“If that Shirazi Turk would take my heart in hand
I would gift Samarkand and Bukhara for her black mole.”

By her, Hafez means Shakh-e Nabat, a woman Hafez was taken in by, and the Shirazi Turk he means Timur. Samarkand and Bukhara were the capitals and finest cities of the Timurid empire, and at these words Timur angrily summoned Hafez. 

“With the blows of my lustrous sword”, Timur complained, “I have subjugated most of the habitable globe… to embellish Samarkand and Bokhara, the seats of my government; and you would sell them for the black mole of some girl in Shiraz!” Hafez replied, “Alas, O Prince, it is this extravagance which is the cause of the misery in which you find me”. So surprised and pleased was Timur with this response that he dismissed Hafez with handsome gifts.

The recommended journey into Shiraz must be from Yazd. For a garden is appreciated when one has tasted but only the fire of the desert. Yazd, an unforgiving station and resting place of the sun, where man submits to His will, where the faithful, of Zarathushtra once reigned, today stand in the shade and watch as the true believers of the Truth grapple with the forces of nature. 

Shiraz then is a full day’s journey south. One passes mountains and wide valleys, yellow rocky deserts and dried lakes but then as the first maiden sun begins to sink into itself in pushes out a red hue, the light that remains reveals the dark green pastures of the province of Pars, in which Shiraz is the beautiful adornment. Here one finds shepherds, wanderers and the lost children of a time that is no longer. Caravans can stop to replenish and take stock, one may rest and drink sweet tea and if one is already under the spell of the further yet valleys of Shiraz, he may shut his eyes and make this his place to rest. But what a foolish act it is to be this far, this close, and not enter the walls and gardens of Shiraz.

Shiraz knows no parallel in all of Persia and the world. Sought by all but plucked by none, it remains a mole on the cheek of the most beautiful of Muslim lands. Shiraz has been saved it seems, most certainly by plan, to deliver to the thirsty, hungry and blind of this world – the endless stream of verses that flow in abundance from the lips of its poets and saints.

In the year 1216 as the forces of Genghis Khan laid siege and delivered death to all of Khorasan, the rulers of Shiraz offered tributes and submitted voluntary to spare themselves the same fate as that of Neyshabur. Again in 1382 as Tamarlane entered Shiraz, the local Shah accepted surrender. In the 13^th century, Shiraz became a leading centre of arts and letters. Many classical geographers would name Shiraz as Dar el-Elm, the House of Knowledge. Amongst many that were born and cradled by this city of culture were the poets Sa’adi, and Hafiz, the mystic Roozbehan and the philosopher Mulla Sadra.

Each time I visit Shiraz, I find dwelling in the centre of religious quarter of Sang-e-Sia (‘Black Stone’), an area dotted with more saints than this traveller can accurately recall but I will do my best to share the most prominent with the will of Allah. I was not able to find out about the significance of the name.

Shiraz for most of its Islamic history had been a city under Sunni Islam, but today, like most of Iran, it is under the schools and teaching of the Shiites, and the sites of pilgrimage today reflects this. But it is also a holy city for the Baha’i faith that few know, though the centre of this pilgrimage sight was destroyed at the commencement of the Islamic Revolution in 1979.

Bibi Dokhtaran Khadija

The shrine of Bibi Dokhtaran can be seen from afar. Its large dome dominates the old city. Simple in its appearance it has either lost or never had any tiles, which would be strange given the Persian practise and love for mosaic tilework on all shrines. As with the outside, the inside is plain and shows a modest picture. In the evening sky, the dome is lit green with strong flood lights. A lighthouse for the lost pilgrim, it either led you back to Sang-e-sia, or it took you close enough to the major shrine of Shah Chirag, which is in very close proximity.

Square in space, the shrine is surrounded by a dry garden and is today one of the few important shrines in Iran dedicated to a woman (the other is in Qom). The story of Bibi Dokhataran is one of escape from the Abbasids who were responsible for the prosecution of many of Imams and their descendants (for they feared a political and religious revival that could dethrone and de-legitimise their rule). Bibi Dokhtaran was the daughter of Imam Zayn al-Abidin (or known as Ali Ibn Husayn) the fourth Imam of the Shiites, who fled the city of Baghdad to Persia to seek safety, as we will learn would be the case for many descendants of the other Imams. Persia, on the edge of the Abbasid empire, provided shelter for many who were prosecuted.

During the evenings, voices of women can be heard inside all over the quarter of Sang-e-sia. Songs of praise, of remembrance, and at other times, emotional recitation of the holy Quran during any religious holiday can be heard by a passer-by. It is an unusual but beautiful experience to hear such singing and recitation, as it is not common to hear women recite loudly in any ceremony or event in Sunni lands. I would slow down my steps each time I suspected there was a gathering and would wait for the beautiful Persian Arabic dialect to enter my ear.

I entered the shrine during one early morning when the caretakers, who are all women and who dress only in black (as is mandated by the state and cultural norm), swept the surrounding garden. I expected some objection to my presence, as I had wrongly assumed, that I, a man, would not be welcomed inside especially if there were other women worshippers inside. As I entered it became clear I was alone, and I studied the shrine and its interior carefully.  The shrine sits in the centre, immediately under the grand dome and the flooring is carpeted but the rest of the shrines walls and roof are in poor condition. There is no attempt to make them look beautiful, and unlike other shrines in Iran, there is no glass mirror work anywhere inside. I welcomed this departure from common design and focused only on the shrine.

Hafez of Shiraz

“I have no refuge in the world other than thy threshold.
There is no protection for my head other than this door.“

Shiraz is a grove of paradise that surpasses all others, it is a city that appears to have been created as a beautiful excuse so Hafez could lay claim to its streets, walls and doors. Hafez claims to have been influenced by Ibn Arabi, Nizami and Attar, he is the child Ghazal (a lyrical poem himself) then of an order of religious mysticism that continues to intoxicate the faithful, and confuse and derail the confounded even more so.

Walk through the streets and bazaars of Shiraz and you will find Shiraz is nothing more than a provincial town, but enter its gardens unguarded and it will pull your ear and feed you its sweetness. No other city surpasses the beauty and melody of Shiraz, not even Isfahan.

Eyes closed, but heart beating, Hafez today can be found in North of Shiraz, not too far from Saadi. Visit him before maghrib (sunset) if you want to speak to him in solace, but return in the late evening if you want to sit and laugh with him. Hafez it appears has stirred the imaginations of many, and this author has also been infected. Today the verses, the Ghazals, of our beloved Hafez are at the centre of what I think should be called popular fanaticism amongst the common people of Iran. A proud people, the Iranians are without a doubt the singular most creative people, offer them a brief moment and hours will lapse and you will beg ‘more, more’ but the poetry turned melody will not end.

However, and this is important, Hafez of today is not the Hafez who stood across from Timur, the Hafez of today is the meme equivalent for a people who in their hunger for culture and nationalistic fervour have transformed a giant into a lowly figure. Hafez has been re-imagined for a modern Iran where despite fervour theocracy being the order of the day, Persian identity comes first. Hafez has had any Islamic influence extracted out of him, forcibly so, a faith that was integral is replaced with empty and foolish romanticism that delivers a truly painful translation.

This phenomenon is not singular to Hafez, his forebearers and contemporaries have been reinterpreted to fit the same narrative. Saadi, Ferdowsi, Attar and Jalal-ud Din Rumi are seen today as great Persian poets in spite of their Islamic heritage, not because of. Where God once took centre stage in their poetry, today the beloved is a woman and in some disturbing translations, young boys. Some blame is on the modern Persian poetry movement, but where the poetry is translated to languages outside of Persian, we can unequivocally state the culprits are the non-Muslim authors who have re-written and re-imagined the essentials of the original poetry.

If you visit Hafez, then bear in mind the position of this man amongst the majority of his readers, especially the younger generation. It will be easy to be convinced that Hafez was a regular visitor of taverns, who spun stanzas to describe his love and seduction of this worldly love and its pains, that his noose was a woman’s tassel but not his love for the beloved of all beloveds.

Hafez today is buried in perhaps the busiest garden of all. For centuries the resting place of this saint was mostly forgotten, his name but another name amongst the great poets. It was then during the late 19th century that a local Shirazi ruler paid patronage and invested in elevating the state of this great poet. His tomb that had been outdoors and exposed, had a wooden structure built and the gardens cleaned. Then in 1901, a decorate Iron transenna was added around the tomb but it was not until 1931 that the garden underwent major repairs, the orange groves trimmed, and a French architect tasked with redesigning the monument that see today. The iconic dome, in the shape of a dervish hat are held up by eight columns, each ten metres high with inscriptions from Hafez poetry found on the inside of the dome.

This is Hafez today. Surrounded by aimless fanaticism, where the sounds of birds and his poetry being recited is fed through loudspeakers that themselves barely hide the murmur and laughter of visitors who only want to be around greatness, but who have spared no moment, to reflect, and to understanding the depth of even a singular verse. 

But there are exceptions. I witnessed a flock of women, adorned in all black Chadors, surrounding the marble stone that rests on top of Hafez. These women, with Qurans in their hands loudly recited verses from this great book and then read lines from Hafez himself. The entire garden was on high alert as Islam had re-entered, the tourists with their cameras and haughty attire were pushed back, and the mesmerising effect of Hafez was pushed back to Hafez, for what must it feel like to read true Hafez to Hafez.

It should not surprise one then that Iran continues to produce great literary men and women even today. Poets who better reflect the changed society of Iran from its Sunni Sufi/Mysticism days, where there is no need to re-interpret what is already relevant and acceptable. For example, Forough Farrokhzad, Sohrab Sepehri and Shamlou continue to sink the the Persian speaking world into an oblivion of complete submission. Every young Iranian I would meet in Iran would reference Hafez and Shamlou, whether to remark on a note on love or on politics. Find me another people, another world like this.

Saadi Shirazi

بنی‌آدم اعضای یکدیگرند
که در آفرينش ز یک گوهرند
چو عضوى به‌درد آورَد روزگار
دگر عضوها را نمانَد قرارتو کز محنت دیگران بی‌غمی
نشاید که نامت نهند آدمی

“The children of Adam are the members of one another,
since in their creation they are of one essence.
When the conditions of the time brings a member to pain,
the other members will suffer from discomfort.
You, who are indifferent to the misery of others,
it is not fitting that they should call you a human being.”

Abu-Muhammad Muslih al-Din bin Abdallah Shirazi (or Saadi) lived a life of extraordinary experiences at the most extraordinary of times. Born in Shiraz at the precise moment the Mongols had ravaged Iran, he spent thirty years of his life as a wanderer, some records say to escape the war and hostility from the Mongol invasion, but it appears to me he had questions he needed answered and these could only be put forth once he left his home. Saadi, enrolled at the Al-Nizamiyya in Baghdad (the largest university in the medieval world), where a hundred years earlier Al-Ghazali was a teacher. The glow and magnetism of Nizamiyya pulled the genius of the Muslim world, and they all answered the call. Saadi, whilst in Baghdad would also experience the destruction of his university by the Mongol Ilkhanate during the sack of Baghdad in 1258. An event of such seismic stature it would blow out the golden age of Islam, one that would never be re-lit the same way again.

One enters the garden of Saadi through a narrow gate, guarded by a stubborn and unusually rude man, who scrutinises the visitor and his ticket very closely. Once inside, a stoned pathway with Cyprus and Orange groves surrounds and the sweet scent of Shiraz envelops. Somewhere inside this garden a speaker is located which plays a beautiful recitation of the poems by Saadi, mostly from his famous Gulistan. 

A shallow stream takes one straight up through to Saadi, who is enclosed inside a tall structure with an ordinary dome, but once inside the height and space impresses once the way the tomb of Hafez does not. This is a tomb built to keep out the world and it does. Saadi enjoys the peace that our poor Hafez cannot.

Saadi left Baghdad and travelled to the levant, where at Acre he was captured by the crusaders and imprisoned for seven years. Digging trenches at the fortress of Acre, he performed hard labour until he was released after the Mamluks paid ransom for Muslim prisoners. It is either an incredible coincidence, or none at all, that the Mamluks would go on to defeat and end the conquest of Mongols, the same force that pushed our saint this far into the levant. Saadi would travel to Jerusalem, and then join the pilgrimage caravan and head to Makkah and Medina.

The Mongols however would not leave the area for another few decades. A wanderer, Saadi travelled all over the region, living in refugee camps in poverty, he would meet bandits, men of high scholarly education, the poor who once accumulated high wealth, men with power who now were themselves mere slaves. For another twenty years this would be the life for our saint, who himself torn and in a state of turbulence, felt the most troublesome times in the history of Islam. Returning to Persia, his poetry changed and he began to write for the ordinary, with the flower and its scent plucked and blown away, Saadi discarded the tradition of flowery language and purposeless Persian romanticism and wrote to educate and offer hope to the wider populace, the broken Persian, not the lofty elite who sought eloquence and praise from the poet. Saadi died in 1292 in Shiraz, his achievements even today are barely known and his poetry fills the textbooks of school children in Iran, an audience that Saadi had in mind when he wrote. If the reader is curious to read of Saadi, his Gulistan is the book to pick up. It is reckoned that in the Gulistan there are some forty direct quotations either from the Qur’an or from the Hadith.

Recommended Reading:

Shah-e-Cheragh (‘King of Light’)

If you visit Shiraz for pilgrimage today, you are visiting the funerary monument and mosque of Shah Cheragh. It is said that the brothers Ahmad and Mohammad are buried here, who are the children of Musa al-Kadhim (the 7^th Shia Imam), a man also revered by Sunnis as a renowned scholar. The two brothers, as Bibi Dokhtaran, took refuge during the Abbasid period to escape persecution for their Shiite faith.

The mosque and the two shrines for the brothers are secured on all sides by strict security. No man or woman can enter without being searched, large bags are not allowed and if you are a woman, you must adorn the traditional Iranian ‘Chador’. The religious institution that supports and funds this pilgrimage site is organised and well-funded with several expansions in the last few decades and ongoing restoration work. The site is so large it has absorbed the old Jameh Mosque of Atigh, which is now a forgotten corner of this lavish site. If one wants to enter the old Jameh Mosque, which I highly recommend, enter before the hours of sunset, for after large wooden doors that control and the entrance are locked. 

The site of Shah Cheragh remains important for Shirazi’s and visitors alike. Despite my refusal or perhaps failure to be drawn to shrines, such as these, I am constantly pulled towards this space. It might be that my own faith, which is entirely inward-looking, seeks some moments, an outward celebration and in Iran, only the shrines of Imam Zadehs (relations of the Shiite Imams) satisfy that urge. I have joined the mandatory Friday congregational prayer many times at Shah Cheragh, and each time it feels as if it is the day of Eid given the numerous pilgrims and celebratory mood in the air. This shrine is a fine example of Iranian Qajar architecture, with many new additions, and perhaps above all, it has the most impressive mirror work I have seen in any shrine in all of Iran.

If you visit the shrine during the early hours of the morning, after the Isha prayer, you will find no crowds. It is then that you can sit by the sweet-scented graves of the two blessed brothers and read Surah Fatiah. Each shrine has multiple custodians (usually older men with wonderful white beards) who guard and guide pilgrims. Iranians have made it a custom to enter the shrine from one door and to leave from another, ensuring that one’s back is never shown to the shrine, a practise that is common across the South East Asian subcontinent too. 

If you do visit the shrines during the height of day, when the sun is strong, you will find hidden in the caverns of the shrines the poor and hungry, the travellers and the ordinary, asleep in the coolness of the shrine. 

Ali Ibn Hamze

Cross the nineteenth century bridge over the Khosk River (‘Dry River’) and you will spot the shrine of Ali Ibn Hamze. A relative of the fourth Shia Iman, this shrine is a much smaller version of Shah Cheragh.

The bulbous dome is entirely Shirazi, the mirror inside is said to be imported from Italy, and the shrine also has a mosque attached where the daily prayers are performed. Inside the courtyard one can seek shade under the tall trees that deliver great peace during the height of day and night. The shrine is well placed that any traveler would pass it if he wishes to enter the heart of Shiraz or visit the south of the city. Without a plan, I visited this blessed shrine five times and I would enter its grounds without intention. The most immediately noticeable sight is the placement of hundreds of tomb stones on the ground such that one is unable to avoid stepping on them. 

Cross the river south again and walk eastward and you will find the only Sunni congregational mosque in Shiraz. Built in the last few decades, its worshippers are mostly Afghan refugees and those from the province of Sistan and Baluchistan.

Ruzbihan Baqli

“His speech is like a rose that flutters apart once grasped in the hand, or like an alchemical substance that turns into vapor when barely heated. His language is the language of perceptions; he praises the beautiful and beauty, and loves them both.”

Abu Muhammad Sheikh Ruzbihan Baqli the poet, mystic and Sufi rests today at the centre of old Shiraz. Nested between ordinary commercial businesses and across the path from the beautiful gardens of Naranjestan, Sheikh Baqli is buried alongside his songs and grandsons. 

It is said he had a peculiar childhood where religious visions would often overtake him. At the age of fifteen, with increased visions and dreams, he abandoned his trade of a grocery and left for the desert. Eighteen months later he returned and joined a Sufi school. He would go on to pen the incredible ‘The Unveiling of Secrets’.

I first attempted to find the tomb of Ruzbihan Baqli in 2018, but Allah had ordained that I would find him almost a year later in the spring of 2019. With a dear friend, we came across his tomb without much effort. The low metal gate was locked, but one could still see the modest structure. Around the site were more plants then one could count, but as we were about to depart with our prayers performed, an old man, who was the custodian came and unlocked the door. It was apparent that Sheikh Baqli does not receive many visitors, and my estimation as to why would be that was a Sufi, a Sunni Sufi, whose tomb was forgotten and went into decay for centuries, especially after Iran became a Shiite state under the Safavid who highly discouraged Sufism of this type. In the late 1970s (just before the Islamic revolution) renovation work was done on the shrine, the result of which remains today. It is also worth noting the script written behind the graves with sections painted over (which I have been told had the name of the late Reza Shah, which the Islamic revolution wiped). 

Ruzbihan, like his contemporaries, left Shiraz and travelled across the middle east to Iraq, Syria and finally to Makkah and Medina to perform the Hajj. On his return he set up a centre of teaching and for the next fifty years taught and his work remained popular generations after his death. 

Within the Islamic tradition, the figure to whom Ruzbihan could be closely compared to is Ibn Arabi, as both men articulated extensive visions and sailed the territory of inner experiences just as the Sufi traditions were beginning to take shape. Today Ruzbihan remains mostly unknown, except in some selected circles in Iran, India, Central Asia and Turkey.

Link to Google Maps location.

The Garden of 40 Saints

My introduction to the mystics and Sufis of Shiraz was made by a Shirazi friend. Since arriving in Shiraz, I had observed that Shiraz was surrounded by mountains, and if one looked closer with interest, it would be noticeable that on these mountains there are caves, monasteries (that I would learn later are of Sufi orientation) and simple graves. All of these, again I would learn later, belong to Sunni Sufi mystics, that are revered today because of convenience (a few of these are located by the city gate) or are completely ignored.

The garden of 40 saints is a useful example. A fifteen minute walk behind the tomb and gardens of Hafez is a park that even a Shirazi will not know the existence of. A heavy wooden door, above which a fairly recently placed tile work reads the words ‘Sahetman Chehel Maqam’ (The Station of 40 Saints), enter and one might be confused for thinking he is in a government or municipal office, as the sound of phones and everyday speech (although faint) is heard from immediately in front, but no, look to your right and in this crowded garden where trees and plants conceal themselves are the tombs and gravestones that are too numerous to count. I counted and there are indeed exactly forty. The story, as told by a Shiraz, is that these forty saints were all connected by a spiritual chain, and starting from the blessed first, each would be buried by the subsequent, until the last who was buried by an ordinary man and it was here that the chain would break. The stones are in ruins but it appears effort has been made to decorate the inscriptions on some of these, no doubt by investment made by Shirazi religious funds. It is also worth mentioning these fort saints were Sunni, and I would dare to suggest that this is perhaps why such an important site has been neglected and today sees no pilgrims. 

My visit took place in the summer, on which the midday sun spared no mercy, so I raised my hands to a cold water fountain and drank enough to last a man a whole day. I did attempt to read Surah Fatiah for each saint, but this traveller lacked the discipline and prayed that Allah would accept it and spread its intention to all the blessed forty buried here.

The Garden of Forty saints is not easy to find, so here is a link to google maps if you want a precise location.

Haft-tanan (The 7 saints in the Stone Museum)

One of the oldest sites in Shiraz, the magnificent gardens and the mansion on the north-side nest the graves of seven saints. There is little to no information available about these saints, except they were mystics and were buried together in this garden that is pre-Zandieh era and dates back to the Karim Khan period (late 18th century). The garden was built around the graves. 

The stone museum can be an overlooked sight in Shiraz, but it is a treasure for historians and lovers of stone craftsmanship as well as calligraphers and artists. As one climbs the outer platform of the mansion there are five chambers visible. These document famous Islamic and Persian stories, including that of Prophet Musa, Ibrahim, as well as a lesser known tales of Dervishes from Tabriz. Placed underneath the wall art are stones, columns (some are fragments) and even Mosque Mihrabs. These date back in origin to Pre-Islamic Iran, with the stones re-used from ancient temples and monuments. The calligraphy on the stones is rare in beauty, and such a mixture of styles is almost impossible to find in one place on such surfaces. The styles are Kufic, Thalis, Nastaliq Divan lines, Taqiqi and many more.

The Well of Mortaz Ali

I did not have the opportunity or blessing to visit the maqam of Mortaz Ali, but I will give the account baesd on what I have been told by locals. Allah knows the truth. Mortaza Ali, a dervish, is believed to have been buried on a mountain top overlooking Shiraz. Historians and archaeologists now believe the site of his grave was once a Zoroastrian temple, but after the arrival of Islam, Sufi mystics and pilgrims made this a place of worship and to seek solace. 

This is a naturally occurring cave with Safavi era inscription on the entrance, which is almost faded. The entire structure has been re-created and is in excellent condition. The story I have heard details that the well found here formed when a Sufi dervish wept, either out of love for the Beloved, or in agony of his own soul and out of tears, which were plenty and heavy, the earth opened up and a well formed. Another tradition reads that this site was visited by Imam Ali but Allah knows the truth behind this story. 

This structure is one of the highest placed in Shiraz and requires moderate strength from the pilgrim to visit. Albeit today it is not a pilgrim who endures the hardship to visit but young men and women who escape the scrutiny of the city below and want solace to entertain themselves with worldly distractions. Allah is the best of guides.

Khawaju Kermani (Kamal Al-din Ali bin Mahmud)

“All that is on earth will perish: But will abide (forever) the Face of thy Lord, – full of Majesty, Bounty and Honor” The Holy and Sacred Quran 55:27

A Sufi saint, Khawaju was born in the city of Kerman and is today buried on this gorge by the city entrance of Quran gate on the foot of the Sabuy mountain. Unroofed, the tomb is enclosed in glass and nearby is a stone statue of the saint. 

Khawaju, which is derived from the Persian Khwaja is a poetic penname, but the title itself points to the high social status of his clan, and also indicates his association with the Persian Sufi master Shaykh Abu Eshaq Kazeruni, the founder of the Morshediyya order. 

Khawaju was a traveller, and like Saadi, travelled the Muslim lands of Egypt, Syria, Jerusalem and Iraq before perfoming the Hajj. In his own writings, Khawaju claims his purpose to travel was to meet other scholars, poets and thinkers. It is said that he kept the company of many poets in Shiraz, including Hafez and Ubayd Zakani.

On the upper levels of the site, are three caves that are believed to be where Khawaju is said to have prayed and sought retreat. One of these caves is now a souvenir shop, and in the other is the grave of Emad al-din Mahmoud.

Final Words

There are more Saints, Mystics, Dervishes, Scholars, Poets and men and women of God buried in Shiraz.

I found this abandoned tomb at the foot of a hill that led to another Khaneh (dervish monastery). What can one do other than read a prayer, recite a Surah and kiss the marble and walk on.

May God bless and protect Shiraz.

If you would like to visit these sites and more, click on the Google Map link below.

Google Map Locations

The post The Saints of Shiraz appeared first on Zirrar.

Al-Ghazali is a giant. I will not attempt to summarise his life, nor his works. I leave it to the curious reader to research and understand the importance this man plays in our lives – particularly if one is of the Muslim or Christian faith (Thomas Aquinas, the Catholic theologian and philosopher, was heavily influenced by al-Ghazali).

Al-Ghazali, at the peak of his career, held the “most prestigious and most challenging” professorial at that time, at the Nizamiyya Madrasa in Baghdad. Put simply, no other Muslim during his time held the authority he did when it came to matters of Islam. At the peak of his career he underwent a spiritual crisis that would see him take a decade long break during which he would travel the Muslim world. He performed the Hajj and then spent years working to resolve what he saw as an illness of his ego that had turned him into a hypocrite. He would return to his old life but only after he had undergone a major transformation. He left as a teacher and returned as a man focused on helping others avoid mistakes he himself had made. In his later life al-Ghazali was even seen and revered as a saint.

“Dear friend, your heart is a polished mirror. You must wipe it clean of the veil of dust that has gathered upon it, because it is destined to reflect the light of divine secrets.” Imam al-Ghazali

In the summer months of 2018, I travelled to Iran under the pretext of studying Farsi in Isfahan, a city known as ‘Half the World’ (Naqsh-e Jahan), a title well-earned, given the city’s size, rich history and majestic Islamic architecture. My plan was to spend two or three months in Iran, where I would study but also spend a lot of time in the mosques and madrasas. My own spiritual crisis had begun years earlier, but only now was I able to gather enough strength and will to consider where I would be at the end of it.

I spent four weeks in Isfahan and by the end was incredibly eager to travel to the corners of Iran. I visited Yazd (the city of the Zoroastrians), Shiraz (the ‘city of Love and Hafez’), Tabriz and many others, including Hamedan (where Ibn Sina ‘Avicenna’ is buried). I was accumulating hundreds of miles but was oblivious to the benefits being bestowed upon me. They say travel makes you wise, but I had only learnt the wisdom of this everyday world – a knowledge that meant little to me. After six weeks in Iran my Farsi had improved and was fluent, but I had not learnt how to decipher the meaning of my journey in Iran. This was a spiritual journey for sure, but one without preparation or plan. I thought of myself and my comforts constantly, but only romanced with the idea of true self-sacrifice. I had one goal that now seemed almost impossible: to rid or destroy as much of my ego as possible. A concept or technique used to spiritually elevate one’s self, that all the great Islamic mystics and sufis preached, including Rumi, Mohammad Iqbal and of course al-Ghazali.
 
I had fallen in love with Persia and while I did manage to drown my ego in a shallow pond, my love for Farsi and the people who spoke it distracted me. I would walk hours on foot in unbearable heat to find mosques, bazaars and narrow streets where I could find meaning. I was not aware, but I had begun to take on the soul and spirit of the Persian so deeply that Iranians who would meet me could not understand why a European would do what I was doing. “You came to Iran to study? Why?”, “You want to explore our country? But you could be in Paris or London.” I laughed on the inside, but outside I merely nodded politely, because how does one translate the agony of their soul to those who want to find a worldly meaning to our actions? For instance, how could I expect an Iranian taxi driver who works night shifts to understand that I, a comparatively rich European, was here to ‘shed my ego’? It felt false. I felt ashamed. Was I merely indulging in ‘spiritual’ tourism? 

I arrived in Tehran with four days remaining of my Iran trip. I had done it; who survives this long in Iran in the summer? News reports said this was one of the hottest summers Iran has ever experienced. Who could have travelled and integrated themselves so effortlessly? I had many stories to share, tons of photos for my Instagram page and so much ‘experience’ to digest that my mind and heart were full to the brim. Well done me. But this was not the end. 

Al-Ghazali is buried in Tus. It was only in 1995 that excavations revealed what many experts claim are the ruins of his tomb. Tus is 30 km from the city of Mashhad. For many Sunnis, this name means little, but Mashhad is home to the shrine of Imam Reza (the eighth Shia Imam) – who is a descendant of the Prophet Muhammad (peace and blessings be upon him). The Imam Reza shrine is the centre of religion in Iran and this incredibly ‘Shia’ centric city had always been a curious fascination for me. Should I go? I made my decision on a hot and sticky evening in Tehran while eating a falafel. I booked my plane ticket and a four-star hotel (of course) and would fly the next day.

I arrived in Mashhad and opened Google Maps to see what to do and where to go (I was a truly modern sufi wanderer by this point). The blue arrow led me, and ‘lost GPS signal’ would confound me. I knew Ghazali was near Mashhad but so were the tombs of Ferdowsi (the greatest Persian poet) and the mathematician and poet Omar Khayyám. This city and my time here would hit me like a mountain, but I thought that I could handle it. I had sat at Ibn Sina’s feet, I had read Hafez to Hafez and I had embraced Saadi already – what could possibly happen now? Who and what is this force of al-Ghazali?

I spent the first day and night in the haram of Imam Reza. I swallowed Islamic architecture like a thirsty traveller. Imam Reza’s shrine is a city within a city. I am unable to describe its majestic nature, so believe me when I say that this place alone could convince you of the Persian’s artistic genius, if you ever had doubts. I witnessed the madness and chaos of the pilgrims. They all possessed and displayed a zeal and love for the Imam that I could not realise for myself. I certainly was not here for this. This became clear as I stood a metre away from the blood of the Prophet Muhammad (peace and blessings be upon him) and my cold heart was more interested in the mirror ceilings above me and the elbows that were hitting my ribs below. Was this madness or was this what love requires? I felt no pangs in my heart, I felt nothing. I have never been moved by tombs or mausoleums but standing amongst such strong believers, I felt exposed and ashamed. I quickly exited the chamber, the hall, the mosque and then the entire haram and made my way to my spacious and grand hotel. Anxiety and fear had overtaken me. I skipped Isha prayer without shame and slept deeply. This is how disbelief overtakes and how Iblis wins. He takes one moment of weakness and confusion brushes your hair with his fingers and comforts you with the words “Sleep, this isnt for you.” I slept wonderfully.

I woke up late the following morning, stepped out of my hotel into a swarm of taxis and stretched out my arm to say “Tus, who wants to go Tus?” I would do it. I would place my finger on the tombs of both Ferdowsi and Al-Ghazali. I had delayed it enough. Within seconds I found a driver who agreed to drive me there and back for seven dollars. He was younger than me but possessed strength and confidence in his face that comes only with absolute conviction, whether in the reality of this life or the next- something I was lacking in abundance, it was clear. On the dashboard of his taxi he had a photo of Imam Hussein’s or Imam Ali’s shrine in Iraq (I couldn’t really tell given my fake credentials) but I found an opening to gain his confidence and smile by announcing “My name is Ali.” It worked. He shook my hand and immediately made me one of his own. Was I Shia? Yes! Did I visit Mashhad for pilgrimage? Yes! Lying is easy if you think you have no other choice; but there is a choice and it had become such a habit of mine that I found no shame in small and then bigger lies. He adorned large black rings on his fingers that he would kiss when talking about Imam Ali; I felt joy at this man’s faith, but also a longing and fascination.

I had been in Iran for almost two months and had yet to meet a young person who identified themselves as a practising Muslim. I would often hear the same sentence repeated: “I am not a Muslim; I hate religion and what it has done to this country.”  This bothered me at first, but I convinced myself later that the experience of these young people with religion, with Islam, is far from ideal. It appeared, on further enquiry, that the rules and enforcement of religious law into society had pushed people away from even exploring Islam for themselves. The beauty of Islam had been hidden by the garbs and pronunciations of an outward religion that did nothing to soothe and appeal to the hungry and inquisitive young mind. Islam was a tool used by the government to keep power I figured, and those who professed Islam the loudest benefited the most- a theology that rewarded the most obedient and punished the least. To balance this situation, I sometimes attempted to explain my own experience to these curious and anti-religious Iranians. I would fail, but at least get their attention; how often does a European Muslim, with freedom and choice choose to become religious? I was clearly educated and privileged, but I chose to do what they chose to run away from. In almost all cases, I was respected for my faith. If only I could do the same; I did not expect to be in Iran trying to convince Iranians of the truth of Islam, (especially given the reputation Iran has on the international stage for being a religious theocracy) but here we were.

My new friend, the caravan driver, mocked me (in good humour I hoped) for visiting Tus to see dead poets and philosophers when instead, he declared, I should have been taking a bus to Najaf or Karbala in Iraq to visit my Imams. My name was Ali and this was enough; for him, my faith was contained in my name and I was a believer who knelt before the Almighty. I wanted to correct him, but how could I when I myself did not know what I was? I had been a Hanafi and an Ismaili; a Twelver and a sufi meddler. I was spiritual some days and on other days an orthodox habitual. The journey to Tus was long and hot. I shut my eyes and tried to rest.

I woke up minutes later to music. He had switched on the radio and was listening to nasheeds. These are highly energised melodic tunes, and like most I had heard in Iran, were about remembering the death, suffering and injustice suffered by the Imams of the Shia faith. I never enjoyed this genre of religious music growing up but here in Iran, the passion and hypnotic element to each nasheed is something else. There is a beat, a thud and a slap on the chest that is in rhythm with the lyrics. Iranians love to sing and if Arabic, as some say, was created for the Quran, then Farsi was created for poetry and music. One does not need to understand the language to experience the immense beauty of this ancient tongue. Iranians love to recite and sing and don’t even need an excuse. Every café I visited in Iran had a copy of Hafez at hand (no exaggeration) and every evening that I walked by the Zayanderud river in Isfahan to the Khaju bridge, I heard singing. And why not? Iranians have beautiful voices; the nightingale is caged in the Persian’s throat and to sing is to let it fly free.

I stared out of the window as the caravan sped up. A thousand years earlier, in his old age, al-Ghazali would have returned to Tus on the same road, I thought. Again, I fell asleep. No bandits had raided this caravan and we were now entering Tus.

The city of Tus today is nothing. The few that visit come to see where the poet Ferdowsi sleeps. He is credited (some say falsely) for saving the Persian language under the rule of the Arabs, and he went on to pen the famous ‘Shahnameh’ – a book of enormous size and influence on the modern Persian landscape. It is the longest poem ever written by a single poet and Ferdowsi is considered the most important Persian poet in history. His tomb is grand and clearly influenced by the tomb of Cyrus the Great, an honour that should indicate the place Ferdowsi now holds on the national stage.

Tus was once a significant limb in the greater Khorasan region. It blossomed with poets, mystics and several polymaths. Jabir ibn Hayyan, Asadi Tussi, Nizam al-Mulk and, of course, al-Ghazali himself, came out of the dirt here. Tus also found itself in the unfortunate position of being in the path of the invading Mongols. The forces of Genghis Khan passed through this garden of a city and cut, bled and burnt the flowers and people, and then dug their roots and crushed them with the hooves of their horses. The anger and brute force of the Mongol was so great that they would have made stones bleed if they had any signs of Persian, Arab or Islamic influence. This was the fate of Khorasan. The lamp in the east was put out with such power that it took centuries to recover, though it never returned to its former greatness. Before I left Tus, I visited a recently excavated site of a madrasa where ash is still visible from a firestorm lit 800 years ago by the Mongols. Historians say what remains today is a fraction of a fraction of Tus. I would agree. Tus is a sad and sombre place and the residents carry the sweet sadness in their eyes and noble character.

I circumambulated the tomb of Ferdowsi, took some photographs and left. Imam al-Ghazali was close by.

“Remember your contemporaries who have passed away and were your age. Remember the honours and fame they earned, the high posts they held, and the beautiful bodies they possessed. Today all of them are turned to dust. They have left orphans and widows behind them, their wealth is being wasted, and their houses turned into ruins. No sign of them is left today, and they lie in dark holes underneath the earth. Picture their faces before your mind’s eye and ponder.”~ Imam al-Ghazali

I found my caravan parked and raised my hand to indicate it was time to depart. “Let us go” (‘Bayreem‘). “Where?” (‘Koja?’); “The tomb of Imam Al-Ghazali  (‘Iramga Imam Al-Ghazali’).

There was a problem. The caravan leader did not know where al-Ghazali was buried. While we had found Ferdowsi without trouble, it would seem that the whereabouts of al-Ghazali were a mystery. But I knew where he was; I had saved his location on my Google Maps; I had even marked it as a ‘favourite’. “Here, ‘inja’, he is buried here!” I had no internet connection, but I could quickly calculate that it was, at most, a 15-minute walk from Ferdowsi. I pushed my phone into the hands of the caravan driver, but he refused to look. What sort of madness was unravelling? He was a man of tradition. He needed another person to give him directions and not a GPS device. I watched as he asked one person, and then another, but none knew of al-Ghazali. I started to question myself and whether I had been mistaken.

Was I wrong? Of course, I was wrong and of course I was misguided. How could al-Ghazali be buried in this place? A place so desolate and ordinary that his mere presence would have lit up the entire land if he was nearby. If these men who were of this land could not guide us to him, how could my phone? Each time we asked of al-Ghazali someone replied with “Ferdowsi? He’s here – right behind you.” Madness. I had taken this journey and put myself through this just to see Ferdowsi?  But Ferdowsi is a giant. His tomb was worthy of a visit. I talked myself into submission and stared hopelessly at the driver. My Farsi was at its limit and I could say no more. I would return to Mashhad it appeared.

“Bayreem Bayreem”, let us go. Like a true Persian the caravan leader had not given up. He found a caravanserai nearby where the owner knew of al-Ghazali and his burial place. I felt strength returning. He provided the driver with precise instructions and it was indeed nearby. I was right. Of course, I was right. We rushed to the caravan and jumped in. I sat in silent excitement and watched the landscape move, then rise and fall as if a camel had replaced this taxi. A left, a right, another left, and we approached the end of the road. What lay ahead surprised us both. The paved path had ended and to continue we would need to cross a rocky dirt road, on both sides of which mud and straw houses lined the route. Where are we? This is the path to al-Ghazali? The camel tripped and stumbled but it continued without a push.

“I will walk from here.” “No you won’t – stay.” The camel tripped again and again but it kept on going. I looked over to the caravan leader and he was in deep focus. I looked on. This was the road to al-Ghazali. This is the moment that plays in my head when I think of my visit to the maqam (‘home’) of Abu Hamid Muhammad Ibn Muhammad Al-Ghazali of Tus. “I will walk from here.”

I jumped from a height that was human in its reach but celestial in its gain. I have travelled to many lands with His blessings and kissed many saints, but this experience was to be its own. A few weeks earlier I was in Shiraz, where I spent days visiting shrines of saints (Sufi, Sunni and Shia), dervishes and poets. I had entered gardens and climbed small mountains, I had been scrutinised by security guards and I had stared directly into the eyes of man who looked right through me in search of some Divine light. This was very different. It was just me and him. No one cared who I was, where I came from and what I would do here at this desolate spot in Tus.

Our worries about the outer replace questions of the inner without us ever realising– for me they did so early on. I had stopped asking questions about the unseen and started to believe exclusively in the physical. The measurable, quantifiable and tangible was science – it was real and progressive, with a before and a successive. The inner, the metaphysical and spiritual? It was the unbelievable and the irrational. Think it but don’t dictate it. Muhammad on a winged horse? Iblis whispering in my ear? How many prophets and how many books? No Jibreel would come to me, but I would be expected to read, to recite and to feel the love and fear with no miracle but one Book. The Book. How convenient. As a Muslim of the post enlightenment period, I was a paradox of a man like all the others around me. Goethe and Locke were put in my hands, but in my case the eyes stole glances of Muhammad Iqbal and Baba Farid (Fariduddin Ganjshakar) and my lips searched for the best English translation of the Quran to kiss. It was true I understood little, but I imagined it all balanced out. I could lock horns with an English man on his own turf about his history and culture, but I could also utilise my Islam to go further back and light a torch when the European would pause in the Dark Ages. I was a Muslim who was adopted by two great civilisations, but a believer who was never taught the intimate love for Him. I was a new European settler, but a highly fashionable sufi dabbler. Al-Ghazali was the epitome of it all – read him and you’re complete.

I had spent two decades coming to terms with the delights of this and that and I never steered too far from Him. I had found Him in the walls of mosques, so I had jumped to Iran to look up at the most magnificent. I had tried but it had not been enough. I thought my feet would be my witnesses if He were to ask where I had looked for Him. They would speak for me and explain in detail that I had taken steps towards Him everyday. I walked to, into and out of His houses like an addict. None of this was normal for someone who looked like me. I had no rags, I was no ‘fakir’ (a man of God), I was not enrolled in any madrassa; but here I was knocking on the door each day, to find out if today, I would finally feel His embrace.

Let me jump one more time oh Allah, but this jump, this one right here, make it towards You, make it sincere in its intention and fruitful in its result, make it forward moving and not backward, make it complete and sustain it, let me land with a soft foot and give me a deep hold to survive the auspicious winds.

I looked behind and the caravan had disappeared. I was truly alone. I was here.

No, I was almost alone. I had seen a shepherd and his flock graze past al-Ghazali seconds earlier, but when my eyes searched once more, he was gone. He had disappeared into the horizon. I felt my throat tighten. I had jumped and now I had landed. I walked closer and noticed a fence guarding al-Ghazali. I will climb this, and I shall climb again if I slip, and I shall jump into this stone tomb and find al-Ghazali; and then I shall locate his feet and then we shall sit and we will talk.

There was nothingness around me and I wanted and craved more of this nothing. I had no spiritual awakening when my feet touched the dusty tomb. I was prepared for this. Al-Ghazali is no prophet (though some say if there were to be another prophet after our Prophet Muhammad (pbuh) -sacrilegious, but let me finish- Ghazali would have been it). Al-Ghazali was a man of great genius and piety. What he achieved in his short life shook the entire Islamic world for a thousand years. He penned guidance that would shed light on our errors, illuminate the path to Him, help us understand the diseases of our hearts and ultimately save us from what al-Ghazali saw as our own destructive ego. Al-Ghazali’s life and his contribution to Islam was just that – a contribution. I did not see him as any sort of Prophet (although he was accepted as a saint later in his life) and I certainly would not kneel and weep, but for some reason I had no choice.

In Mashhad I had stood at the feet of Imam Reza twice, a man who came from the blood of our beloved Prophet. I witnessed love and faith or something that makes men weak. Was it love for Him? Was it strong faith or a show for no sake? I was pushed back and forth like a small boat in rough waters but possessed no anchor. Those around me were lost in their own storm but enjoyed the chaos. I saw such religious fervour it scared me. I hid my surprise and kept observing. There were chants, screaming and deliberate attempts to raise emotions- but how it worked. Either these pilgrims believed, or they were all fakers I concluded. These pilgrims, young, old, strong and broken had grabbed the grill of Imam Reza’s shrine and kissed so deeply as if deliverance would enter their hungry lips from just the contact. Puzzled and confused I looked around to see if anyone else saw what I was seeing, but these people were believers and they were here to reaffirm their belief.

I should love and revere Imam Reza even if he was not my Imam. I should weep out of love for a man who carried our Prophet’s blood, but I am not a man who weeps. I should wrestle these men and plant my lips on the top most part of the grill. I should plant my feet deep into this ocean and exhibit my faith. I did nothing and left. I felt exposed, ashamed and entirely insufficient to even be near these pilgrims. In my head I repeated the words “They know I’m a chameleon” as I rushed to find the gates to exit.  They all saw and felt my disbelief. I truly was a religious tourist who came to spectate. The gold, the glass and the mirror, the green and the spectacular shimmer – it was just a spectacle and how masterfully I spectated once more.

I wept. I sat down by al-Ghazali and wept. My feet hung down into the tomb and I wept. My hands raised to my face I shut my eyes and wept. I had spent a decade avoiding the words of al-Ghazali because he reminded me of my faithless ways, but now I had come to him to spectate and he got me. I was not a student of al-Ghazali but why would he care? Why would He care? Why does anybody care? Where I found failure and insufficiency, my heart found an opening and an opportunity.

“Never have I dealt with anything more difficult than my own soul, which sometimes helps me and sometimes opposes me.” ~ Imam al-Ghazali

The state of internal chaos is difficult to control. Some of us might not experience it ever in our lives, and maybe they are the blessed ones. I had been led to this place after two months of wondering around His houses. Al-Ghazali is dead. He is long gone and the rock and the tomb that I sat across from are nothing. Historians place the blame for the destruction and further neglect of al-Ghazali’s tomb on the Mongols. The Mongol wind that burnt the gardens of Khorasan also flattened and removed any signs of al-Ghazali from human memory. For the next thousand years, no Muslim would know where he lay. I associate no intrinsic value to burial places, for they serve a limited purpose, but in the case of al-Ghazali and what I knew of his life and struggles, I felt compelled to laugh about how this had all ended for a man who sought obscurity for so long. I laughed and then wept immediately. I read Surah Fatiha multiple times and sat silently again.  Al-Ghazali and I were alone. All the minds that pondered him, all the eyes that searched for him, all the hearts that found truth in his heart had perished and now no Mongol, Muslim or even this lone visitor, could disturb the peace of our Imam. May He bless and reward Al-Ghazali with the highest heaven.

So why weep? Why this internal chaos? The darkness within my heart felt exposed to a light, so bright that I wanted to look away. The truth held my face by the jaw and demanded I look and let it enter. He had bought me to Khorasan, He had placed me in the holiest of places amongst the most zealous, and now He did this. In this wasteland I was exposed, and the truth of my own shortcomings was apparent. There was no sharp blade resting on my throat, but the truth had put a bag over my head and begun suffocating me.

We are made up of light. His light. We also possess darkness. For many years I had recognised this truth, but it had remained unchallenged. Iblis had made a home in my chest and I had guarded him like my own. This dirt in front of me had no light to mark the pure heart of al-Ghazali. There was no garden, no rose or nightingale, there were no pilgrims and there was no one to even guard this place. It was dirt and nothing more. There is no miracle waiting to happen here, no grill to grab and kiss, no deliverance and no wailing or any rituals to perform. There is no need for a proper tomb, no need for a marble slab, no need for a mosque, no need for a city, no need for even a sign – he is dead, and he is gone, but this is not the dirt that I came to kiss. I came for nothing, but I found the grief had started to fade and felt a slow sense hope rise inside of me. I grabbed the hand of al-Ghazali and kissed his fingers one by one. I then took his palm against my face and used it to shut my eyes, but the light kept coming in. I had jumped, I had walked, and now I just wanted to lay down. I wanted to believe this was not the end for me.

I am not done with you son of Adam. He makes the immaterial material and the material into nothingness. He sent armies of jinns and angels to protect our Beloved, He melted iron in the hands of Dawud; He made fire the home of Ibrahim and placed Idris in the fourth heaven; He placed the blade and removed it from Ismail and taught Solomon the language of beasts. What is within His limits? But nothing.

I am his ‘Ghulam’, I am his slave. I am nothing, but I am everything that creation witnessed. I am what Iblis rejected, but I am what will also be his end. The revival of my own Islam had begun with al-Ghazali a decade ago, and now having travelled the world I am back to the proof of Islam to say “I believe, I believe.”

The journey back to Mashhad was quiet. The caravan passed an ancient fortress and then another mausoleum that some Iranian governmental sources claim is the actual resting place of al-Ghazali, but this is not true. The sources are weak, and no serious historian would support these claims. Al-Ghazali is not anywhere here. The Mongol might have started the fire, but it was us, all of us, who had wiped his name from our hearts. It didn’t matter that he was in Iran, in Khorasan, in Tus, in that place alone under the desert sun.

The caravan picked up speed and we left Tus behind. I fell into a deep sleep as the caravan rocked me gently. Tus disappeared and the soft evening sun welcomed us. My world was at peace. “Ali, Ali,” I heard the taxi driver say. “Let me tell you something.”  I woke up and looked at him with a tired smile. “I have lived in Mashhad my entire life brother, yet I knew nothing of al-Ghazali’s grave being here. Be honest, you aren’t a pilgrim for Imam Reza or even a photographer who likes mosques, you are a historian, or something aren’t you?” – to which I laughed and agreed. What difference did it make? This lie might have helped him place me better. He had figured me out, I wasn’t here for any reason I myself knew.

My journey with the caravan ended in heavy traffic, the same way it had begun earlier that morning. I was dropped off a mile from the Shrine of Imam Reza. I saw the golden dome. I smiled and tightly shook the hand of the caravan driver, who also grabbed my hand tightly and stared at my tired face. He laughed and drove off.

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