Desiccated by the merciless desert air, these seas of fire have
dried to form black basalt plains which stretch beyond the horizon. They are God's defence
of the city, whose glassy sharpness kept at bay the idolatrous invaders of Quraysh,
forcing them to confront the believers at their only point of access, at the Battle of the
Trench. The desolation of this landscape of flat blackness, interrupted by dry sarha
bushes, and, far away, the shapely profile of extinct volcanoes, gives the impact of
arrival an extraordinary dramatic power.
The proximity of the City, on the motorway inevitably dubbed the Hijra Highway, is first
announced by the slip-road to Abyar Ali, the Wells of Ali. These are sweetwater sources
much frequented by pilgrims, eager to benefit from the medicinal properties of these deep,
cold wells once owned by the Blessed Prophet's son-in-law. Pilgrims from the Subcontinent,
in particular, flock here to catch the precious fluid in bottles, to be given to relatives
on their return: a gift almost as welcome as the Water of Zamzam itself.
Ten minutes drive, and Quba is reached. Here, the black barrenness of the harrat
suddenly gives way to a verdant sea of green. Alfalfa, watermelons, cucumber and
tomatoes grow here, between fruit trees and the ancient symbol of Madina, the date palm
itself. In this prosperous suburb, now a place of coffee-shops and small parks, can still
be found the Zarqa wells from which the Blessed Prophet drank when first he reached the
City, and which are the secret of the land's fertility. Here, too, the Madman Muslims, and
the penniless but radiant refugees from Makkan tyranny, patiently lined the walls and the
high places, hoping for a glimpse of God's Messenger and the faithful Abu Bakr, as they
appeared as dots on the shimmering horizon.
The mosque at Quba, the first place of worship founded in Islam, is impressive but sober.
The 1986 reconstruction retains the familiar features of Madinese architecture, which are
ribbed white domes, and basalt facing over a modest exterior that recalls Madina's
primordial simplicity. The courtyard, screened overhead by day from the scorching heat, is
flagged with black, red and white marble. Calligraphy by great Turkish masters soars
overhead, proclaiming the uniqueness of this place. Arabesque latticework filters the
light of the palm groves outside. Doves coo in the window-niches.
Despite the sense of peace, few linger here. The pull of the Haram, the Sanctuary, is
everywhere, and as the sun lowers in the west the pilgrims have thoughts only for the
Prophet's Mosque. At this time, there is only one destination for visitors and
city-dwellers alike. In Ramadan, in this city, it would be possible to switch off the
traffic lights in the late afternoon. Every road becomes a one-way street, pulling the
visitor towards the cool, radiant heart of the city.
Visitors who have not set foot in Madina before are often in tears by now. The blessings
of a still, loving Presence can be breathed everywhere, softening hearts, and loosening
tongues in dhikr. Shops and buildings pass by, but here the city itself is no
more than a blur. Visitors come here for one place, and for one person alone.
The road skirts the Manakha district, and passes the Mosque of Abu Bakr its Ottoman
minaret pointing to the clear, reddening sky. Then, the splendour of the Haram is suddenly
revealed. A minaret, and then several more, sparkle in welcome. And then the adhan
rises, piercing the warm air with its magnetic summons.
A sea of quiet humanity pours into each of seventy gates. Many have removed their sandals
long beforehand, out of respect for the ground which holds the Messenger in its embrace.
Within, there is clear light, carpets, water-barrels, and an extraordinary dynamic which
draws the visitor on, and in, until at last the courtyard is reached, and the pilgrim
stands in the presence of the Best of Creation.
Hundreds of thousands are being fed. These guests of the Prophet sit, while those honoured
with this service circulate, smilingly handing out dates, or small containers of yoghurt.
In this palace of the Prophet, no-one, however poor, goes hungry when the time of the fast
is ended. Children tumble on the carpets, laughing with delight at the experience of the
endless sanctuary. There is a murmur of grateful conversation, and of prayer.
The space is articulated with supreme genius. To one side is the Gate of Gabriel, leading
on, and in, to the Rawda, and to the mihrab in which the Messenger himself laid his
forehead on the earth in adoration of God. On one side is the dakka, the carved
marble platform on which the muezzin and his assistants await the appointed time.
On the other rises the gold grille beyond which lies the cool and shaded silence beneath
the great dome. The air here is perfumed by the rarest of incense and musk, announcing the
presence, beneath the flagstones, of the Best of Creation, and Abu Bakr and Umar, his
closest companions.
The modern Egyptian poet al-Fayturi expresses the emotions of millions:
Over the Prophet's form every speck of dust
is a pillar of light
ascending from the dome of his tomb
to the dome of the skies.
And the awe that makes our foreheads bow
draws its own horizon, and higher horizons,
from hands and from lips,
the road of 'In the name of God.'
The proximity is overwhelming for some pilgrims, whose humility
and awe forces them to sit at a respectful distance, perhaps some way down the mosque.
Others cannot sit too close. Everywhere, there is worship, bowing and prostration, the
mellifluous murmuring of the Qur'an, and wordless contemplation.
A hadith tells us that "Prayer in my mosque is a thousand times better than prayer in
any other mosque, saving only the Sacred Mosque itself." As the iqama
sounds, and half a million men and women rise with longing for the prayer, the calculation
does not feel like an overstatement.
Prayer in the Rawda is especially sought after. A hadith affirms that "the
space between my grave and my pulpit is one of the Meadows of Paradise."
Here, listening to the awesome gravity of God's word, the continuity with the blessed past
is felt intensely. The greatest saints and scholars of Islam have stood here: after the
Companions came countless thousands: the Four Imams worshipped here, as did al-Shaybani,
Ibn Jurayj, al-Zuhri, Sibawayh, Ibn Qutaybah, al-Ghazali, al Nawawi, A'isha al-Ba'uniyya,
Ibn Khaldun: all the great souls of Islam have prayed here, humbled by the Prophetic
presence.
After the silent prayers of the day, the worshippers drink the words of the Qur'an
thirstily. The greetings of peace are given, and the lines break up as they worship
individually. Circles of remembrance form in the Rawda, as turbanned Turks repeat a
litany, guided by their teacher, prayer-beads in hand. Nigerians, Uzbeks, Bangladeshis and
a whole sea of Indonesians do likewise.
A Baluchi folk-melody, 'May I see the towers of Madina', sings,
On the tongues of this Rawda's nightingales are words of wisdom,
More beautifully coloured than all the flowers of Madina!
Among the many Prophetic litanies which the careful ear may hear
in this place, the most widely-used is the Dala'il al-Khayrat, the Indications
of Blessings, by Imam al-Jazuli, whose tomb in far-off Marrakech breathes something
of the spirit of Madina. This great prayer begins with over two hundred Names of the
Prophet, culled from the scriptures, and which may also be read in exquisite Naskh
calligraphy above the green tiles on the qibla wall. Hundreds of names recall
him: the Messenger of Mercy, the Emissary of Virtue, Reliant, the Beloved of God, Seal of
the Prophets…
These pilgrims know that they are in the presence of the most influential man in history.
He had found a people divided by the crudest pagan ignorance, and left them united in the
purest and most exalted monotheism. Formerly they had denied life after death; twenty
three short years on, they lived with it constantly before their eyes. He had found them
unable to rule themselves, torn by agelong vendettas, knowing no law other than the
selfish interest of the tribe and the individual's honour; and he left their hearts so
united that they withstood the shock of his death, and went out to liberate the world.
In this place, the Messenger guided his disciples. Here they learnt how to be still before
their Lord, how to restrain their anger, to live for others, to show compassion to young
and old. This was the crucible of a New World Order: the most effective school ever known.
And presiding over it all, still, is the presence of the Prophet. His mission for the
Muslim commonwealth awaits its final consummation, when, at the Resurrection, he shall
appear with his name of Intercessor. There is no Muslim alive who does not hope for the
honour of resurrection under his green Banner of Praise, and for the rapture of salvation
through his pleading before his Lord. Adab, good manners in his presence, is
hence passionately cultivated and prayed for. Those who respectfully move forwards, to
stand before the gold of the Wajiha to greet him, are moved not only by love and
gratitude for what he did, but by fervent hope for his prayers, help and pleading amid the
terrors of the Apocalypse.
He said: "No Muslim greets me but that Allah restores my spirit to me so that
I am able to respond to him." Five times a day, worshippers end their
prayers by invoking blessings and peace upon his spirit. No human being, since the
beginning of time, has been more blessed. And this reciprocal rite of taslim is
the culmination of a lifetime of calling down God's blessings upon him, a cosmic process
in which God and the Angels themselves join. In the presence of his spirit, salat
and salam come continuously. The entire mosque is filled with prayers for him;
and this is the largest building in the world. Here, the existence of humanity finds its
justification.
"Not one of you believes," says a hadith, "until I
am dearer to him than his father, his son, and all mankind." The power of
this love detains many in the mosque. But the body has its rights, and others slowly
leave, to find a place to eat in this crowded city. Restaurants of all kinds abound, and
the air around the mosque loses its hint of musk and sandalwood, to become fragrant with
the aroma of Turkish kebabs, Lebanese meze, Malaysian satay, Sudanese chicken and beans.
In the darkness, street vendors offer the garments of fifty countries: Indonesian batik,
Damascus muslin, Egyptian cotton, Moroccan chiffre. Prayer beads of olive pits, amber or
ebony dangle from shelves. Women browse through jewellery, heaped high with no fear of
thieves.
The cheerful fellowship of the eating-houses is not the profane self-exaltation of the
smart Western restaurant. Here, companionship is the main item on the menu. Struggling for
words, Muslims of two hundred nationalities speak about their homes, about the troubles of
the world, about their hopes for an end to the unbearable shallowness of the modern world,
and a return to God.
The air outside is now much cooler. Those who know the city may briefly visit some of its
nearer shrines, such as the Mosque of the Two Qiblas, with its resonance's of the lost
Muslim city of Jerusalem, the Third Holy City. Unlike Madina, Jerusalem has been
tragically desacralised in recent decades, with the introduction of night clubs,
pornography, and every form of degradation. But Islam's grasp on Madina is still strong.
Such is God's power in defence of His Messenger that no enemy army has succeeded in
capturing it, since the dawn of Islam.
The adhan sounds for 'Isha, and the veins of the city pump back towards
the mosque which is its heart. Grateful for God's gift of food and drink, the pilgrims are
eager for the prayer, followed by the Tarawih rite extending almost two hours
into the night.
Tarawih in Madina is one of the great spectacles of the world. Perhaps a million
men, women and children, stand in neat lines in the mosque, on its roof, and in the
marbled spaces nearby. Tarawih in Mecca is an experience of austere majesty; in
Madina, it is characterised by delight and by love. To pray in the company of God's
Messenger, who rose through the seven heavens to bring to us the gift of prayer, and who
will intercede for tides of humanity, is an almost inexpressible joy. Villagers from
Pakistan, shopkeepers from Turkey, Nigerian businessmen, and Bosnian farmers, all stand
together, their differences annihilated by the presence of the man whose mission was truly
universal.
In the Qur'an, there is nothing of Arab pride. Its original context in history was the
Arab people, but it pays little attention to them. It is farsighted, affirming that each
previous prophet had been sent only to his own people; but that now, a Prophet had come
who was for all mankind. And here is the proof of that mission's truth and of its success
under God: a million human beings, outwardly diverse but of a single heart, basking in the
glow of Madina.
After Tarawih, it is tea-time. Midnight, under the arc-lamps of this warm city,
is no time for sleep. Sufi fraternities meet in homes, and recall the glories of the
Beloved of Madina. Hadith are read, in the sing-song style traditional in the city.
Commentaries are given in the delightful Madina dialect, so rich in Syrian and Turkish
words.
Tahajjud prayers attract perhaps a quarter of a million, deep in the small hours.
Others are sleeping in the streets, or in the hotels, which range from small Egyptian
resthouses with doubtful stairs, to the five-star plushness of the Sheraton and the Green
Palace. On the roofs of many hotels are small gardens, and here, even at this hour, the
Sufi orders are again enjoying their fellowship in the spirit.
The Sunna recommends that at least some of the night be spent in sleep. Two hours
before dawn, most of the city is silent. And then, the first adhan, more than an
hour before the adhan for the prayer, rises into the black sky. The hotels serve
a pre-dawn meal, but few linger until the last moment. An hour before the dawn prayer
begins, the mosque is already full, the worshippers knowing by experience the value of
this time. The Suffa, the small veranda attached to the Prophetic tomb, is
crowded with turbaned men, prayer-beads in hand. Here lived the poorest of the Companions,
those who were under the most intense spiritual guidance, who hungered, and lived in rags,
and prayed.
The final adhan sounds, and then the iqama. The prayer is said, followed
by the atmosphere of peace and consummation which ends each prayer. Many remain until ishraq,
the individual prayer said after sunrise. Others hail taxis, and visit the outlying
shrines.
The most important of these is Mount Uhud. The Blessed Prophet proclaimed it as "a
mountain which loves us, and which we love". Its mysterious quality has been
reinforced by aerial photographs which show that the mountain spells the Arabic name of
Allah. To walk in its dry valleys is to encounter solitary pilgrims, meditating on the
evanescence of life. Occasionally a qalandar is seen, with untidy hair, fingers
heavy with brass rings, his eyes disquietingly bright. Some live in this hill throughout
their visit, descending to the valley to pray.
Ramadan is a time of renunciation. Although the morning air is still cool, the sense of
detachment granted by the fast has sobered the crowds, and focussed their minds. The
pilgrims clustered around the iron grille which allows them to view the graves of the
Martyrs of Uhud read from prayer books, or repeat the words of the muzawwir, the
official guide.
'Peace be upon you, Hamza, the Lion of God, the uncle of God's Messenger! Peace be upon you, Mus'ab, hero of the Companions!'
Beside the cemetery, the authorities have constructed a mosque for those who wish to pray in this place.
The great cemetery of Madina, however, is al-Baqi'. This lies
near the Prophet's tomb, from which it was until recently separated by one of the gates of
the walled city, the Bab al-Baqi'. The cemetery has many names, including Jannat
al-Baqi' (The Garden of Baqi'), and Baqi' al-Gharqad, a reference to the
brambles (Gharqad) which covered it when Islam first arrived. In the fifth year
of the Hijra, the Companion Uthman Ibn Maz'un died, and was buried here, and on the
Blessed Prophet's instructions the area was cleared of brambles and became the last
resting place of the Companions.
Today, Baqi' is the most visited graveyard in the world. Until recently it was surrounded
by rough cement walls, but in 1996 the authorities replaced these with fine granite,
pierced with large iron and brass grilles, to commemorate and honour this place. Some
pilgrims stand by the grilles, but others, particularly in the cool hour after dawn,
venture in by the splendid new gates.
To facilitate circulation, the authorities have established cement pathways throughout the
cemetery. Guidebooks provide detailed maps of the plots, naming hundreds of the
individuals who are buried here. Hence the pilgrims, guided by their muzawwirs,
stand, or crouch, before the tombs of the Mothers of the Believers: A'isha, Hafsa, Umm
Habiba and the others. Nearby is the Blessed Prophet's infant son, the two year old
Ibrahim, whose death caused the Prophet such pain. The pilgrims move on to salute Uthman,
the third Caliph, and then Imam Malik and his teacher Nafi'. Al-Abbas, the Prophet's
uncle, is here. So too is Halima al-Sa'diyya, the nurse whose dry breasts miraculously
flowed with milk when the infant Muhammad was set to them. To one side is the grave of
Imam Shamyl, the nineteenth-century hero of the Caucasus, visited by Chechen and
Daghistani pilgrims to this day.
AI-Baqi' is a powerful place. Other cities consider it their pride to host a single saint;
but here there are hundreds. All around lie at rest the men and women who heard the
Prophet's summons, and broke the idols of their forefathers, and gave their lives to his
cause. To this blessed ambience is added the baraka of Ramadan, and as the days
pass, this too gains in power.
The fasting city of Madina has other wonders, although not all are as spectacular as the
Haram and al-Baqi'. There is one mosque no bigger than a prayer-mat, surrounded by two
layers of bricks, which marks the spot where the Blessed Prophet once prayed. An elderly
man lives nearby, and sweeps the tiny mosque daily, dispensing prayers and
teaching-stories to the visitors.
The tribes of Aws and Khazraj, who welcomed the Prophet and his teaching, still live in
Madina, retaining their traditions of courtesy and hospitality. The basalt homes in which
they once lived: the traditional Madinese Bayt al-Bi'r, built around a courtyard
which was often covered with a net and filled with tropical birds, are now mostly gone.
Yet otherwise, not much has changed in fourteen hundred years. Pernicious and cheapening
influences from the world outside are successfully excluded.
Madina shows the truth of the hadith that "Madina expels impurities as a
furnace expels impurities from iron." The form of the city has changed, but
the heart is immutable. In Ramadan, more than at any other time, the continued strength of
Islam is manifest here. The city is well-defended; as a hadith recorded by Imam Muslim
states, the Antichrist cannot enter it, but will be driven away on the lava-plains by
al-Khidr himself. In this city, and in this month, the Muslims are at home.
© Copyright 1999 Q-News International, UK.
Q-News is Britain's leading Muslim magazine: Now available in all good newsagents.
Annual Subscription Rates:
UK £35, Europe £54, overseas £60; Organisations: UK £48, Europe £90, overseas £98.
Call 44-181-9030819 for more details and special offer or write
in:
Q-News,
Dexion House,
2-4 Empirre Way,
Wembley,
Middlesex HA9 0XA,
UK.
