In collaboration with
In collaboration with
A Hunger called ‘Ilm
A
Hunger
Called
‘Ilm
There are three little letters in the Arabic language that carry the weight of every believer’s individual obligation. ‘Ilm’ (علم) is often translated as ‘knowledge’, yet translation cannot bridge the immensity of a term that appears (in all its derivations) over 704 times in the Qur’an. The aids towards knowledge (book, pen, ink) appear almost the same number of times. Ergo: it’s really important.
To a Muslim, knowledge has its types and classifications. It has branches of study, it has the obligatory aspects, the ‘better to know’, the communal obligation and the individual priority. It even has it’s own ‘of no benefit’ category, and the ‘you will be asked about this’ designation. There is the repeated exhortation that knowledge is not true knowledge, until proceeded with action.
Knowledge in Islam also carries an elevation above mostly everything else. Ilm is referred to in the Qur’an as light (‘nur’), while Allah (God in Arabic) is described as the ultimate nur. The connection is to be noted: gaining knowledge is a path towards proximity to God. Ilm lights the way for the believer to battle through their internal darkness and external realities to reach the Light of God.
“Allah is the Light of the heavens and the earth. The parable of His light is as if it were a niche containing a lamp; the lamp is [enclosed] in glass, the glass [shining] like a radiant star: [a lamp] lit from a blessed tree – an olive-tree that is neither of the east nor of the west, the oil whereof [is so bright that it] would well-nigh give light [of itself] even though fire had not touched it:
light
upon
light!
Allah guides unto His light him that wills [to be guided]; and [to this end] Allah propounds parables unto men, since Allah [alone] has full knowledge of all things.”
Qur’an 24:35
Injustice, oppression, doubt, ignorance, hypocrisy, denial, and ingratitude are derived from darkness. They first fester in the darkest chambers of the human heart, are manifested in the dark statements of the tongue and eventually the rot spills over into the open tangible harm that the limbs bring forward. Knowledge within Islam is not the basic acquisition of fact or abstract theory, it is the route through which one learns who they truly are and lights the path towards their soul’s highest potential.
The appetite for knowledge took root within Adel. First there was that question about the death of Jesus in Islam. Then the soul after death. Then about divine will and predestination. Then, then, then.
It started with visiting the library of his local mosque. It was all there within the pages of bound leather books. Where to begin?
“Who is Allah?” seemed a logical starting point.
Who is Allah, how is He known, what has He told us about Himself, what are the evidences of His divinity, how do we get to know Him through His Names and Attributes, what is the relationship between each human and His Lord meant to look like, what does He want from us, what can we want from Him, can we want anything from Him? Adel was away.
The angels, the scriptures, the Day of Judgement, the prophets, and Fate all quickly followed. Adel exhausted his own library, and then moved on.
He read books, borrowed books, bought books, scoured books, spoke about books, and devoured books. He attended classes in local mosques and spoke to fellow students. He picked the brains of his teachers and stayed after everybody else left.
He came home and shared what he knew. His father, strong but soft, listened with interest. Islam was not alien to him of course (his own father had memorised the entire Qur’an), yet it was not altogether familiar either. He loved his son though, and he respected the intellect that he had lovingly cultivated. Now that his young son was speaking to him about prayer: the beauty and importance of it in equal measure, he began to pray 5 times a day. His mother began to pray. His sisters began to wear hijab and pray. Change was afoot.
In the familiar zeal of the converted, Adel recalls coming home one day having learnt Muslims should not have images of animate creatures on display. He went through the house- room by room- taking down all the family pictures on the wall. Sentimentality was gone, the images must come down. His mother was beguiled, his dad watched in silence. Adel doesn’t do anything without having a reason, they knew this well enough. So, they prodded him for his. When he explained his reasoning, his father waved his hand and accepted it. “One thing about my father is that as long as you can explain your principles, he will accept them. He just wants to know that you know what you’re doing, and you can justify the direction you are taking.”
As Adel prioritised his Islamic learning, he was aware his parents always had aspirations he would become a lawyer one day. He also previously wanted this too. He was named Adel (“justice”) after all. He saw a lot around him and wanted to advocate for those treated unfairly in society too. “I think people really do become their name”, he reflects, “especially when it’s been reinforced to them their whole life” he adds. Justice was always seen as one of the most aspirational virtues anybody can strive for. “Life is all about achieving justice: justice to your soul, justice to your Creator, justice to yourself, your family, your community, justice to the world you live on”. Adel was big on justice, however while entering into young adulthood, the reality of that was murkier in practice.
The law works differently in Egypt since the prosecutors are always the government. Landing a job on that side meant life-long benefits packages, an-ever favourable ear in court and the lure of proximity to power. Jobs for the prosecution could only be procured through connections of prodigal talents however, so for your average Egyptian law student, a defence barrister it was. From the outset, the system was tilted against you and Adel felt somewhat disillusioned with law.
The efforts to modernise the Egyptian legal system meant aspects of French and other fiercely secular laws were brought in and how this aligned with Adel’s shifting priorities was tricky. If he got to become a defence solicitor, what kind of legal system would he be operating within? What basic premises would the law rest on? Could he work within a system he wasn’t entirely comfortable with? For now, questions around studying law took a back seat as he began teaching Islamic studies within the community.
His profile began to grow, and he would soon have a sizeable number of regular students attending his classes. With mosques full and venues difficult to come by, Adel would host lessons in his home, and he chose to prioritise teaching women.
Learning and then teaching was Adel’s service to his community. The knowledge he so passionately sought after was something he considered an investment for everybody. He didn’t want ilm to become the preserve of a handful of favoured groups, but something that every individual could use to transform their personal life. The light that Adel sought through his studies was something that- by its nature- shouldn’t be confined. Couldn’t be confined.
How do you contain light anyway?
The beauty of light
is that to share it only makes it glow brighter.
A Girl Named Hope رجاء
A
Girl
Named
Hope رجاء
In the crowded lounge of his family home, partitioned with a hasty curtain for the comfort of the women, Adel began teaching the fundamentals of Islamic creed to females only.
One of the students was a girl named Ragha, the Egyptian form of Raja رجاء. She was 19, she was a student, and she was a close friend of Adel’s sister. Soon enough, she was a potential enquirer after Adel. “I remember my sister asked me about marriage, and said one of her friends would like to discuss it.” As an event over 40 years ago now, Adel remembers with a firm nonchalance: “I said okay, let the families speak then. I didn’t even see her, didn’t even speak to her, I trusted my sister.”
Adel was 21 and hadn’t established himself fully as most Egyptian elders would require of a potential suitor for their daughter. Nonetheless, people were fond of him in the community and his family was well-respected. In that first meeting between the families, Adel laid his cards on the table to his prospective in-laws,
“You know how the situation can be in Egypt, I have started teaching now. I can’t guarantee I’ll be here to give your daughter a stable life- things are changing politically. I might not be here tomorrow.”
Ragha’s mother dismissed his concerns with a hand wave,
They felt great warmth towards Adel as a future son in law, but more importantly, Ragha had made her decision.
The consequence of that choice would define the landscape of Ragha’s marriage, experience of motherhood and entire life trajectory. They say love is an emotion, but loyalty is a choice. And very few words sum up the life-long choice that Ragha made- and continues to make- in the entire duration of her marriage to Adel.
If parents name their children according to the qualities they wish for their offspring to imbibe, then what can be said for Ragha? She is “one who is filled with hope, optimism”, رجاء is to hope, desire and anticipate. So, was she fulfilling part of her destiny when- still unmarried- what Adel predicted came to pass and she found herself travelling with Adel’s sister from one prison to another trying to locate her betrothed?
They were sent on a wild goose chase with one prison promising he was in the other, and the other claiming never to heard of him. Where was he? And more importantly, what were they doing to him?
The tutting and nay-saying had already begun, “Ragha, you are young and unmarried, you have prospects, you can marry anyone- why are you doing this?” Friends told her she was out of her mind. Family kept a diplomatic silence, they loved Adel of course, but who could want this for their daughter? Ragha had no easy answers to give anyone, instead, she was a 19-year-old who hoped, anticipated, was filled with optimism.
It is important, as in, absolutely crucial to not romanticise the struggle Ragha went through in her role as the wife of Adel Abdul Bary. From the tail end of her teenage years to now- a grandmother in her 60s- Ragha never experienced ‘normal’ married life, a united family unit, a husband on which she could rely, children who could grow in the loving guidance of their father. Being the wife of a prisoner wanted by the government carried its own avalanche of stigma, even (or especially) in a community where you are deeply rooted.
“How were your early years of married life?” I pressed Adel.
“There was no married life” he responds swiftly,
“from when we got married, I didn’t spend a full two weeks at home with my family until arriving in Britain a decade later.”
“How did Ragha manage?” “I still don’t know. She was mother, father, protector, provider, and didn’t know what else to expect in her life”.
Though Adel’s family were there to support their daughter in law in her husband’s absence, there are certain roles the entire world cannot fill. And certain consequences that are unavoidable as a result. Uncertainty, anxiety, loneliness.
When life became a turnstyle of imprisonment and release, I ask Adel what he shared of his experiences with his wife.
“Nothing, I didn’t talk about it” he says, doing a zip motion across his lips.
“Why not?”
“Because… I’m a man.”
“Men have tongues” I push back.
“Yes, men have tongues, but…with torture, you live it twice. Once when it happens and once again, when you have to tell it.”
“Didn’t she want to know?”
“Maybe…but also. What is she meant to do? She’s left as a single mother alone with the children. I don’t know what she’s dealing with. I can’t imagine what difficulty being married to me brought her, so on top of that I’m supposed to describe the torture too?”
“So it remained unspoken?”
“A lot remains unspoken.”
“So you’re not holding back because you’re a man, you’re holding back to protect her…”
Adel smiles. “That’s being a man.”
In a world of pathological over-sharing giving rise to coinages like “trauma-dumping” today, Adel would be forgiven for detailing every iota of his experience in eye-watering detail for anybody willing to listen. But he doesn’t. The reluctance is borne from an empathy that is uncommon to the point of curious. “I am sitting with you, and you are sitting with me”, he explains. “Do I know what troubles you really have? Can I know the problems you are handling? Do we know the truth of people’s pain inside?” I shake my head. “So why should I come and start adding to people’s issues with all this? Why should I be a reason to make their heart heavier?”
“So how do you deal with it?” Adel pauses. For a long time. “This is what I’ve been given, this is my life. I know this is sent from Allah, and I have to keep that as my focus. Not everything is about this life. Not everything is about now.”
One enduring truth of most trauma survivors is that recalling the specifics of the event makes you experience the violence twice. So in not speaking about what occurred, Adel is definitely protecting his wife, but also protecting himself too.
Ragha would have had to held on to the same conviction for either of them to have survived this. She was the one who endured scatty and unpredictable communication from her husband in prison, where access to phone calls were weaponised against Muslim prisoners. She came to the UK with three young children and spent a few years enjoying a kind of normal family life they were not allowed in Egypt.
Simple things: park visits, visiting friends, playing sports with the children. Ragha never lost the anxiety firmly implanted in her through life in Cairo. Always noticing authority figures around, always looking over her shoulders. Where does being cautious turn to paranoia? Ragha suspected they were being followed and Adel reported her sighting to the police, could they trust what the police were going to do with the information anyway?
In the summer of 1998, Ragha and her family were awoken in a dawn raid by British police. Dressed in white contamination suits and breaking the front door down with truncheons, Ragha and their young children were nothing less than traumatised by the obscene show of force into their quiet, sleeping home.
As a private woman,-shy and introverted- Ragha lay in bed to the sight of a dozen uniformed police shouting for her husband, not so much asking questions than officiating their brutal intentions. They searched the children’s clothes and tore out pages from any books that held telephone numbers in it.
Over decades of imprisonment, no clear answers, ever-sporadic communication, and prison visits where hours of delay and salivating dogs would be set upon to search family members, Ragha had to navigate life raising children in a country, culture and environment entirely alien to her. When her husband was finally extradited following a record-long legal battle, Ragha was permitted only two 15-minute phone calls from Adel in his New York prison where he was facing life without parole.
She knew he was in solitary confinement and there was no transparency in what lay ahead. With 6 children, he had just enough time to hurriedly speak to each child individually before a hushed word of greeting between husband and wife. Beneath the subdued greeting of peace they offered one another were mutual realities that could bear no articulation.
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error, and upon me prov’d,
I never writ, nor no man ever lov’d.
Sonnet 116, William Shakespeare
