rabi’ al-awwal, marking the birth of the Prophet Muhammad. mutawwif: a licensed guide for the pilgrims who come to Mecca, knowledgeable in the Islamic rituals. The mutawwif provides transportation, accommodations, and general religious information needed for the duration of the pilgrimage. This profession is inherited and passed down to family members. In present-day Saudi Arabia, there are professional societies of mutawwifs who specialize in particular geographic regions of the Islamic world to better assist pilgrims coming from those regions. riyal: monetary unit of Saudi Arabia. salat: Muslim prayer performed five times a day at specified times: subh (dawn), zuhr (midday), ‘asr (mid-afternoon), maghrib (sunset), ‘isha (evening). salig: a creamy rice dish made with milk and meat. sayyid (pl. sadat): descendants of the Prophet Mohammad through his daughter Fatima and his first cousin Ali are referred to as Sayyids. The term is also used as an honorific title, akin to master, lord, or noble.

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shaikh: a title used to refer to a man who is old and worthy of respect, particularly a scholar of traditional Islamic studies venerated for his wisdom. sharif (pl. ashraf): one of noble ancestry, especially members of the family of the Prophet Mohammad and princes of Hashimite origin, who ruled in Mecca from the tenth century and are ancestors of the present-day ruling dynasty in Jordan. sitti: grandmother. subh (salat al-): the first of the five obligatory prayers performed before sunrise. See also salat. sufi: a follower of Sufism, or practitioner of Islamic mysticism. suq: marketplace; center of business. surah: chapter of the Quran. tubtab al-jinna: literally “the floor of paradise.” A traditional Meccan sweet for children made from sugar, flour, sesame paste, and pistachio nuts. umdah: mayor of a village or town. wadi: a riverbed that remains dry except during the rainy season. Zamzam: a sacred spring, now a well, in the Grand Mosque in Mecca. According to the Quran, the spring was created miraculously when the angel Gabriel struck the earth with the tip of his wing to provide water for Ibrahim’s infant son Ismail, who was in danger of dying of thirst. The water from this well is considered holy and to have healing powers. zuhr (salat al-): the second of the five obligatory prayers performed at midday. See also salat.

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About the Book

n

AHMAD SUBA’I’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY IS THE STORY NOT

only of an Arab boy growing up in Saudi Arabia at the turn of the twentieth century—to become a noted writer, educator, and social critic—but also of a place, Mecca, and of the world of the traditional Quranic school of the time. Contextualizing the work, the editors have provided information about Suba’i’s life and work, an essay on traditional Quranic education in twentieth-century Mecca, and a glossary of Arabic terms. Deborah S. Akers, visiting assistant professor of anthropology at Miami University, and Abubaker A. Bagader, professor of sociology at King Abdul Aziz University, have collaborated in the editing and translation of Oranges in the Sun: Stories from the Arabian Gulf and Voices of Change: Short Stories by Saudi Arabian Women Writers, as well as several other collections.

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