Children of Dust Read online

  Children of Dust

  A Memoir of Pakistan

  Ali Eteraz

  For my parents

  and those who have been like parents

  God said to the angels: Make obeisance to Adam;

  they made obeisance, but Iblis [the satan], did it not.

  He said: Shall I make obeisance to him

  whom Thou hast created of dust?

  QURAN 17:61

  Contents

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Book I

  The Promised—Abir ul Islam

  In which the author, as a child in Pakistan, learns of his destiny and attends a madrassa

  Book II

  The American—Amir

  In which the author leaves Pakistan and arrives in the United States, where, living in the Bible Belt, he attempts to navigate life in high school while dealing with his parents, who are now fundamentalists

  Book III

  The Fundamentalist—Abu Bakr Ramaq

  In which the author, newly arrived at college in Manhattan, embraces the superiority of Islam over all things, culminating with a trip to Pakistan, where he intends to (1) find a pious Muslim wife who will protect him from secularism’s sexual temptation and (2) investigate his relationship with an ancient Caliph of Islam

  Book IV

  The Postmodern—Amir ul Islam

  In which the author returns from his disappointing sojourn in Pakistan and begins exploring anti-Islamic ideas at a new university, where he nevertheless insists on remaining associated with Muslims and ends up becoming president of the MSA

  Book V

  The Reformer—Ali Eteraz

  In which the author, aghast at the militant and murderous use to which Islam is being put, becomes an activist and goes to the Middle East to start a reformation

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  In Mecca fathers become inclined to give up their sons.

  In 1980, at the spot where the Prophet Ibrahim once sought to slaughter his son Ismail after receiving a revelation from God; at the same place where God gave a dream to Abdul Muttalib asking him to sacrifice his son Abdullah; my twenty-two-year-old father-to-be put his head to the floor and entered into a covenant with Allah Azzawajal, the Exalted.

  “Ya Allah! If you should give me a son,” he said, “I promise that he will become a great leader and servant of Islam!”

  That accord, called a mannat, made before my birth, singularly and exclusively guided my life for three decades. It conditioned me to serve Islam and it made the service of Islam my condition. In fulfillment of that covenant I studied at madrassas. I rejected the companionship of non-Muslims. I rose up against secularism. I struggled on behalf of oppressed Muslims. And, in the age of terrorism, I sought to become a reformer of Islam.

  To say that I was enamored of Islam would be an understatement. I waved the banners of this faith from Asia to America. I studied Islamic scripture and scholarship from an early age. I aspired, perspired, and prayed to one day be lucky enough to rise to the apex of my religion. Over and over again I strove to be an Islamic activist—to become the embodiment of Muhammad’s religion.

  This book is about what happened when I loved Islam—with affection, with torment, with stupidity—more than anything else in this world. This book is about ardor bordering on obsession. This book is about a thoroughly Islamic childhood and about a boy’s attempt not merely to know his identity, but to assert his sovereignty. (Some parts of it are about the girls he met along the way.)

  Read! In the name of the God who taught man the use of the pen…and remember, you can’t get a death fatwa for laughing.*

  BOOK I

  The Promised—Abir ul Islam

  In which the author, as a child in Pakistan, learns of his destiny and attends a madrassa

  1

  My mother, Ammi, had just returned from Koh-e-Qaf, where women went when they were annoyed with their husbands. It was far up in the heavens, far beyond the world of men, above the astral planes of the jinns, and hidden even from the angels. Upon reaching Koh-e-Qaf a woman became a parri and congregated with others like her. Then all the parris gathered upon rippling streams and rivers of celestial milk. They bathed and splashed and darted around on rich, creamy froth.

  I was just a seven-year-old child living in a tiny apartment in Lahore, Pakistan. I couldn’t get enough of Koh-e-Qaf.

  “What happens there?” I asked Ammi. “Please tell me! Please!”

  “It’s a safe place where I can gather my thoughts,” she said. “When women go there, we don’t take our earthly concerns with us. We don’t even need our earthly clothes. Allah restores to us the cuticle skin we had when He first created Hazrat Adam and his wife, Havva.”

  Ammi said that Koh-e-Qaf was created secretly at the time the universe was made. Allah had asked each one of His creations whether they would be willing to bear the burden of free will. He asked the mountains and they said no. He asked the skies and they refused. He asked the sun and the seas and the plants and the trees and the angels. They all said no. But Adam, the first male—“who took too many risks just like your Pops”—accepted the burden. “And he didn’t even ask his wife what he was getting into!” Upon hearing the news, a chagrined Havva went to Allah and told Him that men would make a big mess of things and “then take out their frustration on their wives.” So, for all the wives of the world, Havva convinced Allah to create Koh-e-Qaf, a sanctuary for all time.

  “Then she made Allah give long nails to women so they could remember their special place.”

  “That’s not fair,” I said, poking a finger through Ammi’s curly black hair. “I don’t have a special place to go to.”

  “You don’t need a special place,” she replied. “My little piece of the moon is more special than the whole world.”

  “You’re just saying that.”

  “No, I’m not,” she said. “Haven’t you ever thought about what your name means?”

  “Abir?”

  “Your full name. Abir ul Islam.”

  “So what? It’s just a name.”

  “Not just a name.”

  I shrugged. Compared to intergalactic travel and teleportation and heavenly drinks, my name didn’t inspire much awe.

  “Come on,” Ammi said, taking my hand as if she could read the disappointment on my face. “You don’t believe me? Let’s go see Beyji. She will tell you that you are the most special.”

  Beyji was my maternal great-grandmother. She lived in a white marble bungalow in Lahore. She was a saint because she had forgiven the woman who used black jadu to kill Beyji’s husband. Beyji regularly met with the Holy Prophet Muhammad in her dreams. One year, during the Night of Power in the month of Ramzan, she got chosen as one of Allah’s elect and saw a glimpse of the Light.

  Ammi led me past my grandfather’s room, where he was busy listening to old Noor Jahan recordings, and toward Beyji’s darkened quarters. We went inside and Ammi pushed me toward Beyji’s bed. She wore a floral print shalwar kameez—loose trousers with a tunic top—and had cast a gauzy blue dupatta over her head. Taking my wrist with one hand and holding my chin with the other, she gave me a smile. Her gummy mouth murmured a series of prayers.

  “Beyji,” Ammi said. “This one doesn’t believe me when I tell him that he’s special.”

  “The most special,” Beyji corrected.

  “I told him that his name is Abir ul Islam.”

  “Such a beautiful name, isn’t it?”

  “He doesn’t think it’s such a big deal.”

  “Is that right?” Beyji looked at me
for confirmation.

  I made my case. “Ammi flies around like a parri and goes to Koh-e-Qaf. I just sit here.”

  Beyji looked at me with compassion. She pulled a piece of dried orange out from under her pillow and handed it to me. “Come and sit with me,” she invited. “Then ask your Ammi to tell you the story of your birth.”

  “What about it?”

  “She’ll tell you,” Beyji said.

  Ammi sat down on the other bed and rested a cup of chai on the palm of her hand. With two fingers she pinched the cream congealed on the surface.

  “When I was pregnant with you,” Ammi said, licking her fingers, “Pops moved to Saudi Arabia for work. When he was there, he went to the Ka’ba in Mecca and made a mannat. Do you know what a mannat is?”

  “No.”

  “A mannat is like a covenant with Allah. You promise to do something if Allah grants one of your wishes.”

  “Like a jinn in a lamp!”

  “Except God imposes conditions!” Beyji amended.

  “Your father’s mannat was that if his first child was a boy,” Ammi continued, “he would be raised to become a leader and servant of Islam. Are you listening?”

  “Yes,” I said, orange sticking out of my mouth.

  “Then you were born—a boy—which meant that the mannat must be fulfilled.”

  “Are you still listening?” Beyji prompted.

  I nodded and adopted the serious expression that their intensity seemed to require.

  “So we needed to give you a name that reflected your purpose in life,” Ammi said. “There were many options, but Pops said that your name should be Abir. It means perfume. Full name: Abir ul Islam. Perfume of Islam. You were thus born to spread Islam as if it were a beautiful fragrance. Special, no?”

  “It’s just a name,” I said skeptically.

  “Ah, but that’s not all,” Beyji said, nudging me affectionately. “Keep listening.”

  “Then,” Ammi continued, “right when you were born we moved to Saudi Arabia. When you were barely eleven months old, you and Pops and I went to do hajj—the pilgrimage to Mecca. I dressed you up like all the other pilgrims. You looked so cute wrapped in all white. You had been trying to walk for many weeks, but I swear as soon as we got to Mecca you began walking properly. It had to have been that holy sand. You really took to Mecca. Walking around. Greeting everyone. You even ran away from me in the middle of the night. We were frantic until you were discovered hours later with a pair of Bedouins. It was like you were meant to be there.”

  “Did the Bedouins have goats?” I asked, my attention momentarily derailed.

  “I think they did,” Ammi said. “Anyway. One night I went to circumambulate the Ka’ba and took you with me. The place wasn’t as crowded at night. There was a long row of Africans walking with their elbows locked like a chain. I stayed behind them until they made their turn and I found myself right at the border of the Ka’ba…”

  “The House of God,” Beyji said, her eyes shining. “I’ve been there twice in my life. It’s the most beautiful thing in the universe. Astronauts will tell you that the world sits right in the center of the universe, and that Mecca sits right in the middle of the world, and that the Ka’ba sits right in the middle of Mecca!”

  “There’s a semicircular wall around the Ka’ba,” Ammi continued. “It was built by the Prophet Ibrahim thousands of years ago. I forget the name of that space, but it’s said that if you pray there, it’s as if you’d prayed inside the Ka’ba. It was peaceful there that night. No one else was in the area. Imagine: millions of people wearing the same thing and chanting the same thing—Labbayk Allahumma Labbayk—all around us, and a mother and son just all alone with the Ka’ba. It was beautiful.”

  Beyji interrupted again: “Don’t forget! Mecca was founded by a mother and son, too. At Allah’s instruction, Hajira and baby Ismail were left there by the Prophet Ibrahim. They had no water, so Hajira put Ismail down in the sand to go and find something to drink. While she was gone, little Ismail kicked his feet and the Zamzam spring sprouted from the desert sand. A town was built there when some nomads discovered the spring.”

  Ammi nodded and continued: “I had you stand next to me and we made a pair of nafal prayers together. I asked Allah to place Islamic knowledge in your heart and make you a true servant of Islam. Then I removed your clothes, lifted you up, and rubbed your bare chest against the ancient wall—back and forth a few times.”

  As I listened to the women, my heart beat fast and my face became warm. I felt connected to this distant place that I didn’t remember. The reverence it elicited in my mother and great-grandmother poured into me.

  “Then later, when I was resting,” Ammi continued, “your Pops took you with him. He went to rub your chest against the heavenly Black Stone at one corner of the Ka’ba. He wasn’t able to get to it because it’s always so crowded with people trying to kiss it, but he pressed you against the bare walls of the Ka’ba itself. He made the same prayer I did, about you serving Islam.”

  “Subhanallah,” Beyji said and put her hand on my heart. “One day you should go back to Mecca and kiss the Black Stone. It will absorb all your sins. But not yet. Go when you are older. Right now you are sinless.”

  I nodded eagerly.

  “So,” Ammi said. “Do you believe you are special now?”

  I felt as if the entire universe was listening to my answer. God. The angels. Even the parris.

  “Yes. I believe you. I believe that I’m special.”

  “By the way, did you know that when the Black Stone first came down from heaven it was white?” Ammi said.

  “What happened to it?” I asked.

  “People touched it and it became dirty,” she said.

  I imagined billions of hands touching a large, egg-shaped crystal over thousands of years and gradually making it black. Suddenly I pulled away from Beyji and stood up in the center of the room, feeling proud and powerful.

  “I will take a towel and make it white again!”

  Beyji kissed my hand and told me that I would be Islam’s most glorious servant.

  2

  During the daytime, while Pops was off working at his clinic—he was a doctor—Ammi, my little brother Flim, and I often spent the daytime hours at Beyji’s bungalow.

  Beyji came from a long line of elevated people. Her father, an imam at a small mosque in a village in Punjab, had commanded a clan of jinns that converted to Islam at his hand. The old man’s piety was so great that when he died his fingers kept moving as if they were flipping tasbih beads in prayer.

  Beyji prayed endlessly. When she wasn’t praying, she murmured Allah’s praises—subhanallah and alhamdulillah thirty-three times each, allahu akbar thirty-four times. Then she repeated the set. She kept count on the individual pads of her fingers, on black beans that were stored in a number of huge vats in her room, or on the tasbih, the wooden rosary.

  Beyji had mysterious connections with the angels. In addition to having seen the Light that time in Ramzan, she seemed to know Jibrail, the leader of the angels, quite well. “He’s the greatest angel,” she said. “He brought the Holy Quran to the Prophet in the cave of Hira. He hugged the Messenger and imparted the Word.”

  “Have you seen him up close?”

  “I have. He’s beautiful. He has forty thousand wings, and each of his feathers is made of light. He can pick up the entire universe on one wing.”

  “How many angels are there?” I inquired.

  “Millions.”

  “Did the Prophet meet all the angels?”

  “There are too many for him to meet, but some of the angels used to come to him during his daily life. They came in the guise of men—beautiful men—and ate with him and asked him questions that prepared him to deal with his enemies in Mecca.”

  “Who’s the most important angel?” I asked.

  “They’re all important. Mikail is pretty important because he maintains the history of the world in his big book. Israfil because
he has the trumpet that—”

  “Do you think I can meet an angel?”

  “Of course you can,” she said. “The Guardians are always with you. That’s why when Muslims pray we say Salam to the right and the left shoulder. That’s where they sit. It’s very good to talk to your angels, but make sure you say only good things, because they have little notebooks and they write down everything you do.”

  “Everything?” I asked, horrified.

  “Yes.”

  “Even what I do in the bathroom?”

  “Yes.”

  “Gross.”

  Learning that angels were always with me made me want to learn more about them, so I went to Ammi. She told me that Guardians came in two shifts, one that lasted from dawn to afternoon and the other that covered late afternoon to morning.

  “Why is the evening shift longer?” I asked. “That doesn’t seem fair.”

  “Beats me. Ask Allah.”

  That day I laid a prayer rug and prayed for equality among the angels.

  My sympathy for the angels receded, however, when one day I learned that they could be as frightening as they were beautiful.

  There was the angel that killed you, said Ammi; another angel that blew the trumpet on the Last Day and destroyed the world. There were angels that worked in Dozakh, where the hellfire burned, and stirred the bodies of sinners in huge vats full of hot water; angels that put a black flag in your anus if you listened to music; angels that turned people into pillars of salt and flipped civilizations over and caused huge storms of fire. There were even angels that urinated in your mouth—“for forty days minimum”—if you used a swear word.

  “Why are the angels so scary?” I asked Ammi.

  “Sometimes Allah sends them out to punish the people that follow Iblis,” Ammi said. “But you see, the angels are just doing their job. Most of the time they’re very nice; they just stand around and sing Allah’s praises. It’s Iblis who is the scary one.”