There exist, even within this great city of ours, beneath the towering spires and mosques, secrets that few speak. But listen, and you will see that which I speak of. Like the whine of the reed flute, Each interprets its sounds in harmony with his own feelings, but not one fathoms the secrets of its dark heart. No-one listens any more to the song within the cacophony of traffic and noise that floods our streets, nor looks deep enough. They wander in dream, eyes fixed ahead on their simple and mundane tasks, minds absorbed by the remembrance of their lives and regimes. Our mosques are not the houses of our lord but the houses of external imagery. We have made idols of the faithful and it is they who are celebrated even in the heart of our faith. We love ourselves and forget God.
Maybe it is the tears of the ages, the last gasps of a well known and steadfast believer who at last opens his eyes to the void and sees that the life he lived was one of deception, but when I walked through the lightless streets of Kuta Jamok after the isha prayer, I began to see. The streets devoid of light, darkened by a lack of funding or care, became the heart of the believer in our benighted city, and as I stumbled blindly through the small lanes I explored his arteries. And there was faith! In the cracks between the shutters of the poorest house two men were bowed in prayer still, with no care for the lack of eyes that saw them and praised their behavior. I sat concealed for some time, just watching the Jeem their prostrated bodies formed, the Haa' of their arms as they stood, and the Daal of their bowing shape. They struggled in their faith, between them and not for others. But this was not what I heard as I turned the corner. A man, his kufi still on his head from isha, leant at the side of the building with two prostitutes on either flank. We love the women and forget the Houri.
But still I walked on, for it was still a few streets until I could return to the sanctity of my own home, and besides, I was captivated by my discovery. I listened again, hearing the angry shouts of a couple's fight. As they cursed each other, a child's cry could be heard. The subject of the argument was, of course, money, that shield we humans have concocted to keep ourselves at bay, and the child was caught in the middle of a rift which had torn his life apart. Further on, youths stood in awe outside shops which held the latest clothing, before like a frenzied pack of dogs they broke the shopfront and sacked it for all the material riches they could find. We love wealth and forget the reckoning.
As I turned the corner of my street and was able to return, at last, to the sanctum I have created for myself, my heart rose. Now no longer would I feel the dread of a man who sees all he loves slowly falling away from him. And yet, when I looked out my window and saw the lights of the great towers in Asah. They taunted me, like the fingers of Shaytaan, beckoning me to join their new faith. The lights like eyes probed me. This new being could see me, could see my heart. It knew I was not its friend. I shut the blinds quickly as though it might veil me from this one eyed monster that I had seen. We love palaces and forget the tomb.
The darkness and comfort of the bedroom offered me no respite from the dark thoughts swirling within my mind. This way of life that infiltrates our every second tormented me. I saw the single eye from the city of shaytaan's fingers, and it saw me. I saw people enslaved, indeed if you listen closely on a dark night you too will hear the cries of the tormented. But worse still I saw those mindless ants content to live under a new system that was not their faith. They praised Allah, but it was not our creator to whom they prayed. They did not look to create jannah on earth, to redeem their lives, but sought to better their material wealth. We have become cast off from the beloved, yet too few mourn this loss of contact. For, and I say this with a heavy heart, we love the world and forget the resurrection.