Strangers Upon the Earth: Musings on Life and Home

I often sit and wish that I
Could be a kite up in the sky,
And ride upon the breeze and go
Whatever way it chanced to blow;
Then I could look beyond the town,
And see the river winding down,
And follow all the ships that sail
Like me before the merry gale,
Until at last with them I came
To some place with a foreign name.

—Frank Dempster Sherman

A poet proceeds,

A thousand abodes a youth may know upon the earth,
Yet he forever longs for his first home.

I have encountered couplets of this nature in one of two contexts: either expressed as a longing for the original home, or as the author recounted memories of his beloved, the days with whom were now an affair of the distant past. The latter case is founded on the proposition that love may be found only once, and what follows may only resemble it in an inferior form yet never compare. If the beloved is lost, so is any prospect of finding what the heart longs for. Although this is based on the false assumption that man may only love once, it nonetheless holds in the hearts of many, and serves to show how it is the beloved who in effect becomes the home for the lover.

Yet, each place holds a particular significance due to associated memories, its precious characteristics, or what is greater than both of these facets. As a poet said,

This is my country: where I spent my youth and childhood
and wore the robe of life when it was new.
When I see it now in my mind’s eye
it is draped in those clothes of youth.

The journey I undertook to the Ḥaramayn, followed by ventures in Turkey in the presence of students and teachers granted me clarity in my vision in some respects and left me in a state of questioning in others.

When I made the intention of undertaking my first ʿumrah, having landed in Jeddah and taken a car on my way to Makkah, a feeling of peace descended upon me I had not felt in long. The full moon rose over the dunes as the clouds passed by, and I recalled the oft-recited poem:

The moon rose over us,
From the valley of Wadāʿ.
Incumbent upon us is gratitude,
When a caller calls to God.

My heart felt a unique emotion as I drew closer to the Holy City—one I will elaborate upon—as I attempted to take in that I had been invited. I bade my driver farewell, wishing him well and asking him to keep me in his prayers, as I walked forward to meet the guide my uncle had arranged for my ease. I stumbled across a young man who had arrived in the city for his studies. He offered me his assistance any way he was able, guiding me to the Kaʿba when its adjacent layer had been reopened for pilgrimage, the initial closure having taken place as it was being perfumed.

My gaze was lowered as my steps carried me in its direction, and when I deemed it appropriate, I raised my eyes. My heart did not sink, but felt as though something heavy weighed down on it, pouring forth thereupon continuously; before me stood the most sacred Structure in the heavens and the earth, and I could not but simply stare in disbelief that amongst the servants of the Exalted, I had been granted the honor of being present. Whilst the emotions at the time were too overwhelming to allow for metaphysical contemplation, or any intellectualism at all, it was when the depth of emotions had subsided that night following my pilgrimage I came to fully understand Makkah as a manifestation of Divine Majesty—a center of His jalāl.

As I walked back following my retirement for rest, the adhān commenced; all left their preoccupations and unrolled their mats, preparing for prayer wherever they stood. The takbīr echoed, and I joined some of my brethren who stood on the streets, offering me water for my ablution. Affirming my blessings, I smiled.

I prayed after dark in the courtyard of the Ḥarām, lying on my back to the sight of the full moon rising over the minarets—a starless sky though it may have been, I had never seen a more beautiful night, with worshippers taking delight in their visits, and yet others having gone into their own worlds in the camaraderie on blessed soil. Children ran about in the near distance, some followed by their parents, and some being kept a watchful eye upon from nearby. A continuous process of pilgrims entering with others leaving carried on, many with smiles, and many with tears. I was not home, but I would not mind staying longer.

I recall having thought of how pleasant a feeling it would be to have a cup of tea with my eyes gazing at the minarets towering above—it is a habit of mine to have one as the skies are enveloped by darkness. It was with no delay that I veered to my right to the sight of an elderly man walking about with my provision in hand, being an answer to a prayer I had not even uttered. I thanked him, only to be approached immediately after his departure by another elder with a radiant smile, offering me dates which I could hardly refuse. I thanked him, taking in the small miracle that my eyes were privileged to witness. The tea was not only well-made, but given surrounding events, it was certainly the most memorable cup I was served.

I was in Makkah for the following two days, having prayed behind melodious reciters, in the vicinity of the graves of the noble companions, sanctified be their souls, as well as of notable mountains. I was taken aback, not merely for the blessed natures of these places, but by the effort the firsts placed in the preservation of the dīn and the love they shared for it. In this one finds the humanity within each of the companions, including the elites, and their particular characteristics. One finds the personalities of Ibrāhim and Mūsā, upon them be peace, resurrected in the noble figures of Abū Bakr and ʿUmar, proving the ḥadīth to that effect. This is evident with the character displayed by each when commanded to undertake hijrah. ʿUmar announced, “Whosoever amongst you wishes for his mother to lose him tonight, for his children to become orphans, or his wife to become a widow, meet me behind this valley.” Abū Bakr remained with the Messenger, God bless and keep him, but when he entered with the news that he had been granted permission to emigrate, the companion implored to accompany him. When the response was in the affirmative, ʿĀʾishah narrated that she had never before seen another weep with joy as had her father on being given the news.

Such is how through the first of the Caliphs was left an example to man in certainty and devotion, and through his successor, one of commitment, strength, and duty.

To digress, albeit not unnecessarily so, it is worth noting that the beauty of what is seen must not distract one from the broader realities of the Holy City, of which the most concerning aspect is the evident class disparity. The workers appeared all but content, save for a few, as most were anxious of whether they would be able to return to their families. During the very first hour, wherein I had found the one who carried me from Jeddah to Makkah, I was told that he had not been home in ten years. More often than not he rested his eyes in his car rather than on a bed, let alone comfortable ones to which we are accustomed. As one walks to the Ḥarām, it is not uncommon to see individuals in the most desolate of states imploring for sustenance, with many having suffered amputation, and others seeking whatever is necessary to feed the mouths of their children—all in front of grand structures built without proper deliberation. What is seen is not only poverty contrasted with undue wealth and a striking binary between those who stand atop ivory towers and those who are destitute underneath, but a poverty of urban planning and a refusal to be of assistance to the impoverished.

(For brevity, I shall leave aside comments on urban planning and further observations for a later piece.)

In the day that followed, I left for Madīnah without any dejection in my heart but rather anticipation, knowing that I was traveling from one blessed palace to another.

The car stopped midway for rest. Outside was stationed a turbaned man with a shawl around his shoulders, seated next to a cart, selling rings, beads, and materials of the sort. Given that it was nearing sunset, the scene appeared to almost be a projection of an Orientalist’s imagination. Particularly nostalgic, on the other hand, was the moment when I had performed ablution and stepped inside the mosque to the sight of the faint sunlight pouring in through the tinted glasses, granting a semblance of natural illumination to the space; a man laid on his back in the corner, on the carpet with decades of stories to tell; others spoke about their own affairs outside, and I smiled as I felt a tinge of homeliness, although I was well-aware that this was neither my place of belonging nor a place where I would feel as though I had found my home.

My first sight of the Mosque of the Prophet, upon him be God’s peace and blessings, was quite different from my experience in the Ḥarām. Whereas the latter weighed on my heart heavily, inducing a sense of awe, almost as though there was a force pushing me to lay my forehead on the soil in prostration to the Divine, expressing both gratitude and beholding His Majesty, the sensation in Madīnah was that of serenity. Those I interacted with were soft in nature; the walks felt less imposing and more inviting; the calm breeze was touching; and yet I was all but calm as I hurried my pace towards the blessed Mosque, unable to contain the eagerness within my heart of seeing it for the first time.

I entered its compounds and tread its soil. I leaned against a pillar and pondered on how I was upon the beloved land, decreed by the sitting of a camel—the land touched by countless Saints, scholars, and others whose names reverberate across the Islamicate, known well by both the layman and the learned, many of whom had passed away herein, others who had resided here but had passed away elsewhere, and many who longed from distant lands. It was not majesty during my stay in Madīnah that engulfed me, but serenity. Beautiful is the Most Gracious and loving of beauty, and none manifested the beauty in a greater fashion than the Prophet, may God bless and keep him—from him does it emanate, hence the city becoming a manifestation of jamāl.

I began my return journey to Jeddah during the afternoon. As deeply as my heart ached, I was aware that I was traveling for a necessary purpose, to another city of Prophecy that would bring blessings of its own—and it did, in a fashion far exceeding my expectations, leading me to ask once more what I see as my home and my place within it.

I jest with my family and friends often that I was meant for the nomadic life, with only my body being on occasion trapped in the life of America, although my spirit wanders elsewhere still and occasionally takes my body with it. When I landed in Istanbul, such is how I felt once more as I was on my path towards fellows of mine with whom I would be learning for the duration of the summer. The Turkish flag was hoisted high during my crossing of the Bosphorous, as in the distance lay mountains and homes built thereupon; ferries crossed the Strait, boats scattered across; mosques which were the products of the greatest architectural marvels stood firmly in their places, overlooking the city, almost as if to declare that this was Islambol: the City of Islām.

I walked out into the city for the first time with my acquaintances later that day in the Fatih, impressed already by what I saw of the blend between history and modernity, but it was in reality the walkability that drew me in even further, a characteristic that every city must have, but one that is amiss in the ones spread about America with particular exceptions. We walked to a café following the evening prayer, speaking of our experiences of the lands from which we hailed, sharing laughter and silliness I was all too aware I would come to miss when it was time for me to return, home being a word whose mention I intentionally omit in this circumstance, for I am aware that where I reside is not in my heart, nor is my heart where I reside.

Days passed with my attendance in the lessons of teachers recognized well by those initiated, formally or otherwise, in their pursuit of the Sciences. In the afternoons, following the completion of the gatherings for the day, I would find myself seated with my fellow students who, gradually, ceased to remain acquaintances and began to morph into friends, near a Mosque, in a gathering, or during a walk we would undertake, for we had taken many, exchanging either the silliest of jests or engaging in the furthest corners of theological or legal discourse. The day would proceed to a return to my residence so I could continue my work. As engrossed as I was in my tasks, there were few times wherein I had felt a new surge of life flowing into my Soul—this, however, was one of them. We would fall asleep following discourse and laughter, awaking for the dawn prayer, closing our eyes once more before reawakening to attend the lessons.

Weeks passed as I met my friends from across the world who either resided in Istanbul or had stopped by before continuing elsewhere. The sunset displayed itself as I sat after tea, overlooking the Galata Tower, speaking of my desire to travel to a liberated Syria as it had long been a dream to step foot in Damascus and Masyaf. I prayed during the evening at a mosque I discovered during my walk alongside my accomplice, with the night prayer being performed within the splendors of the Hagia Sophia.

It was in a likewise fashion that I was shown around Üsküdar: walking through beautiful neighborhoods, finding myself across the Bosphorus once more, as the towering bridge extended across the Strait, with the Büyük Mecidiye appearing in the distance. During my walk in the same part of Istanbul, I had come across the bookbinder who, as the owner of Asitane—the library famed in the decades prior for holding Ottoman-era literature bound by the owner himself—carried himself by the name Yūsuf, famous amongst those who travel the city with the intent to gather books, new or olden tomes. He was occupied with binding when we entered, and carried on the moment we left, but he ensured we did not step out the door without having granted my friend a gift, for it was not from his habit to allow visitors to leave with an empty hand. I prayed for his soul as well as those I had met during my time. These unexpected encounters later become stories to tell.

So continued my chronicles of sitting in the courtyard of the Fatih, feeding the feline citizens of Istanbul, walking for long periods through the streets of Istanbul, encountering notables in unexpected places, being in the courtyard of Sultan Ahmet overlooking the city, walking to the Șehzade to come across cats eager to follow me and ask for adoration—all felt too memorable and clung to my heart. The final days approached and I bade farewell to a friend who was returning earlier than the rest. It was perhaps at that moment as we held one another, staying silent for a moment before continuing on our way, reciting ṭālamā ashkū gharāmī yā nūr al-wujūd along the way together, that I smiled once more at the month I have had the blessing of spending with such company, realizing that if home was both a place and an experience, I was already here.

But I was meant to be a stranger to all the lands I visit, not because I find myself foreign thereto, but out of the desire to have the entirety of the earth as my home. The lands for us have been made vast, and to its Creator belongs all expanses. It is truly as Goethe proclaimed, whose words I find myself now echoing: “Indeed, I am nothing but a wanderer and pilgrim on this earth! And what more are you?”³

When I began writing this memoir, I was seated amongst fellow students and teachers in the afternoon, taking in the mild breeze, after having prayed with Ḥamza el-Bakrī. My first visit to the Turkish countryside was quite pleasant, and a few aspects reminded me of my travels about its American counterpart. Although I would say that my travels in the latter have allowed me to witness far more beautiful sights, the matter has forever been less of the sights themselves and more of the company one comes to enjoy, and the discourses he finds himself able to partake in. The moments when one is able to relax his Soul, as he takes in both the creation Providence has laid forth before man for his contemplation, as well as that which provides him with both contemplation and company. One comes to long for such when he has returned to a place his body rests in, but from which his heart is detached. As for which part it finds itself attached to, that is a question we seldom possess the answer to.

For what is home, after all? Is it the place one comes to yearn for once he has resided there for a certain period? If so, whilst I have my sympathies towards my land of residence, it has not tied itself to my heart. But if home is the place itself that radiates familiarity, should any other place deserve the privilege? Once again one is led to answer in the negative, for whilst I am fond of the notion of having a place to return to, in this land or elsewhere with all their goodness, I cannot imagine finding myself constrained under any circumstance. My free spirit is bolstered by my readings of our predecessors Ibn Faḍlān, Ibn Baṭṭūṭah, al-Tūnīsī, and others who had undertaken travels not for the sake of tourism as is contemporarily done, but with a greater purpose in their hearts that granted clarity and left them with much to convey.

One is inclined to ask what remains of a home when its inhabitants disappear, for I recall the days when I had been away from my own family, and my returns led to epiphanies that the trivialities at home I had once dismissed or seen negatively at times, particularly the chaotic atmosphere I was often surrounded by, it was what I had come to long for dearly. Where once I had taken my mother’s affection for granted, the most pleasant memory became the sight of her seeing me and breaking into a beautiful smile, as she would open her arms and I would hold her, knowing that I had not for some time tasted the warmth of her love. I was home. In retrospect may I recall the oft-cited passage: “So does the restless traveler pant for his native soil, and find in his own cottage, in the arms of his wife, in the affections of his children, and in the labor necessary for their support, that happiness which he had sought in vain through the wide world.” How sharp was Goethe’s musing!

I recall in this manner the verses composed by al-Yūsī to this effect:

Can a heart suffering from the uncertainty of fleeting desires
and separation from home be consoled of the loss of those dear?
Is this love, which had long filled the heart
waiting for its debts to be repaid, never to be satisfied?

Another noted,

The wishes that youths fulfilled in their homelands
cement their attachment to them as men.
When men recall their homelands, they are reminded
of their childhood, and feel a longing to return.

The memories begin to form the strongest attachment rather than the places themselves, but that they are where those memories were formed grant them a special status to the minds of man, hence reminiscence and tears of nostalgia in given moments. And it is those very places that become reminders of the pain associated with loss, for the world is not meant to carry all forever. ʿAdwān al-Hirbīd, a prolific Bedouin bard, finds on an occasion that during his departure, members of a rival tribe had sprung an attack and taken the lives of his family, leaving only a few remaining. Returning to the campsite of his past, he composed:

A year ago was my last view of our desert abode,
between hard plains and soft sands of Ashrāf Ḍāḥī.
May rumbling clouds shower you with the rains of Arcturus,
shaking with anger, and drench you in limpid water.
Abode! Where are your inhabitants’ footprints?
Where the traces herds leave at resting places?
Three stones for cooking pots, like servants’ heads;
a bowl of dust, stirred up by gusty winds—that’s all.
Where are the men who sauntered here last year?
Gone from view! Ephemeral as lightning’s flicker.
They went, like a dream in a soothsayer’s tale,
thunderlights seen in an early summer evening,
Vanished into a dark maw of night and plague,
leaving me mortally wounded, felled by a weapon.

Home, thus, may be a person, or a group thereof. A place holds cherished memories, and thus when it is seen, one reminisces of days bygone—days he had spent with those dear to his heart, during times that had granted him a greater sense of freedom, or rather ignorance from the truth of life, as is the case with many. If it is the beloved, then with her may one find a sense of tranquility perhaps in the oddest of places. But man is subject to dissipation, as is all else in the world and in life, as evanescence is merely the natural course of all existence; all is meant to fade save for His Face. Should that occur during the course of one’s life—and it will, for him or his beloved—should he be left homeless, with no place to return to? Should the earth forever be a stranger to him, as well as all else he may come to know?

This sheds much insight into reality. Man was meant to be a stranger upon the earth, with his travels not being in vain but undertaken with purpose, finding his heart preferring certain places more preferable for his abode, but experiencing a degree of withdrawal still with the knowledge that as blessed as his trodden soil may be, his true abode lies elsewhere, awaiting him in another life—an eternal one. The earth has been made vast for us to traverse, but all shall remain strange still, never extending a graceful hand—a chance to become our true home. Glad tidings lie for those who cognize and act accordingly—glad tidings for the strangers.

All is God’s to command, and to Him belongs all praise.

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Photo by Jordan Steranka on Unsplash

Works Cited:

1. Al-Yūsī, The Discourses, NYU Press, pg. 28. [↩]
2. Al-Yūsī, The Discourses, NYU Press, pg. 27. [↩]
3. Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe, The Sorrows of Young Werther, pg. 87, Penguin Classics. [↩]
4. Al-Yūsī, The Discourses, NYU Press, pg. 9. [↩]
5. Al-Yūsī, The Discourses, NYU Press, pg. 45. [↩]
6. Marcel Kurpershoek, Bedouin Poets of the Nafūd Desert, 183-184. [↩]