Eid Mubarak
When you stand in the street of an Islamic country and watch the flow and ebb of the people, when you feel the heat of the sun on your shoulders, and smell the dust of the earth; when the aroma of the roast the street vendors are cooking teases your nose, along with the dusky musk of tethered donkeys; when you hear the laughter of children playing an unknown game and high over head the scream of a hunting eagle. You watch the cars go by in daring acceleration, whole families on a single Honda 150, and busses that have more mirrors than any shrine. When you hear the rise and fall of an unfamiliar language, in the thousands of tints that is the human voice; you know you are alien.
The Azaan surrounds you, every mosque sending out the call to prayers, the men's voices raised in beautiful, round melody. The sound beats on you, unintended stereo, highs and lows, echoes and slow base, or high treble, each voice a component of the whole. The world is called to prayers. On each street, men call, from each mosque, men call, from each house, men call.
The call. Azaan.
Only those with the most beautiful voices can call the Azaan. But the very best one of all has been taken from us, no longer able to call to the people. He was the first, and for the prophet, the only, to call the Azaan.
This man's job was to wake the prophet in the morning, and to make the morning Azaan. Every day, five times a day, he sang the call. And every day, five times a day, the prophet and the people came to prayers.
Until that day the prophet died.
That day, the last day, the man sang the Azaan, knowing the prophet had died. How did he do it? With voice thick with tears, his lips numb as he called out to the people; come to prayers. Tears soaking his beard, he called with everything in him, the last morsel of pain, the last drop of sorrow, the azaan, come to prayers. For the first time, for the rest of time, the prophet could not come.
It was the last time he sang azaan, for his heart broke that day. He left Medina, and retired to Damascus, never singing the azaan again. He had asked a boon of the prophet before his death, that only his sons, and his son's son's, throughout time, would call the azaan at Mecca, and it was so, it IS so. He knew the people would be called, correctly. And he huddled in Damascus, a sad, lonely man.
One night, he had a dream. And in the dream, the prophet asked him: "Where are you? You do not call me."
He went back. His son pleaded with him to sing the azaan once more. He was an old man now, but his voice had not changed. He stood on a finger of rock, the one he had always stood on, and sang the azaan.
And the people came out of their homes, the men and women and children, and cried. "What is this? Who do I heard? What does it mean?" And they remembered the last time they had heard the voice, on the day of the prophet's death, and it brought it all back, all the feelings, all the grief at the loss of the prophet, and they cried, sobbed. The whole town cried at his azaan, as did he, in remembrance.
And so I close my eyes, and I feel the sun, and I hear the children, and I hear the azaan called by his ancestor, and I feel the tears on my face, because I remember.
It is said, that the prophet will be the first man into heaven when it is open. He shall ride a red camel, and this man, who woke him every morning, who called the prayers for him every morning, will hold the reins of the camel, and lead him into heaven.
Eid Mubarak
The Azaan surrounds you, every mosque sending out the call to prayers, the men's voices raised in beautiful, round melody. The sound beats on you, unintended stereo, highs and lows, echoes and slow base, or high treble, each voice a component of the whole. The world is called to prayers. On each street, men call, from each mosque, men call, from each house, men call.
The call. Azaan.
Only those with the most beautiful voices can call the Azaan. But the very best one of all has been taken from us, no longer able to call to the people. He was the first, and for the prophet, the only, to call the Azaan.
This man's job was to wake the prophet in the morning, and to make the morning Azaan. Every day, five times a day, he sang the call. And every day, five times a day, the prophet and the people came to prayers.
Until that day the prophet died.
That day, the last day, the man sang the Azaan, knowing the prophet had died. How did he do it? With voice thick with tears, his lips numb as he called out to the people; come to prayers. Tears soaking his beard, he called with everything in him, the last morsel of pain, the last drop of sorrow, the azaan, come to prayers. For the first time, for the rest of time, the prophet could not come.
It was the last time he sang azaan, for his heart broke that day. He left Medina, and retired to Damascus, never singing the azaan again. He had asked a boon of the prophet before his death, that only his sons, and his son's son's, throughout time, would call the azaan at Mecca, and it was so, it IS so. He knew the people would be called, correctly. And he huddled in Damascus, a sad, lonely man.
One night, he had a dream. And in the dream, the prophet asked him: "Where are you? You do not call me."
He went back. His son pleaded with him to sing the azaan once more. He was an old man now, but his voice had not changed. He stood on a finger of rock, the one he had always stood on, and sang the azaan.
And the people came out of their homes, the men and women and children, and cried. "What is this? Who do I heard? What does it mean?" And they remembered the last time they had heard the voice, on the day of the prophet's death, and it brought it all back, all the feelings, all the grief at the loss of the prophet, and they cried, sobbed. The whole town cried at his azaan, as did he, in remembrance.
And so I close my eyes, and I feel the sun, and I hear the children, and I hear the azaan called by his ancestor, and I feel the tears on my face, because I remember.
It is said, that the prophet will be the first man into heaven when it is open. He shall ride a red camel, and this man, who woke him every morning, who called the prayers for him every morning, will hold the reins of the camel, and lead him into heaven.
Eid Mubarak