Tales from the Land of the Sufis

INTRODUCTION

Stories and legends are inherent in the mystical tradition of Islam known as Sufism. In this book we wish to introduce the reader to some of the best tales that have been told by famous masters or that describe these legendary Sufis.

In writing this book, we kept two principal considerations in mind. First, we wanted our translations or retellings to reflect the simple quality of the original language. The original Persian texts were written in uncomplicated forms of prose and poetry, so that the stories could be enjoyed by a large group of people. While the stories we present here are based on famous works, in some we have included traditional variations and changes. For example, Attar’s story This Too Shall Pass originally consisted of only a few lines of poetry. What we bring you here is the fuller folkloric version.

Our second consideration was to accompany the tales with biographies of the original writers in order to convey the character of the storytellers. In becoming acquainted with the tellers of the tales, the reader can develop a more personal understanding of each of them, as well as enjoy the stories for the messages they convey. Thus, each chapter devoted to a Sufi writer begins with a biography of the tale-teller; in the cases of the first two writers—Hallaj and Abu Sa‘id—we have portrayed them as legends simply because they are considered to be just that.

After giving a brief history of Sufism in chapter 1, we devote chapter 2 to Hallaj, the legendary Muslim martyr of the ninth and tenth centuries who uttered the words, I Am the Truth, and was executed on grounds of heresy. His life story was so dramatic that the poet Attar chose it as the subject of one of his books. The lessons Hallaj taught have provided pedagogical material for many a Sufi master who came after him.

Chapter 3 tells the life story of Abu Sa‘id, who lived in the northeastern part of Iran in an era of constant political and religious turmoil after a series of wars that had devastated the country. His message of love and kindness brought a measure of sanity to the people, and his fame reached as far as eastern Spain.

Attar is the subject of chapter 4. His Conference of the Birds is among the earliest texts written about the Sufi path and the stages of spiritual development.

Chapter 5 is devoted to Nizami of Ganje, who recast in poetry two of the oldest and most famous love stories, one of Arabic origins and the other from the Persian tradition.

Chapter 6 is about the life of Rumi and his master, Shams. Rumi is probably the most celebrated poet of the Middle East and certainly one of the world’s greatest poets of mystical love.

Chapter 7 is about Jami, who, like Nizami, put into verse many traditional love stories as a means of introducing the concept of Divine Love. His most famous work, Yusuf and Zulaykha, has been translated into many languages.

Broadly speaking, there are three types of Sufi stories: those dealing with one’s relationship to oneself and one’s personal growth; those dealing with one’s relationship to society and other people; and those dealing with one’s relationship to God. All three types fall under the general heading of teaching stories. Although the stories may seem to be quite simple, their deeper significance may, depending on the student’s level of understanding, be subtle and very difficult to grasp.

A brief tale such as the following illustrates something of the teaching function of these stories. Once someone asked a shaykh who was sitting among a group of his dervishes what he understood of Sufism. He replied that all he understood was where to sit to get the first cup of tea. Some of the dervishes laughed at this response because they thought it funny, while others were silent because they did not see the humor in it. Only a few understood the teacher’s implied message. The hidden key to this puzzling remark is the fact that traditionally the teacher is always served first. Those who become teachers do so after years of hard work and patience. The shaykh’s reply can therefore be interpreted to mean that he understood Sufism to be the result of years of hard work.

Once having been initiated and begun the spiritual journey, one often comes across difficulties and roadblocks. It is generally at this time that the spiritual guide tells a story in which the seeker finds similarities between his or her situation and the point of the story. Eventually the seeker learns the proper means of dealing with roadblocks by putting to use what he or she has learned from the story. As a result, stories perform a very subtle yet important function in the training and education of wayfarers on the path.

If a teacher were to confront a pupil directly about what was blocking the pupil’s progress, the teacher would likely activate the pupil’s defense mechanism. The student’s ego would be bruised, and the student would tend to argue that his or her actions were justified. Through the use of stories, the teacher ensures that the ego will not be alarmed and that the lessons will penetrate deep into the psyche.

Thus, stories can serve to increase mental flexibility. The follower learns to give up his or her own perceptions of how things are or ought to be, and become prepared to receive higher levels of training. In fact, there is a saying that a master will not begin to transmit spiritual knowledge to any disciple who displays the slightest sign of self-will.

Not all the stories associated with Sufism require a great deal of contemplation. Many stories are used to convey messages of loving care or to teach particular codes of conduct. If the pupil is ready to cross a barrier, a properly timed story gets the message across; if his attachment to the particular object of the lesson is too great, the student simply does not get the point and his training is not jeopardized. One such story is related by Dr. Javad Nurbakhsh, head of the Nimatullahi Order. It might be used to teach others to see goodness in the ugly things in life:

One day, Jesus and some of his disciples were walking in an alley when they came across a dead dog. The dog’s body had been torn; it had rotted and the odor filled the air. Seeing this, the disciples started complaining about the smell, the sight of the corpse and how ugly the scene was. At that point, Jesus noticed that the dog had unusually bright and clean white teeth. He praised the teeth and pointed them out to his disciples.¹

Obviously, the point of this story is not to appreciate every dead dog one might come across, but to maintain a positive outlook on life’s events. The true meaning of the story is revealed only when we consider the whole picture (the behavior of a perfect man) in relation to the details (an unpleasant and ugly sight).

Other Sufi stories, like the following, deal with the dervishes’ conduct in society. Mawlana Abu Sa‘id was a great Sufi who lived some nine hundred years ago in northeastern Iran. One day, when he and some of his disciples were passing through an alley, a dog bit the robe of one of them. The one who had been bitten struck the dog with his walking staff. The dog then went to Abu Sa‘id and complained about what had happened. Abu Sa‘id replied by inviting the dog to bite him in payment for the dervish’s improper act of hurting another being. The dog replied that the judgment was not fair because, having seen the man in a dervish’s garment, he thought that he could bite at the garment freely, without fear of being beaten. Had the man been wearing the cloak of the common people, the dog would have moved far away from his path. The dog maintained that the proper settlement was to take the dervish’s cloak away from him so that no one else could be fooled by it.

Clearly, this story indicates that a Sufi does not retaliate against the hostile actions of others. In fact, this is very similar to Jesus’ saying that if someone strikes you on the right cheek, you should turn to him the other also.

Another type of Sufi story deals with the dervish’s relationship with, and his journey toward, God. Attar has related several stories of this nature in which a disciple undergoes many harsh and seemingly unrelated calamities, only to discover that the calamities were tests of his sincerity in wanting God.

A large number of Sufi stories have what appear to be sad endings, in which the protagonist either dies or does not complete his or her quest and thus appears to fail. One also encounters stories in which the hero causes harm to an innocent third party for the sake of a lesson or to achieve a goal. These themes are often puzzling or even repugnant to Westerners and thus need clarification in light of the culture from which the stories come.

Perhaps because of the history of the United States, Americans in particular are accustomed to stories with happy endings. (Even when a tale is sad, the ending usually offers some kind of resolution or reconciliation.) In the last three hundred years, there has never been a calamity that has devastated the United States to the extent that it has scarred the psyche of the entire society. The people as a whole have experienced victory; thus, it is natural for them to expect victory also in the stories they read. In fact, Americans basically associate death with defeat. Traces of this mode of thinking can be found in expressions such as knock ’em dead, which is sometimes used to encourage a sports team to win or to wish someone success in a job interview. It is interesting that no one who says this actually envisions a battle or war being fought, yet for someone to be successful—a winner—the opposite party has to be the loser and thus dead!

In Persia and the Arab Middle East, by contrast, calamities have at times lasted for centuries. Wars, famines, and unrest have left extremely deep scars on the psyche of the people. Death and dying are not always associated with defeat. In certain circumstances death may signify the highest levels of freedom and accomplishment. Being defeated is recognized as an inevitable part of life and means only that the approach to one’s aim was not proper.

It is interesting to compare the meaning of the word martyr with its Persian equivalent, shahid. Our English dictionary defines martyr as one who is put to death or endures great suffering on the behalf of any belief. But in a Persian dictionary, shahid is defined as one whose knowledge encompasses every thing; one of God’s names; witness; being killed for the sake of God. Here, in a subtle way, one can recognize the different connotations of death in the two cultures.

In Sufi literature, sad endings reflect such influences. Thus, readers do not really consider the endings sad or at odds with the story line; instead, they understand them as pointing to very important ideas. The most simple of these ideas is that the death of the body does not signify the end of life. Consciousness is seen as being on a journey with a definite goal, and what is called life is only overnight lodging. Furthermore, from a Sufi point of view, real life begins when one spiritually achieves baqa’—unity with God and birth into the world of Truth and Eternity. This unity can be achieved only through fana’—the death of worldly desires and selfishness.

The other theme that may be misunderstood by Westerners is the apparent failure of the hero or heroine to act ethically. In certain stories of Rumi and Attar, for example, there does not seem to be much value given to a human being’s welfare. For example, the hero comes to the aid of someone who is in love with a fair maiden. The reader expects that in the end, the lover and the beloved will be united with the help of the hero. But that is not always the case. In one story by Attar, for instance, the hero poisons the maiden to make sure the two will never be together. In situations such as these, one has to bear in mind that in Sufi literature, any beloved other than God is not acceptable; thus, romantic love or love for earthly possessions must ultimately turn into love of God. In the eyes of a seeker, therefore, the object of romantic or worldly love would need to die. What might seem like treachery and evildoing must be looked at in light of the lesson it teaches.

One matter of particular concern to English-speakers these days is the predominance of masculine nouns and pronouns in most traditional literature. Many readers, writers, and editors prefer to use more inclusive language in place of terms such as man, mankind, and the pronouns he and him when used generically—all of which are considered sexist. Islamic culture and Sufism do, of course, reflect a masculine bias in many ways. It may help to know, however, that when it comes to traversing the spiritual path, Sufism regards the two sexes as equal. One of the ways in which this is indicated is the use of the term brothers to refer to both male and female aspirants. Thus, both women and men who are true lovers of God are in a sense men, for in Sufi symbolism, woman stands for one who pursues worldly desires. Many Sufi poets and writers, such as Attar and Rumi, have portrayed women characters in their stories in this symbolic context, without intending to insult the female sex. In relation to sexism in English usage, it is also pertinent to note that in the Persian language, Farsi, all pronouns are in the neuter gender, so the problem of whether to use he or she really only arises in translation.

Because Sufism and Persian culture are so closely associated and intertwined, these various cultural idiosyncrasies are taken for granted by most Persians and do not cause them great concern. We encourage other readers, who may be unfamiliar with the ways of the Middle East, to be open to appreciating these subtleties, and hope that they will find the stories both rich in meaning and enjoyable to read.

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A BRIEF LOOK AT THE HISTORY OF SUFISM

SUFISM is a spiritual system that has had a tremendous impact on world literature and has affected many cultures, from southern and eastern Europe to northern and central Africa, from the Middle East to the western frontiers of China. The impact of Sufism on Islamic culture can readily be detected. The design of many buildings and the architecture in general, the patterns of poetry and music, and the visual effects of colors and calligraphy are all areas of Sufi influence in the Middle East.¹ Perhaps less well known is the fact that concepts such as romantic love and chivalry were adopted by the West when Europe came into contact with the Sufis. Moreover, many works of Western literature find their roots in Sufi stories. The Swiss legend of William Tell, for instance, is based on Attar’s Conference of the Birds; and, as Cervantes himself admitted, Don Quixote has Sufi origins.²

Scholars have differed on the exact origin of the word Sufi. The majority have agreed, however, that it comes from the Arabic word suf, meaning wool, and refers to an individual who wears woolen clothing. Legend has it that both Moses and Jesus wore wool, and that about seventy of the disciples of Muhammad, the Prophet of Islam, wore wool. Why wool? Perhaps there was no particular reason except that wool was extremely cheap. However, since coarse wool is very uncomfortable when worn over bare skin, the wearing of wool may have represented a renunciation of the material world and physical comfort.

The words Sufi and Sufism (in the languages of Islamic people) did not come into usage until 150 years after Muhammad. Up to this time, strict observance of the Divine Law (Shari‘a, the rules of conduct set forth by Muhammad) was considered to be the only way to achieve salvation. The mystics spent their lives fasting and praying in solitude, away from society. The majority of them seemed to be more concerned with the fires of hell and the fruits of heaven than with reaching God. Although there were masters to help and guide others, the concept of an order or school had not yet come into existence.

Eventually, around 800–850 C.E., the spiritual masters reached a point at which they began to advocate practices for attaining salvation, practices apparently different from the prayers prescribed by the Divine Law. The new practices generally included zikr (literally remembrance, the chanting of God’s names and attributes) and participating in regular meetings and activities over and above what was specified by the religious laws. The masters of this era (and the ones who came later) considered the study of Shari‘a to be the basic schooling that was needed in order for an individual to enter the university of higher spiritual education. This secondary education was called Tariqa (the Path). It was generally believed that Tariqa was