Wednesday, May 14, 2008

p03 Religious Fanaticism reading

Prologue to Disciple at Dawn

 

We have been talking about religious fanaticism. This morning I listened to this lecture about the misuse of history,

 

Author and historian Margaret MacMillan delivers this year's Trinity College Larkin-Stuart Lecture. The topic of her 2-part lecture is "History: The Next Secular Religion?"

http://www.tvo.org/TVOsites/WebObjects/TvoMicrosite.woa/wo/vBq4GtXmELD26NvBqrJeh0/2.0.0.33.29.26.25.13.1.1

 

Margaret Macmillan's is a very good thesis that fits right in with our present theme of religious fanaticism. Too often history is distorted and abused by fanatics and others who refuse to look at the way things really are. She has an important, learned and sophisticated message, and I recommend this lecture. However, I object to the title. It implies that "religion" and "fanaticism" are synonyms, that a believer and a fanatic are one and the same thing. That in itself is a distortion, intentional or otherwise. If a prominent historian can show herself so openly ignorant of the history of religion, well, our view of the past in trouble.


This brings me around to our featured article. I like once in a while to give readers a break from my voice all the time. So this time we will feature the essay opening up:

 

Mulla Husayn, Disciple at Dawn, by R. Mehrabkhani, Kalimat Press, Los Angeles, 1987

 

When Mehrabkhani's biography of Mulla Husayn first came out I paged through the endnotes and noticed that his main source was Nabil's Narrative. I left the book aside immediately, thinking, "Why not just read Dawnbreakers? Why read this regurgitation?" Twenty years later I changed my mind and took the book out of the Hamilton Baha'i Library mostly for the ample illustrations. I had not read Dawnbreakers for a long time, so I thought I would give it a try.

 

I was wrong. I can see that now.

 

To my surprise, Mehrabkhani earns his keep. He does consult some other sources, not many, but he supplements and fills in the gaps of Nabil's history. Also, he concentrates the story on Mulla Husayn's point of view, and I found it quite gripping to read his story. I had not realized how close Mulla Husayn was to the Bab, for example that he and Quddus wore His green turban when they were fighting.

 

One of the best parts of this book is the forward. We all know that the Guardian thought it very important that non-Persians have a good knowledge of the cultural background from which the Faith emerged. When Shoghi Effendi translated Dawnbreakers he went to the trouble of collecting together a mass of raw materials about the Persian cultural background from several sources, shipped it all off to his proof-reader, George Townshend, and asked him (Townshend) to write the forward to Dawnbreakers. Townshend was a brilliant stylist and wrote a very good treatise on how corrupt and fanatical Persia was at the time. Later, Shoghi Effendi admonished pilgrims who admitted that they had skipped over the forward in order to get to the good stuff. You cannot cut out the countryside and still have a complete painting of the Mona Lisa.

 

Anyway, I have no idea who this Mehrabkhani is, but he concisely and cleverly paints a portrait of Persia that in some ways exceeds Townshend's much longer and more detailed treatment. Certainly, his little dramatization makes one thing clear that even book length histories of Persia do not: how open and virulent was the hatred among peoples and faiths. As he implies at the end, anyone with anything like a moderate faith was branded a dahri, or atheist. If all the world were like Persia, then, well the title of the above lecture would be right in confounding religion with fanaticism.

So without further ado here is the forward to Mehrabkhani's biography of Mulla Husayn.

 

Prologue

 

In the first half of the nineteenth century, when our story begins, Persia was little changed from what it had been for several hundred years. Its government, its social institutions, cities, roads, and religion were relics of a feudal age. The people's way of life had continued on unaffected by the Renaissance in Europe, much less by the beginnings of the Industrial Revolution in England. Cities, even villages were surrounded by high, protective walls and were widely separated from one another. The scattered population and the barrenness of the land made the traveler's journey a hard one.

 

At the end of a day's travel, those on the road would take refuge in a kind of inn called a caravanserai. Most of these dated from the time of Shah 'Abbas the Great, who ruled from 1589 to 1629 and had ordered that 999 caravanserais be built all over the country. They were on all the main roads, and were found in villages as well as along stretches of deserted highway, where they served as oases for exhausted travelers.

 

A caravanserai was always surrounded by walled fortifications with a large portal. Inside was a great yard. On all four sides of the yard rose two stories of rooms, with a gallery on the upper floor which served as a hallway and a passage to the rooms. The quarters on the ground floor were for animals, and these were especially used in winter. On the upper floor, each room had but one entrance since the back walls of the rooms formed the fortress walls. These rooms were the travelers' accommodations.

 

There were no furnishings in the chambers, except for sometimes a mat, and each room might be assigned to several strangers at one time. Thus travelers had to carry with them not only their food and clothing, but also rugs, tea sets, pots and pans, bedding, and so forth. When they arrived in their room, the travelers would sweep the dusty floor and spread out a carpet or mat. Then they would prepare tea, the only refreshment of the time.

 

Let us imagine a scene in Iran at the beginning of the last century. It is afternoon, in a caravanserai, its high walls of red brick easy to distinguish from the other, brown mud-walled buildings of the town. The inn is crowded, mostly with pilgrims who have arrived from different parts of the country: Rasht, Hamadan, Isfahan, Tehran. They have gathered at this way station to form a larger caravan and continue their long and dangerous trek to Mashhad.

 

There has been news of Turkoman tribesmen in the area. An emissary of the governor has advised that all should wait in the caravanserai for the arrival of the caravan from Mashhad, so as to be sure that the roads are safe. Men, women, and children anxiously await their departure for the Shrine of Imam Rida. This pilgrimage is a desire that some have cherished all their lives. Now their anxiety is doubled by the threat of a Turkoman attack.

 

The yard of the caravanserai is full of camels, mules, and donkeys; the horses are in the stables. Among the pilgrims are some merchants taking their goods to Mashhad, or farther on. Among them also are some carrying the bodies of their dead to be buried in the shadow of the shrine. They are convinced that, on the Day of Resurrection, when all the dead lift up their heads from their tombs and are brought together for a reckoning, the holy Imam will never allow those who have sought shelter in his nearness to be taken to hell -- even though their sins may weigh as much as mountains.

 

One of the rooms is occupied by five people. There is a poet from Shiraz, with his fourteen-year-old son who is to be presented to the prince-governor of Khurasan. The kings and noble governors of the time retained poets in their courts to compose poetry in praise of their masters. Some of these poets gained very high rank and influence and might accompany the king or the governor everywhere. Sometimes when a king was flattered by the exaggerated praise in a poem, he might order the poet's mouth filled with gold.

 

Also in the room is a man from Kermanshah who was recognized by all as a Sunni because of the way he performed his ablutions before prayers. Beside him are a man from Rasht who is a Shi'i pilgrim on his way to the shrine, a merchant, and a Shaykhi from Qazvin.

 

The man from Rasht had entered in a bad temper, cursing the innkeeper under his breath for making him spend the night with unclean and impure people, meaning the Shaykhi and the Sunni. He looked suspiciously at the smiling poet when he offered his greetings. Although he appeared to be a good man, Mulla Hasan of Rasht had told him that a true believer should always be solemn and serene.

 

Suddenly, a man with long hair and a cone-shaped hat worn by dervishes appeared at the door -- the new lodger in the room. Of course, he was not very welcome to any of the others, and only the poet answered his salaam, making room for him by his side.

 

The dervish had just returned from a visit to Bastam, the town where the famous mystic Bayazid is buried. The dervish had remained in seclusion there for the customary retreat of forty days to receive the inner light. Now he sported disheveled hair, an unwashed face, and a dirty  beard. He immediately sensed the tense atmosphere in the room and sat down quietly to await further events.

 

The poet, feeling that he should do something to soften the situation, turned to the dervish and said, "Where are you coming from, and what is your destination? We can see you have had a long journey. And it appears that there has not been enough water for you to make your ablutions on the way."

 

The dervish, undisturbed by the poet's implied rebuke, replied, "No, sir. Outward cleanliness is of no importance. Man is created from dust, and no dust can soil him. It is the heart that must be clean. My ablutions are within my heart, and my prayer is remembrance of God and His mention. All the laws of religion are for the immature -- when you reach the Beloved One, all ceremonies and rituals disappear."

 

The poet's question opened a general discussion. But, as the room buzzed with comments, the pious Shi'i from Rasht found himself unable to bear the dervish's words. Trembling with rage, he shouted: "Blasphemy! Blasphemy! Such a tongue as yours should be torn out. And such a dirty beard which mocks the laws of God should be burnt. If you were in my town, I assure you that your head would not be spared."

 

The dervish turned to him with a smile and said: "I am sure of that, my good friend. I remember well: once I was in Isfahan. I went to a mosque to sleep. There I happened to see the students of a mulla cleaning their knives in the fountain. By the order of their master, they had just cut a man to pieces. I heard one of them ask another if he knew of the reason for the poor man's punishment. And the other, rubbing the blade of his knife to clean the blood from it, assured him that he knew nothing about it."

 

The poet was not satisfied with the dervish's reply.

 

Turning to him, he remarked: "My friend, you may be right in criticizing the intolerance of this man. But is your way of interpreting religion really the best? Can true faith consist of wandering and begging for a living?"

 

"My religion is love," answered the dervish. "I love God, and I love everything because everything comes from God. I don't care about life or men. I have no interest in material things. I don't care about food or lodging. Wherever a dervish arrives at night, there is his home!"

 

The poet listened patiently. With a serious gaze, he returned: "That may be good for yourself. But what of others? We are not here to save our souls selfishly, but to do something for our fellowmen. It is very easy, my friend, to think only of yourself, asking others to provide for your food, while you live in idleness. The road to salvation is the road of sacrifice. The Imam 'All, Commander of the Faithful, whom you know as the origin and inspirer of most of you, worked for his food and obeyed the laws of religion to the letter."

 

The Sunni from Kermanshah, overcoming his inhibitions, added: "Not only 'All, but so did the three other holy caliphs before him, the successors of the Prophet -- Abu-Bakr, 'Umar, and 'Uthman.

 

"Hold your tongue," the Shi'i interrupted. "Don't mention the names of those accursed ones. And do not put their names before the name of the true Imam. 'Ali was the only righteous one! The rest were seditious infidels and blasphemers. The curse of God be upon them."

 

The Sunni became furious. A fearful expression clouded his face, and he turned almost black with anger. "Damn you! If I were not in this caravanserai, I would rip open your belly for such blasphemies. You Shi'is are worse than all the Christians, Jews, and infidels together. Every time I hear that our Turkoman friends have killed one of you, tortured you, or stolen your wealth, it gives me the greatest joy."

 "Father," whispered the poet's son, drawing the elder man away from the heated discussion. "Are not both these men Muslims? How is it that they curse each other's religion?"

 

"My son," the poet replied in a low voice, hardly audible beneath the shouting in the room. "Islam is divided into two great camps -- Sunni and Shi'ih. The Sunnis believe that the Prophet did not designate any successor. They hold that everything in religion was provided for in the Qur'an, so that after the death of Muhammmad caliphs were chosen to carry on the work and give order to the community. The Shi'is believe that the Prophet designated the Imam 'Ali as his successor, and that he was the first of Twelve Imams inspired by God. The Sunnis do accept 'Ali as the fourth caliph, while the Shi'is believe that the three caliphs before 'Ali were no more than traitors to Islam and usurpers of 'Ali's rightful position."

 

The poet saw the discussion growing worse, and he feared that the verbal battles might lead to a real fight. "But men!" he said. "We all belong to the same religion. There should not be such hatred among us."

 

The Sunni shot back: "On my way here I passed a village near Tehran. There I saw a group of these accursed Shi'is. They had made a cloth effigy of the Caliph 'Umar. I saw them cover its face with dirt, and after treating it indecently, they joyfully burned it. So now, every time I hear that the Turkomans have burned a Shi'i village, I feel refreshed and happy."

 

"Yes," the Shi'i spit out. "Those damned Turkomans are now doing to us what others did to our Imams. But soon will come the Promised One, the Qa'im, who will kill so many of these infidels that a river of blood will reach the stirrup of his horse. He will do what 'Ali did of old: our mulla says that in one night he severed the heads of seventy thousand infidels and Sunnis. The Qa'im will bring back wealth, power, and dominion to the true Shi'i believers and will make us masters of the world and kings of the nations. He will bring all infidels to Islam by his sword-Sunnis, Christians, Jews, and Zoroastrians. When I see and hear all these blasphemers, I know that the hour is near, for he will come only when the world is full of injustice. He will come to fill it with justice and faith -- "

 

"If that is so, then where is the Qa'im?" the skeptical poet interrupted. "How much longer must we wait for him?"

 

The Shi'i answered impatiently: "You should know, he was born a thousand years ago. He escaped from the hands of his enemies and has been living ever since with his children and some believers in a town of seventy thousand portals. Seventy thousand languages are spoken there. Now and then, he shows himself to true believers and comes to their aid. I know that he has helped many who were lost in the desert and has led them to safety."

 

The poet, scornful of these exaggerations, turned to the Shaykhi. "I have heard that you, the followers of Shaykh Ahmad, have a different view of the Qa'im and of the Resurrection. Tell us something of it."

 The Shi'i could bear no more blasphemies, especially on his sacred journey to the tomb of the Imam. He protested:

 

"But a Shaykhi is worse than a dog! Mulla Hasan, in the mosque where I pray, tells us that they are the same as infidels, Christians, and Jews. I had two neighbors -- one a Christian and the other a Shaykhi. The drainpipes from their houses emptied into my garden. When the mulla discovered this, he declared the water from their roofs unclean and forced them to move their drain pipes from my garden. Then I had to cut down the trees grown by that water. The Shaykhis don't even believe in the resurrection of the body. They are worse than idolaters."

 

"I wish I had a knife to cut out your tongue!" the Shaykhi exclaimed. "The mullas despise Shaykhis because our master has tried to give new life to the sick body of Islam. They are like the worms that live in rotting flesh. How stupid and childish to believe that the Imam is living in an unknown town somewhere! Or to say that he is hiding in a well, as some mullas claim. The Qa'im left this world and entered the world of Reality; he will be born again into this world.

 

"Our belief in the Resurrection is also very simple, although Shaykh Ahmad has sometimes expressed it abstrusely to avoid attacks on his followers. How can you believe in a bodily resurrection? When you die, your body turns to dust. The dust turns into trees and grass, and the trees give fruit. Other men eat the fruit and the animals that have eaten the grass. So the same particle of dust will have been part of the bodies of many hundreds of men. You believe that everyone will be brought back to life with the same body that existed in this world, but how can this be so, since all the particles of this body have belonged to many men?

 

"I will not tell you the real ideas of Shaykh Ahmad, because you will never understand them. We have been taught by the perfect Shi'i, and anyone who has not known the perfect Shi'i of his time will die an infidel. You know that only the tortures of hell await infidels."

 

The discussion that the poet had opened in hopes of bringing some understanding among the travelers had become dangerous. All were now speaking at once, shouting and cursing at the top of their voices -- all save the dervish, who had retired into his own world and was lost in meditation, repeating the names of God.

 

The poet stretched his arms to feign weariness. He yawned and suggested that, since it was almost midnight, everyone should go to sleep. They could continue the discussion in the morning. With some grumbling, the travelers lay down where they were and went to sleep.

 

The poet's son, who had been amazed by all this cruel talk, lay beside his father but did not sleep. In the darkness, he whispered, "Father, you did not say what you yourself believe."

 

The father smiled and whispered back: "My son, if I dared express myself, they would call me a dahri, an atheist. But I am not that. I believe in God, though not the one they have created. I believe in prophets, but not prophets whose followers kill people who don't share their ideas. I have my religion, but not a religion that separates. I expect the coming of a savior who will redeem this despairing world, but not a savior who will cause rivers of blood to flow. My son, if religion teaches you to hate, beware of it! If mystic devotion leads you to idleness, have none of it!"

 

(Mulla Husayn, Disciple at Dawn, by R. Mehrabkhani, Kalimat Press, Los Angeles, 1987, XXVI)

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