Kashif gazed out over the wind-sifted sands, making out the hazy silhouette of the city against the glowing red of the sunset sky. He felt both exhausted and stimulated, too tired to keep his eyes open and too agitated to close them. The anxiety and excitement were conspiring to drive him insane if he abandoned his focus on the future, on every unfolding moment leading to something new, something old, some final resolution that might offer him peace.
He had journeyed many days across open terrain after his ship docked in port, following the stars to guide him inland, to lead him to the home of his half-sister Haleema. She was married to a well-to-do merchant, Arif ibn Massoud, a measured, pragmatic man who Kashif hoped might be able to help him start his life over again. The last he had heard the wars had not taken too hard a toll on his business affairs. Indeed, he might have more to fear from peacetime.
Kashif had always treasured fond memories of Haleema, a sweet-tempered girl who used to pay special attention to her younger siblings, calming little Fakhri’s outbursts about going to war and humoring little Ayesha’s awful attempts at poetry writing. Her mother Youssra had shared her temperament, and treated Kashif with the same kindness as she showed her own children. Just thinking back on the memories of his old home and family made him smile a little in spite of the foreboding that clouded his heart. He missed his childhood, and it felt so terribly far away, as if it had taken place in a different sphere of creation, where suffering and death had no part.
What if everything had changed since he had last set foot here? What if those he used to love no longer loved him? Perhaps giving him up for dead was easier for them than having to see him as he was now, scarred in body, mind, and soul. He felt like a stranger even to the climate here. The blazing heat of the day and the bitter cold of the night sunk through his traveling gear with a stronger bite than he remembered before. It hurt him, even though he was its son, reminding him of how long he had been in exile. Why was life so often like licking honey off a thorn? Truly, the dunya offered contentment to no man.
Still, Kashif wanted to hold Reema in his arms. He wanted to sit Saeed upon his knee. Of course, he would be getting too old for that…eight or nine now, he struggled to reckon. But likely enough, they were just bones in the ruins of war which he would never find, even to pray over the dead. And that made the harsh wind seem to taunt him, as the sand scratched his skin. Was it mixed with their ashes? Perhaps the blazing sun was like the killing fire which brought down the roof over their heads.
But now, overlooking the city, the wind slowly subsided, and a single voice was heard chanting through the silence as the last lights of the day died in the heavens.
Maghrib. The call to prayer which ushered in the night.
Allahu Akbar. God is greater.
Kashif’s eyes filled with tears. He had not heard the adhan for years as a prisoner, even as he had diligently tried to maintain his times of prayer. Even when all hope had seemed lost, he clung on to the remembrance of his Lord, and the call to submit before Him. Now, as the sweetness of the sound caressed his ears, he dismounted from his horse and prostrated. He kissed the dry ground and wept until it was moist. He remembered Youssra telling him and his siblings that each plot of earth they touched with their foreheads in prayer would mourn for them on the days of his deaths, even unto the ending of the world. Surely, Kashif thought, this spot would be foremost among his mourners.
Allahu Akbar. God is greater…
God is greater than the waves upon the sea, than the wind upon the sand, than the stars across the sky. God is greater than the idols that you buy, that you sell, that you carve in your heart. God is greater than the evil twisting souls, than the violence twisting sense, than the darkest pain, than the deepest love. Yes, God is greater…He is greater than everything…
“Ya Allah,” he breathed into the earth. “You know all paths and patterns. You create them, and sustain them, and maintain them. All journeys return to you. Let the whole of my affair return in the same way.” He clutched a handful of sand in his fist. “It was You who preserved our father Ismail and his mother Hajar in the desert. You guided them to water, so that his seed might give rise to a nation. Help me now…guide me to my family. Or else, make me content with Your will, for I know the tests You send your slaves bring forth rewards. Ya Wadood, You who are Most Loving, may I long for nothing else beneath the sky’s lofty ceiling.”
And all at once, he felt the universe reverberating his supplication, and the mystery of reality crying out through his own cracked lips. Yes, through all his years of anguish, it was always the same reality, always the same supplication.
“Ya Latif, You who are Most Subtle in Your ways, bring me home. Grant this warrior Your gentleness. Grant this sinner Your grace…”