I am no Ibn Battuta

This is a republished piece. It was originally published here.

A Road to Something Greater…

I have a friend who has travelled far and wide from the bustling streets of London to the dusty dunes of Mauritania and across the Islamic world. He often tells me that I am the true traveller and that he is not.

Many of my own friends call me Ibn Battuta. The countries I have visited outnumber theirs, alhamdulillāh. This year alone I traversed the great Alps in the northern provinces of Austria and crossed the borders of Italy, travelling south all the way to Lake Como, where scenes from films such as Star Wars and James Bond were shot. But I am no James Bond, and neither am I Ibn Battuta.

People look at the places I’ve been and wonder how I manage to keep moving. I walked the old fairytale lands of Andalus, beginning in Toledo, where once great mosques now stand as grand ecclesiastical shadows of the past. I climbed the heights of Greece where magnificent masājid once perched over cliff tops, now reduced to silent ruins beneath the Acropolis. Who knows what those stones have witnessed, great scholars, philosophers and seekers of the past. Still yet, I am no Ibn Battuta.

As the years have passed, I have grown tired of such unripe adventures and begun searching for something deeper. I returned first to my roots in Pakistan. As a child I was fond of its people and its vibrant culture. In simpler times I journeyed through its chaotic roads, cautiously consumed its street food, and breached the Chinese border passing by children playing cricket in the Swiss like mountains and canyons of Hunza. I grew up yearning for something more fruitful, realising that my “homeland” was only a taste of what was, and is still to come.

In recent years my travels turned inward. I entered a more spiritual struggle, finding solace in the basics of the Arabic language and in the teachings of Islam. I felt myself drifting away from Europe’s polished white walls and moving eastward. From the whirling dervishes of Rumi in Konya to the Sufi saints of Fes, my love for culture deepened. I picked up fragments of various languages along the way, but it was my pursuit of Arabic that truly began to reshape my path.

It was this very friend of mine who indirectly sent me to Cairo to the ancient walls of Sultan Hassan where its magnificent lamps hung low from its high ceilings; a sacred place which once saw the simultaneous teachings of the four madhāhib.

Cairo, deep-rooted in ʿilm had found myself gazing upon the gates of al-Azhar, listening to the chorus of Quran recitation and watching various gatherings dotted around its cool white floors under the baking sun. I met people I had never known before, yet they treated me like family: hosting me, guiding me, and leading me through streets upon which Prophet ʿĪsā is said to have walked. I carry those friendships with me, and whenever I visit places steeped in ʿilm and the memory of the awliyā’, I think of them and momentarily slip away from the noise of the dunyā.

People call me Ibn Battuta again now, for I write these words as I return from an unplanned journey to the blessed lands of Fes in al-Maghrib. Many spend hours building itineraries and stuffing suitcases with things they never use. Plans crumble to weather or circumstance, for in truth only Allah plans and we are merely travellers passing through.

On this journey, I felt held by Him more than ever before. No set agenda, no expectations, just a leaf drifting in the breeze of divine guidance. The gentle wind carried me from the circles of shuyūkh to gatherings of students of knowledge. It led me through the Rif Mountains on the road toward Martil, where, from a distance, I could see the blue town of Chefchaouen resting quietly between the peaks. Further along the ridge, lies the resting place of Moulay Abdessalam ibn Mashish, the murshidof Al-Shadhili. I travelled down winding roads lined with olive trees and hard-working women and found myself among the villagers where I ate from their plates and slept in their beds. As I sat with the country cats under the stars, I was reminded of the hospitality here and couldn’t help but think; that none of this was planned, yet it had already been written.”

I have a friend, who has travelled far and wide, from the bustling streets of London to the sandy dunes of Mauritania and across the Islamic world. He tells me that I am a true traveller and he is not. Perhaps I am somewhat of a traveller but in truth we are all travellers. I have yet but taken a dip into its warm waters and it has left me wanting to feel more.

I tell him, I am no Ibn Battuta. My travels may exceed his in number, but the fruit of his journeys are sweeter than mine. I may be no Ibn Battuta, but I am a seeker of that divine sweetness.

I am no Ibn Battuta. Rather, I am a traveller on the road to something greater than myself.

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