Question: “Those who are not preoccupied with elevated goals will be consumed by lowly troubles.” What needs to be understood from this statement?

Answer: If a person is to be burdened by troubles, they should be burdened with elevated or sublime problems.             One such trouble we should burden ourselves with is our nearness to God. Are we responding to the countless blessings God has bestowed upon us the way we should? Are we able to use the Prophetic teachings as guidelines for that proper response?

Bediuzzaman Said Nursi said:

“The Worship of God is not an act through which to demand a Divine reward in the future, but rather the necessary result of a past Divine favor.”

“Worship is not for future rewards; it is offered for blessings that have already been given.”

Essentially, everything is given to us as Divine favors. While this is a fact, would it not be disrespectful to God to claim we have deserved even more, for we think we have fulfilled everything? Some have even considered the usage of pronouns such as “I, you, we,” as overstepping our territory vis-à-vis God Almighty. Get rid of the self so that He, God Almighty, may manifest within your heart. Take yourself out of the equation. For even our existence is only a matter of contingency, whereas the existence of the One Who is the Ultimate Truth and Ever-Constant one is absolute. We are not more than the shadow of the shadow of the shadow of His Existence.

In this sense we have no right to claim anything since He has given, and gives, everything.

No matter how long we live, even if we were to live 950 years like Prophet Noah did, peace be upon him, our sole duty should still be servanthood to God.

Even if we lived as long as he did and spent the entirety of our years in servitude to God in full sincerity, we would still not be able to express full gratitude for the bounties bestowed upon us by God.

We should do our best to occupy ourselves with this concern.

This should be the goal of all people who have chosen the path of the Prophets, strive to deliver God’s message, and make Him known to all of humanity. Making the hearts of others beat with His love and with excitement should be the grand purpose of life.

If one does not assume such lofty goals, lowly troubles will consequently befall them and plague their minds. One becomes occupied with pursuits such as living in extravagant houses, getting the best job with the highest pay, driving the nicest cars, or other worldly pleasures. The heart becomes obsessed with these fleeting desires, causing the person to unknowingly walk down the path of Satan.

The following saying, while being slightly changed, belongs to the Muslim jurist Imam Shafi:

“If you do not occupy yourself with the truth, falsehood occupies you.”

May God protect us from this truth!

Satan has made it his mission to drive us astray from the path of God and to fill our minds with falsehoods so that the truth may escape our grasp. He has had a burning hatred and contempt towards humankind from the very beginning. The only way to stand upright against Satan is to stand in front of God in devoted servanthood, bowing down, prostrating, and spilling your heart out in front of Him. This is based upon having a strong connection with Him. A weak connection will not last in the face of such temptations         

Bediuzzaman said, “A lie is a word of unbelief.” Everyone that lies does not become an unbeliever, but from the perspective of a believer, it is a characteristic that is associated with denying the biggest truth, God’s existence. God’s Messenger, peace and blessings be upon him, lists the three traits of a hypocrite. These and many more can be seen within an unbeliever:          

The first: he lies when he speaks.   

The second: he does not deliver on his promise.

And lastly: he betrays trust when entrusted with something.

Sometimes, a fourth attribute is mentioned:

“When he makes a promise, he wrongs you and breaches it.”          

The first trait is rooted in deceit; a hypocrite’s attribute is an unbeliever’s attribute. Lying is mentioned; however, slandering also falls into that category. It is even worse to have a slander that supports such a lie. This is because lying primarily concerns one’s self, whereas slandering questions others’ dignity and reputation. In order to save oneself from oppression, if people are defaming and ostracizing others, they need to know that this is wrong and it falls under the first category of lying, for what they are attributing to others is false.

There is always hope that repentance can allow us to turn back to God and be cleansed. Even major sins, such as these, can be removed with enough sincere repentance.

There are many steps that must be taken if one wishes to become closer to God, distance themselves from loving material goods, stay away from sin, and avoid spreading falsehoods.

Repentance (istighfar) comes first, as it is required to clean the slate and start anew. Following that, one must turn to God completely (tawba). Then, one must try to do it wholeheartedly (inaba). Another step in this journey is awba, which for those who are nearest to God Almighty is “turning to God in contrition.”

If one of these people that had turned to God in contrition glanced at something forbidden, 60 years later when he remembers it, he says, “I repent a million times! How could I have fallen into doing such a thing, my Lord!’”

The Glorious Prophet also praised those who repented much: “Glad tidings to the person whose record is filled with repentance.”

Abu Hurayra is known to have spent his time in remembrance and glorifications of God – as many as twelve thousand times daily, including supplications of the Prophet:

“O God Who is beyond any faults, I seek refuge from everything that doesn’t please You. I am seeking Your mercy and for the forgiveness of my sins. Dear Lord, increase me in knowledge and grant me salvation, and keep my heart steadfast; bestow blessings unto me; without doubt you are gracious, the Giver.”

Again, Abu Hurayra repeated such prayers twelve thousand times every day. It may seem strange that he repented so much. When asked about it he said, “I will repeat [prayers] as many times as the sins I have.” I wonder what sin he might have committed, when he was only among the poorest students of Ashab al-Suffa in Medina. How could he ever do any sin when he never abandoned the Prophet and lived a humble life in hunger? His is an example of awba, turning to God in contrition.

If you look at the prayers of Prophet Muhammad, Moses, Jesus, Jacob, and Joseph, peace be upon them all, you might assume that they did nothing but sin. They considered even an innocent word or faintest thought that crossed their imagination as sin, and developed an attitude accordingly, as if they committed murder. By the way, we have to acknowledge that these great souls never committed a sin as we understand what a sin is.

May God Almighty grant us success in knowing them!

“I commanded you the good but I haven’t taken it on board myself!
I haven’t been on the straight path
Be on the straight path! was my word to you.”
Busiri

She stood at the edge of the abyss, the blinding darkness engulfing her, enticing her. It would be easy to let go, to wither away and join him. Her arms felt numb, and her powerful legs were weak. Violent tremors traveled up and down her body. A small compelling hand, wet with tears, tugged on her arm. “What will we do now?” a quavering voice whispered. She opened her eyes. The sky was a cerulean blue, and the blazing sun was beating on her torn straw hat, casting a slender shadow on the spring green rice fields. Her rapid heart was calmed by a wind that caressed her cheek. To her dead husband, to her children, to Vietnam, she dropped the condolence letter, and with her feet firmly planted on the ground, said, “We will live.”

To say it was easy is an understatement. Raising five kids as a single mother, in a country where women are expected to be docile, seemed infeasible. “I was taught at a young age that men were the head of the household, they were the heroes of the family,” Diep Ngo, aged 80, recalls sadly, her eyes distant. “I felt helpless. My brothers were charting new paths, while I was still, unable to move.” With a suppressed sob, Ngo recounts that at the twilight hour, she would drown with dark thoughts, but every morning when the sun rose, they would be vanquished. The roosters were the reveille that awakened her slumber, her empty stomach was the battle cry, and the last words of hope from her departed beloved, the mantra that carried her on. 

The war took its toll on the civilians of Vietnam; it was a disease that plagued families with deaths and injuries. Young girls were jailbirds, kept busy looking after their younger siblings, torn rags their striped attire and restrictions the bars of their prison. Dreams were locked away, replaced by the basic needs crucial to survival. Even so, when asked if she would take part in the war that claimed her husband, Ngo, her mouth in a straight line and her eyes ablaze, adamantly nodded. Raising both arms until her fists were level with her head, she mustered a grimace. Her nose crinkled and teeth bared, but her eyes sparkled with humor. “Do you think anyone would’ve thought twice about taking me on?”

Scraping bits and pieces of broken memories from her childhood, Ngo recalls that the only freedom she truly had was that from the pressures of education. “I never did well in school. Women were not expected to accomplish anything, so it was highly unusual for a women to achieve higher education.” Now, it seems clear that this supposed freedom transformed itself into another burden upon her shoulders, for she had to take on menial tasks when drafted into the position of “man.” For the first time in her life, she left the cage built by the patriarchal society and refused wealthy suitors. “They were bloated with pride… I would never submit to any man like that.” Ngo was ridiculed by her neighbors as a result, but she felt a strange sensation, absent from her life ever since the fateful, disappointed sigh that accompanied the doctor declaring her gender 80 years ago: the jewel of independence.

“As their father was gone, I had to step into the role of the provider. Oh, what a burden it was, but the power and purpose it gave me fueled the sleepless nights.”

Before the age of 30, her long, black hair turned a platinum gray, and impending wrinkles scarred her face as the war robbed her of youth. A moment to weep or reconcile with memories of loved ones was lost in the present.

“Losing my husband was truly hard, but myself, and other women of Vietnam, had to choke back grief and look to the future,” she remarked. Leaving the house militarily before the sun rose and coming back well after the crescent moon silently loomed in the sky, the only thing Ngo regrets is not spending as much time with her children. But, what she had to do was necessary, as every day was a battle. Even so, how could she explain to them the rough calluses on her hands, which toiled tirelessly, tending the infested wounds left after the hungry bullets pierced the heart of Vietnam? How could she explain yet another outline of a large palm on her red cheek, this time from an angry customer, unsatisfied by the knee-length trousers she had spent all night mending?

Through it all, she remained an eternal warrior, whose struggles rivaled those of men fighting raging wars. Diep Ngo battled gender inequality and injustice, all while leading her family through desperate times. An old poem by Xuân Diệu filled her thoughts as America, the land of rebirth and opportunities, slowly emerged on the horizon: “Your feet have hardly tread round this way… Open your arms to clasp the spring, then from your hand let there be light” (translated by Thomas D. Le). And for the first time since her husband’s death, she welcomed the moist tears, for the valiant soldier’s burden had been lifted. Her dauntless mission was complete. 

I’m forever grateful for her valiant decision to bypass social stereotypes and become a sort-of soldier, leading her family to survival, to new opportunities, to an education, to happiness, to America. It’s a natural, humane feeling that is respectful of the wisdom, the strength, and the sacrifices of the old. Every evening, after the tiring cycle of school, I retreat back into my place of comfort: my grandmother’s arms, and for the past 17 years, her past life was but a false, beautiful painting, rid of pain and hardships and suffering. That one night, under a blanket of softly twinkling stars, I retraced her hands, touching them, caressing them, tracing her old, calloused, scarred fingers and her bulging veins, to finally realize the truth: that there was so much I didn’t know about my hero.

Serge and I were buddies. Our interests were largely similar. We were both interested in Oriental mysticism, travel literature, art, architecture, and ceramics. 

“The mystical part about making pots is whether you are in a good state when you make them, or anything else. Trying to achieve a good state by throwing pots as a therapeutic undertaking must be difficult. No, the state comes first and everything else follows,” I suggested.

“Sounds rather obvious,” Serge said.

“That’s the trouble, really. We expect our jobs, our hobbies and everything else we do, to give us peace. Of course, we must do our work with our minds, but the mind had better be in abeyance or you have no chance of creating anything worthwhile.”

“But artistic aspirations…?”

“I like basic aesthetics. Slender pots appeal to me more than fat ones. A fairly minimalist approach is evident. A traditional Japanese house delights me. I too, of course, wish to be empty.”

“How about architecture?” he asked.

“It is about form, which by necessity is governed by function. I greatly admire architects and I can feel their dilemma when attempting to combine form and function. The great architects give us spaces that are comfortable for our interior worlds. “

“But empty…?” Serge prodded.

“I suppose I mean the ability, the luck or grace to receive vision. I am convinced that any artistic endeavor begins with an inner vision. A quiet mind is almost a prerequisite. Then comes the work of getting stuff made, which I contend is the job of the mind. I once read that Mozart claimed to have seen music floating before him; he then had the task of getting it all down as sheet music.”

“So you equate throwing pots with a mechanical process,” Serge said.

I explained: “One obviously must learn the mechanics. I spent a year at art school learning how to throw in series. I was fanatical and everyone said I was crazy because I never fired anything. I once worked on a Greek island and was made aware of Greek potters who have little or no artistic ambition. They see working with clay in the same way that a mechanic works on a car. I heard about one potter in Athens whose wheel head never stops turning. Balls of clay are usually weighed to make certain pots and one then places the ball on a stationary wheel head, gets the thing turning, throws the pot, stops the wheel and cuts off the pot to be placed on a board. The man in Athens simply grabs a chunk of clay of about the right weight, whacks it on to a running wheel head, centers and throws the pot and cuts it off and removes it while the wheel head is in motion. He does that all day long, hour after hour.”

“Wasn’t it the Bauhaus people who spoke about a machine for living?”

“Sure,” I said. “But for them function was an aim. The rest was a philosophy of de-cluttering. Décor art also has a function, I hope, because it can get people forgetting themselves, if only momentarily, which I believe is the best way to experience pleasure.”

“What do you mean by forgetting yourself to experience pleasure?”

“It is quite clear – and many doctors and psychologists agree – that the activity of the mind can be repressive. Mental activity is seldom conducive to healing if taken to an extreme. A patient’s first thoughts are naturally the stuff of concern and the need to seek help! If the patient can surrender his or her condition completely to the expertise of the doctor, the doctor’s task is simplified because the patient’s mind does not meddle with the doctor’s work. More important, the mind is placed in abeyance and permits, or releases, the flow of a natural healing process.”

Serge was confused. “But how does creativity come into it?” he asked.

“One could say that any flow of natural energy, meaning not mind-induced, could be pleasurable. But it is not simply a question of absolute faith in a doctor because the mind in this very complex world has often formed what in German is known as an Eigendynamic, a life of its own, which means that the mind could take control of a person’s life and becomes a personal, overriding function. That which should be a person’s servant has then reversed the roles.

“Most people find a feeling of equanimity in a state of passive focus. I once attended a concert featuring Ella Fitzgerald and a jazz trio. The lady was in such fine form that within a few minutes she had captured the attention, the hearts, and the minds, of the entire audience, thus giving them a release from self. The feeling of euphoria was utterly palpable. Any great artist can give this grace to people. To look at a Rembrandt, at least for the first time, can be stunning – meaning, the mind is stunned. Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, and many more, were capable of offering such grace. I would suggest that truly great artists are themselves in a state of mind abeyance, as mentioned above, when creating their pictures, sculpture, music, literature, and architecture. Great artists ‘receive’ rather than ‘conceive’ their works.

“We are encouraged to be selfless, to simply let go of the thoughts that constantly bug us and turn to what we instinctively know to be true. True art, design, architecture, and hopefully ceramics, can therefore not only be pleasing but also beneficial.”

“Is humankind sick?” he asked.

“Not at all but there does appear to be a widespread feeling of dissatisfaction as we travel down our days. We have little repose. You might say we don’t give ourselves a chance to be truly happy. Was it Krishnamurti who said that there is only one thing between you and God: you. Get out of the way.”

“So you think a mystical approach would be useful?”

“I really do believe that, but, naturally, one would need the time to get quiet. Having a family, a job, earning a living and all the rest is hardly conducive to achieving equanimity from the outset. I can now make ceramics at my leisure but I admire those creative people who are able to achieve great work within the hustle of daily life, especially the young ones.”

“Looking at the pictures, there seems to be an ‘Asian’ approach to your ceramics.”

I said: “The master-potter, Bernard Leach went to Asia to learn about ceramics. He returned to England in 1920 and brought the Japanese master, Shoji Hamada, with him. Hamada and Leach showed us the possibility of selfless pottery making. They constructed and fired a wood-burning kiln, which, opposed to the radiant heat of an electric kiln, brings out the inherent qualities of the clay beneath a glaze. This is achieved by reducing the air intake at a critical point during firing because, obviously, a naked flame requires oxygen to keep burning. Thus the flame starved of oxygen seeks oxygen in the glazes and the clay. The result is buttery textures and some marvelous hues. I have a potter friend, however, who studied with Leach and he said it took years to escape from his influence.”

“But what of selfless pottery?”

“Again, it is the state of having one’s mind in abeyance. Leach maintained that if six potters were to each make a simple tea bowl and one of the potters was in a quiet state the result would be noticeable. In fact, he said that eight out of ten observers would instinctively choose that one bowl.”

“This would seem to imply meditation,” Serge said.

“I have nothing against meditation, but I never did it.”

“So what is your approach?”

“I do nothing really special: just get quiet, relax, begin, and watch what happens. I’m sure many others are happy with the way they operate.”

“Is there a learning process, in all this?”

I told him, “It’s like learning to drive a car, which is initially undertaken as a mental process. Beginners tend to be nervous. Gear changes get snarled, the rear-view mirror is largely forgotten, and so on. The mechanical learning process gradually becomes internalized and a natural flow takes over. Gear changes and all of the other skills become automatic. When this has occurred the mind is set free to concentrate, although focus would be a better word, on what is coming at you on the road.”

“So how did you learn?”

“It may sound far-fetched but one might say that the hands learned what to do. There is a marvelous video on YouTube showing the jazz guitarist Stanley Jordan playing a number (Jumpin’ Jack). Jordan has the ability to play melody and bass simultaneously, somewhat in the way a pianist plays. Deep into his solo one sees Jordan looking down at his hands and there is a smile on his face that seems to say ‘…hey, you guys are really having a good time.’”

“Oh come on, jazz and a quiet mind?”

“Jazz means improvisation engendered by freedom. The freedom from self, conflict, and anything else that hinders creativity.”

“Of course it would be impertinent to speak for other artists but I love the idea of what the Japanese call Shibui. It is a feeling engendered by quiet reticence, something that gives pleasure for reasons beyond explanation. I suppose it means a special rightness about something. Since I am not a Mozart, I do not expect to stun or startle with my work. I am satisfied if a bit of Shibui arises through a combination of shapes and glazes.”

“Talking about shapes…” Serge said.

“As I said before I prefer slender pots; pots that narrow down to a small foot. This gives the pot an appearance of floating – is soaring too presumptuous? My bowls usually have a turned foot. It gives them a lightness that I find pleasing.”

“Have you not been copying the painter Giorgio Morandi with his still-life renderings of ceramic vessels, especially the fluted bottles or those with cut sides?”

“I had never heard of the man before you mentioned him,” I told my friend. “But Morandi does appeal. Thanks for introducing me to his work.”

“The glazes are obviously an enhancement!”

“True but there is a lot of science involved. I fire with an electric kiln because it was given to me as a gift. We are too strapped for cash to buy a preferred gas or wood-burning kiln. My glazes have therefore been things to overcome rather than just use.”

“Build your own kiln!”

“I would love to but for the time being I am where I am at. The electric kiln I use is not particularly large, 60x75x50 centimeters inside, and it does have its eccentricities. All potters have this problem and have adjusted their glaze recipes and firing cycles accordingly. After several test firings, I have been lucky to achieve a good off-white, a really luscious chocolate black, a rather startling blue, a gorgeous dark green thinning to brown on the edges. I also have a nice pale green, which is supposed to be a celadon, but never really came out that way. I am still looking for a classic Chinese tenmoku glaze that fires at 1250°. It is a wonderful black breaking to brown on thin edges.”

“Your glaze application sometimes seems somewhat free-form,” Serge said. “What is behind that?”

“Well, if you have ever tried to draw an arc or a circle you will see the distinct wobble of the line because of an unsure hand. Just swish the pencil around on the paper and the result is likely to be much more graceful. You may not achieve a perfect circle but the result will be more pleasing to the eye. Lord knows how Giotto did a perfect circle in the thirteenth century. Splash glazing is a sort of just do it endeavor. There is no foresight involved, I dribble a glaze on to a pot and…”

“Watch what happens?”

“Right,” I said. “It is again the idea of not really putting one’s mind into a thing. Otherwise I dip my pots into a bucket of glaze in the usual way. Of course, large vessels must have a glaze poured over them, but it is still uncontrolled.”

“Clay?”

“The stoneware clay I use has been great help in achieving texture, although it is not very easy to throw. I mix two clays, with and without grog. The clay is speckled with pyrite and it looks good on the unglazed parts of a pot. The pyrite also shows through the glazes, especially in the off-white.”

“There seems to be lifestyle aspect in what you do.”

“I got around to it a bit late but consider myself lucky. We have a nice old house and a small pottery room. The garden is up and running. My marriage seems to be good, although I am definitely not going to ask her opinion about that. How you live, where you live, and what you do are largely a matter of circumstance for most people. An organized human environment is rather required.”

“Do you remember us talking about Francesco Patrizi, the author of many works of philosophy and the arts?”

“That’s right. He was looking for perfection of a sort,” I said.

“Patrizi wrote a book tantalizingly called The Happy Town. The work is Utopian and an attempt to counter Thomas More’s notion of separating church and state. Patrizi proposed the integration of both. He was born into the nobility in Croatia in 1529 and had the time and inclination to consider the improvement of the world around him. La città felice was written in 1551 in Padua and was printed in Venice in 1553, when Patrizi was only 22 years old. His book proposes a topographical situation that is obviously seen as the Croatian town of Cres in its deep, protective bay, and is about achieving an ideal state. We are confronted with a man who wished to create order, but it was order-imposed. His architectural notions encompassed ‘…straight streets to enhance winds in the hot season’ and ‘…streets meandering like a river to divert winds in the winter months.’ There were to be squares and institutional buildings for commerce, but his main thrust was the stuff of social order. Fabrizi proposed two social groups, the nobility, composed of soldiers and the priesthood, and workers and peasants forming a second group. This second group in The Happy Town were not actually meant to be happy but were only to serve and ‘…not to attain a state of bliss.’”

“Ho hum for Fabrizi. Thomas More was really a humanist, someone who cared.”

“Exactly!” Serge said. “Patrizi was an architect who wished to tell people what is good for them. One debatable point about art could be about what it does to people. Should art bring people to quiet reflection – bliss would be an exaggeration in my case – or should it provoke? Personally, getting people all riled up doesn’t make sense to me.”

“So what is the message?”

“Not offending anyone’s sensibilities, which means offering stuff that calms rather than antagonizes.”

“Your method…?”

“Get quiet, relax, begin.”   

“And watch what happens?”

“That’s about it.”

Termites are 1-2 cm in size, but they live in mud towers that can grow to five meters tall. The scale, between termite and tower, is comparable to that between a human and a skyscraper. When their life style, which seems chaotic from the outside, is investigated, one finds that termites maintain social lives within perfect urban communities. These wondrous mini cities feature air conditioning and ventilation systems, in addition to a queen chamber, and rooms for incubation and juveniles.

An instinctual sense of solidarity that has been ingrained among living organisms also plays an important role among termites. They display an amazing form of cooperation in matters like foraging and defense. As termites live in colonies, they follow a particular arrangement of duties. The queen is in charge of new generations; workers meet the nest’s needs, and soldiers are responsible for its defense. When necessary, workers also participate in defensive tasks. One of the termite’s defense mechanisms, which amazed scientists, was recently discovered in June 2012.

Jan Sobotnik, with the Academy of Sciences of the Czech Republic, and Thomas Bourguignon, of Université Libre de Bruxelles at French Guiana, discovered an unseen feature of the termite species Neocapritermes taracua. The workers of this species are, in a sense, enlisted to military duty when they “retire” due to old age and an inability to forage due to weakened mouths. They serve the defense of the nest as something of a chemical weapon specialist. When the colony is under attack, these veterans blow up a droplet-size balloon filled with a type of chemical generated in between segments of their neck and dorsal region.

When worker termites get older, blue crystal chambers, which resemble backpacks, grow on their two shoulder blades on their back. These crystals are a kind of protein called hemocyanin that contains copper, and they join together with saliva when under threat. This fusion causes a chemical reaction. The end product is a sticky liquid, like a gel, that is compressed to expand and then burst. This can fatally injure a predator. The poisonous substance that is dispersed causes rotting upon contact. The chemical formula of this blue crystal substance, along with its reactions, are still unknown.

Researchers from Oregon University (USA) reported that the mouth of an ant is worn down by age. When this occurs, these senior individuals, which used to cut leaves, now take on different jobs, like carrying the leaves. Leaf cutter ants, which are also known as the ranchers of the animal kingdom for their ability to cultivate fungi in their nests, can cut and carry leaves whose weight can be up to 50 times their body weight.

The leaves that are transported to the nest comprise the main ingredient required for the growth of fungi in a suitable environment regulated for the right temperature and humidity. This fungi is ultimately used to feed the colony. This is a fine example of senior members of a community staying active in a new role. And this is not just unique to termites: research shows that members of animal societies adapt to changes in their lives, and continue serving their colonies even if they lose some dexterity.

Our universe seems to be set up this way. As mentioned in the above examples, there is a change of occupation instead of just retirement. Just as there is no termite that stops working, there is no bird that says “I do not want to fly anymore because I am old,” or no tree that says, “I will retire and stop giving fruit because of my old age.” Organisms adapt to new conditions and find new ways to provide for our planet.

Our aging planet will continue rotating and the sun will keep smiling on us with its heat and light until the end of such organism’s lifetimes.

When it comes to humans, continuing with occupation and business as much as they can should be the desired effort. Especially for charity work, no one should mention retirement or leave of a duty, and receding to one’s quarters. Let us renew our intentions now, and review our senior living plans.

It was spacious but darkened by the shutters on the windows. The fluorescent lamps were on round the table in the middle of the room, but the rest of the room remained dark. There were already some students gathered round the table, talking in low voices, gesturing at the corpse draped in white. Some looked quite pale, other’s smiled coldly. Salih, his friend, seemed to be standing apart from the others, alone, so Selim took his place beside him. The room felt cold.

Laid out on the table, under a white cloth, there was the dead body which they were supposed to study. Selim realized that it was this corpse which made the room feel cold. The realization made him tense. He felt quite sick. In order to relax himself, he tried to say something to Salih, but the words would not come out.

Salih noticed and asked him: ‘What’s the matter? Are you frightened’?

Selim managed to find his voice, and said weakly:

‘No, no, I was just thinking…’

‘What?’

‘I was thinking,’ Selim answered, indicating the other students, ‘that here we are standing round a corpse… And we are unmoved. It’s just something ordinary. We are quite indifferent toward it.’

‘You are right,’ said Salih. ‘We are being trained that way. Death never becomes an occasion for us to understand the reality of our situation. As a scholar once put it, “Death is enough to warn people”. But we seem not to understand the warning.’

Meanwhile, the teacher had come in and started his lesson: ‘Today you are going to examine various parts of the body. You’ve looked at pictures and diagrams in your Anatomy Atlases-now you will see the real thing, as it were, in the flesh. Most of you will never have seen a corpse before. Don’t be alarmed or put off as I remove the cloth. You have to get used to such things. You will have to face them in the future as part of your job. There is nothing to be frightened about-what we have here is after all only a dead body.’

Soon the teacher was ready with his gloves on his hands and his mask on his face. As he moved to the head of the corpse and took hold of the cloth to remove it, a deathlike suspense prevailed in the room. Expressions were frozen on the students’ faces and, in the stillness, even seemed as if no one dared to breathe. Selim was still struggling with his thoughts when the teacher slowly pulled back the cloth from the corpse. When he saw what he saw, something like an explosion or a volcano erupting happened in Selim’s head and heart. The tears welled in his eyes, threatening to spill over. He was utterly confused and trembling all over. He was about to faint but with a desperate effort managed to rush from the room, spluttering, ‘No, no, no…’.

His fellow-students, unaware of what was going on, looked on bemused. They heard his footsteps in the corridor. One of them broke the silence: ‘He was frightened, I suppose.’ Then the others had some comment or other to make, except Salih who stood motionless, not sure what he should do.

Selim rushed out of the faculty building into the gardens outside. He stopped to lean back against one of the trees. He remained still for a moment, his eyes closed and his head pressed against the trunk of the tree. His muddled thoughts and feelings cleared as he slipped away from the present moment into childhood memories. As always, when he recalled his early years, he remembered his mother’s tears and his father’s shouting which was the cause of her tears and his father, for no reason at all, hitting his mother in the face. He remembered the mealtimes after which they still felt hungry. He was very young then, in the early years of school. Before that, what he could remember was happy and peaceful. His mother was a good, pious woman, brought up by a good family. His father was a teacher: they were considered well off on his salary. His father did his best to meet the demands of his family and everybody liked him. He hardly ever went to a coffee house to spend time with his friends, nor was he ever seen to quarrel with his wife at home

Unfortunately those happy days did not last long. The society was corrupting, and for some reason anything uncorrupted was to be rejected. Moral values were being made fun of and knocked down; good was considered bad and bad good. One had to struggle hard in mind and spirit to hold on to values and character in such a degenerating society. Selim’s father could not resist the pressures. He became used to attending coffee houses and made new friends who introduced him to harmful habits. Then he started to come home late and drunk. Sometimes, after he came back, he would wake his wife and demand a meal. Poor woman, when she would say, ‘But what can I cook? There is nothing in the kitchen,’ he hit her in the face. Selim hid under his blanket, sobbing as he heard the shouting and weeping. Once, when he took hold of his father’s legs and begged him: ‘Don’t, don’t do it, father’, he got a beating too.

After Selim’s father was banned from teaching he became an alcoholic. During that time, his mother did some work sewing clothes at home and, when the need was desperate, she even went out to clean houses for money. His father took this money by force to spend on drink. When his wife tried to refuse to give him the money, he hit her until she gave in. Over and over again, she would plead: ‘Give up drinking. Can’t you see that it is ruining us all? Can’t you see how unhappy we all are? Please give up drinking, then our old happy life will return. I can work to support the family until you are all right.’

The poor woman’s health was deteriorating day by day, and the mistreatment by her husband grew unbearable. So, one day, they left the house to go shopping and never returned. They went to live instead in the house of the widow of Selim’s grandmother’s uncle.

Selim finished school and wanted to go on to high school but he knew that his mother could not afford it. His mother wanted to get him an apprenticeship of some kind. For the time being, during the school holidays, he studied the Qur’an in the neighbourhood mosque and quickly learnt the Arabic alphabet. That did not take long. After that, Selim became an apprentice to a hair-dresser.

That was just before the schools opened. Selim was aware of the hardships his family faced. Even so, he really did want to attend high school. He said nothing to his mother. He only cried about it alone, to himself in his bed. One day, the imam of the mosque came to the hairdresser’s to have his hair cut. He was keen to find out if his former pupil whom he had taught how to read the Qur’an would go on to high school. Selim said quietly, ‘I would like to, but…’ He couldn’t finish the sentence. But the imam guessed from the tears in Selim’s eyes what the situation might be.

The imam asked where Selim and his mother lived and paid them a visit. In a long talk, Selim’s mother explained their story to the imam, weeping as she did so. Before he left the imam said: ‘Don’t worry! With the help of God, I will do everything I can to help Selim to attend school. Believe me! The only thing I need is your prayers.’ The mother and son were hopeful and happy.

The imam told his friends the circumstances and they all agreed to help. Together, they managed to get a place for Selim in a good boarding school whose aim was to bring up students dedicated to the service of their religion and their homeland. It was at this school that Selim met and made friends with Salih. Not many years later Selim sat for the university entrance examination. When he opened the envelope with his results, he gave thanks to God and hurried to give his mother the good news: he had won a place in the school of medicine. When he reached home he found his mother on her death-bed, drawing her last breaths. He held her hand and said nothing. She opened her eyes and looked at him. They were eyes full of a mother’s suffering and a mother’s love. ‘Well,’ she asked, ‘What happened? What were your results?’

‘I’ve won a place in the school of medicine. I will become a doctor and treat you. Believe me, mum! You will be the happiest woman in the world.’

‘I thank God that I have lived to see this day,’ his mother said, and wept a little with contentment and relief. Then, she went on: ‘I am so glad that I have a son obedient to God. Finishing school is nothing by itself, my son. Remember that your father was an educated man but his ignorance brought us to those bad days which we all suffered. It is ages since we heard anything of him. Who knows where he is drinking now, even if he is still alive? I don’t think you will be like him. Study, my son, study much and become a professor. But never lose your faith. Without it, you are nothing. I’d rather you had not gone to school if you end up following your father’s example, destroying both yourself and the ones around you, instead of being helpful to them. With the knowledge you have, feel the greatness of God. That is my wish.’

She held Selim’s hand very tightly. He kissed her again and again, and said: ‘You are very ill, mum. Don’t tire yourself! I will call a doctor.’

In a voice that grew ever weaker, she said: ‘I dont need a doctor now. You can stand up to any difficulty. I have always tried not to do anything bad, as God has warned us. I don’t feel any pain now. I hope I have managed to bring up a son who will pray for me after my death. Please don’t forget what I have told you. May God be of great help to you, God…!’ At this point, her voice failed her. She relaxed as if falling into a sweet deep sleep and so passed away.

Re-living these sad moments, Selim, leaning against the tree in the grounds of the faculty of medicine, shook with emotion. Absorbed in himself, he had not noticed Salih who had followed him from the lecture room.

‘Hey what happened to you?’ Salih asked, shaking him gently by shoulder. ‘I would have believed that you were frightened if I did not know you well. We believe in God and we know that death is certain. Why then did you run away like that?’

Selim looked up at Salih and spoke slowly and carefully: ‘You are my closest friend. We stayed in the same boarding school, we both won scholarships to this university and right now we have been living in the same house for two years. I don’t think I care much what other people might think, but I do care what you think. I know I can trust you to keep secret what I’m going to tell you. Do you remember saying to me today-“We are going to work on an actual corpse, a dead man. I wonder if he had any children, poor man!” Do you remember saying that?’

‘Of course, I remember,’ said Salih. ‘Why? Did I say something wrong?’

‘No, Salih,’ answered Selim ‘You said nothing wrong, but do you know who he was?’

‘How could I possibly know that?’

‘Well,’ said Selim with a sigh, ‘I don’t know if it is enough to call him “poor man” but I do know very well who he was. He was my father.’