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Cornerstone -
Zawiya
by A-R Eatwell
The bus ploughed on along the dusty
track, stopping irregularly to pick up another smiling peasant.
I looked at what the man in front of me was wearing. His bright,
colourful rags perfectly mirrored the attitude of these
Moroccans; ‘Patience in adversity’, I thought to myself. That
sounded familiar. I was filled with happiness as I remembered my
mother telling me this so many times not so long ago when we
lived for many years in Tangier, a thousand kilometres west of
where we were now headed. We slowly progressed. The sun beat in
through the windows. I opened mine, careful not to cut myself on
the sharp glass. I stuck my head out, aware that not one person
would even turn their heads. How much like England, I thought
sarcastically as the rushing wind brought tears to my eyes. I
surveyed the surroundings and smiled wryly. For it all looked so
familiar: the blue sky, the dry fields and the green water in
the irrigation canals. The bus jolted. The hard plastic seat dug
into my back. We slowly progressed. I smiled at the half
finished road as we forced a moped off the narrow track. Here
was I, totally incongruous amidst these poor people on this
rickety bus, but I felt so much happier and more secure than I
would have done had I been sitting in comfort on an English bus
in silence. The atmosphere here was buzzing. I scanned the
people in the bus to see whether I knew any of them; whether any
of them were getting off at our stop, at the stop. I looked
across at my parents, and then my two brothers. I knew that each
was thinking as I was. I caught the words ‘…amazing’ and
‘…incredible’ amongst the familiar sound of twenty energetic
Arabic conversations at once, before my Dad caught my eye and
winked. He was as excited as I was. With no great surprise, I
realized that the old woman in front of me was spending most of
her time staring at me. I smiled politely and she grinned back.
I craned my neck out the window to see if it was visible yet. I
felt a wave of butterflies as I wondered whether it would be the
same as it was last year. It always amazed me how the ‘centre of
the universe’ could be situated in such an unlikely place. I
suppose that that is the miracle of it. We turned right off the
half-decent road where the sign stood on the corner:
ز١وية بودششية (Zawiya
Boutchichiya).
The waves of
butterflies turned into a constant feeling of excitement as it
came into sight. There it was, just as it had been last year. It
invoked such a feeling of warmth in me that I was forced to sit
down and breathe deeply. It became larger and larger as the bus
drew closer. I looked at the high balcony with the pillars and
knew that he was up there. At this point, I had no clear idea in
my mind, just a flurry of images from all my previous
experiences. I knew that whatever my preconceptions were, I
would have a totally different experience once I arrived. The
bus slowed. I looked across to the café outside and saw with a
jolt all of my friends from last year talking and laughing. The
doors hissed open (yes, unbelievably the bus doors were
automatic) and a few of us got off. I realized that every single
time the bus stopped here, at least one person got off, and vice
versa. We carried our two week supply of luggage down the steep
steps off the bus, onto the road, and stopped. The bus groaned
away in a cloud of dust and fumes. We had arrived.
This was the main Zawiya of the world and the home of both the
Boutchich family and the ‘Secret’.
A Zawiya quite literally means a cornerstone, as it establishes
the orientation of a building, and in this case society. It is a
place of spiritual retreat, but unlike any monastery, convent or
ashram known to other religions, it embraces everyone,
regardless of race, creed or faith. For me, this visit involved
playing football, drinking at the café and listening to modern
music, as well as the optional study of the Holy book,
invocation of God and other religious obligations that forms
part of the incredible situation here. The reason for this is
that simply being in the proximity of the Master is a spiritual
experience; even sleep is not devoid of it.
Boutchich is the surname of this remarkable and unique family.
They are ‘believers’ in the purest sense of the word, embodying
unconditional love and service to whoever comes to their door.
This is the true spirit of religion and at this time it is
attracting people from all walks of life to reassess and upgrade
their inner and outer selves.
The secret of all this is the 'Secret'. This is the
legacy left by the last Prophet to humanity. Not a material
artefact, or even a spoken word, but the Divine permission to
transmit an unseen spiritual education that can only be felt by
those with pure intention and a pure heart. This secret was once
commonplace (but hard to find) and the seekers were subject to
stringent tests and conditions. Today, however, only one man
holds the key and the conditions are to have good intention, the
desire to remember God and the willingness to accept what comes,
believing it to be the will of God.
I have many times now mentioned the word ‘he’ or the ‘master’
and I feel that I must write a few words about who he is. Sidi
Hamza Qadiri Boutchich is the current head of this spiritual
way, following an unbroken line of succession from the Prophet
Muhammad (Peace and Blessings be Upon Him). He is the one who
decides on the invocation and he is the one who is responsible
for the direction that the path takes. His state is a result of
many years of constant invocation of God and living according to
the Law as revealed in the Holy Book. He has both a physical and
a spiritual link with the last Messenger. As I have mentioned
before, it is to be in his proximity that has the greatest
spiritual effect on one, and this is surely the reason that he
is described as a living Saint.
I first visited this remarkable place with my mother at the age
of six, but while living in Tangier, Morocco, I went regularly
to meetings at the small Zawiyas located all around the country.
This main Zawiya is situated in Madagh, a small farming village
north of the town of Berkane, near the Algerian border. I have
seen this Zawiya expand from a much smaller building than is
shown in the photos to what it is now to accommodate the many
thousands of visitors that come here every year. I have also
witnessed the remarkable increase of followers on this spiritual
path. Perhaps the best aspect of it for me is the hundreds of
friends that I make with every visit. These are not the type of
friends that one finds elsewhere. This is partly due to the
Moroccan culture but also due to the relationship that is forged
from the heart when one does something that is not for worldly
or material gain. Maybe this simple factor is the key to true
peace between people. There should be a balance between the
spiritual world and the material world, and this is the basis of
the teaching in this unique path. These friendships are not
dissimilar to those found within close families. Indeed, the
word chay (brother) in Arabic is often used when calling
someone, as is the word, faqir, which literally means poor, but
in this case implies that we are in need, but God is rich beyond
need. As every religion has its own hidden inner teaching, so
does the religion known as Al Islam, and the Zawiya of Madagh
embodies the core of the spiritual teaching left by the Prophet
Muhammad (Peace and Blessings be Upon Him). I have intentionally
not specified a religion up to now to highlight the fact that in
this place of spiritual retreat religion by name is not a
necessity. This inner teaching of Muslims is known as Sufism. I
feel that without this the religion of Islam is not complete.
I still have fresh and vivid memories of my latest experience in
the Madagh Zawiya, having only just returned from a visit this
summer, when these photos were taken. I feel that the only way
that I can let you taste some of my experiences there are by
detailing some events of a typical day.
After arriving by the cheap bus that I spoke about earlier, I
stood by the side of the road with my family and, like them,
sighed with happiness at the realization that we had finally
made it here. I said goodbye to my mum as she walked off, for
women have a separate area within the Zawiya confines, although
we share the same food and take part in a similar program. Sufis
believe that women have the same access to spiritual knowledge
as men and can reach the same goal – cognizance of God. Anyway,
as I said earlier, even at this stage of our arrival, we did not
know in which area of the Zawiya we would stay. This indigenous
spontaneity forms an integral part of Moroccan culture and the
tourist is often put off by their apparent lack of organization.
No organization is sometimes the best organization, for then it
is certain to be God’s will. As was expected, one of the
appointed men of responsibility ushered us to the house of the
master’s son, Sidi Jamal, who will be the next head of the Order
(God Willing). This was, of course, after an expressive hearty
welcome from the man responsible (we remembered him well of
course).
I followed the rest of my family indoors, glad to be out of the
baking heat. We designated an area for ourselves by laying down
our belongings on the typical hard Moroccan sofas which I had
become so accustomed to in my lifetime. These areas would become
our beds at night. I forced myself to rest for a few minutes,
before the excitement and curiosity overcame me and I ventured
outside. The heat was intense. I felt it soak into my skin as I
walked along outside the house towards the main building. I was
in the middle of jumping over a large rock when -
‘AbdarRahman!’
I smiled before I had even looked up. A group of some of my best
friends (around my own age group) were sitting, talking and
drinking at the café. I walked over and greeted them as they
prepared a place and instantly ordered a drink for me. I could
not help but think wryly of my friends in England as I kissed
each of these close friends on their hands, and drank the drink
very slowly so that another would not be ordered on my behalf.
We caught up, in between my trying to insist that I paid for the
drink, and eventually I left the café with the grandson of the
Master. I can pronounce his name perfectly in Arabic, but the
closest I can get to spelling it in English is: Ouaoub! The
photo above shows him on the left, me in the middle and another
close friend on the right. We crossed the lower part of the
Zawiyya, but not before greeting nearly everyone we saw (most of
whom we knew). My flip-flops were onomatopoeic on the scrubbed
red tiles. Flip, Flop, Flip -
We turned as we heard a slight commotion. A group of men were
leading a sheep towards us. I knew what was to come, and decided
that I would prefer my trousers to remain the colour they were,
as opposed to them being red. So we moved on (but I could not
help looking forward to lunch).
We walked. The sun beat down. The dust kicked up around our
feet, rising and scattering. The distant mountains loomed grey,
flat like a watercolour wash. The deep green crops separating us
masked them. The midday sun caught the tips of the corn, turning
the leaves a golden yellow. A larger cloud of dust rose in front
of us, and I looked to see the wholegrain wheat being winnowed
and gathered for our bread. We grabbed a corner of the mat on
which some lay, and with a sweeping movement sent the wheat to
the middle, causing another cloud to rise. I smiled at the state
of the mat, for it showed clear signs of age and constant usage.
We tipped the wheat slowly into a basket, carefully avoiding
spillage. We carried it over to a large rustic sieve, and
sitting on crates, sorted slowly through it, looking for small
rocks (and anything else for that matter!) This is as organic as
it gets, I thought. Ironically though, in Morocco this is not
considered any great asset, and it is only used because it is
the cheapest available. This reminded me of the barley we used
to eat in Tangier because it was so cheap, whereas the exact
same product in England costs twenty times as much (simply
because it is organic and from Morocco).
My friend went off upstairs to his family quarters, while I
walked to the main mosque of the Zawiya (avoiding the red patch
on the tiles) and made my ablutions for the special Friday
prayer. After this, I found myself joining the stream of people
making their way out of the Zawiya and walking down the hill to
the nearby mosque in the local village. Although there is a
mosque in the Zawiya itself, we attend the Friday prayer so as
not to be a separatist group and so that the local people can
mix with the fuqara (pl. for disciples)
glossary.
Rubbish lined
the right side of the narrow road we walked down, and a shepherd
watched as his sheep nosed the black plastic bags searching for
scraps. The bus came roaring down the hill, bringing with it a
welcome breeze, despite the smell of the fumes. I felt grateful
that I was wearing a qasaba, a long flowing robe that is worn
for ease, for the heat made the air heavy. The narrow irrigation
canal followed the road , and I could almost understand how the
suntanned local kids could bathe in the green water. I looked in
front, then behind. It could have been a scene from the Bible:
hundreds of robed figures, walking in the shimmering heat on
this dusty road, all intent on arriving at the mosque before the
call to the prayer began. I glanced at the men staring at me
from under the shade of a nearby tree, and wondered how their
hearts could not be moved by such a spectacle. These were the
local people, who were simply not interested in what we were
engaged upon. It was ironical that we had travelled so far to be
here, I thought, yet these people were living within metres of
the Zawiya and not seeing anything.
I caught sight of my dad in the distance, and I realized that in
this place I had become independent, for all of the fuqara were
my family. I dodged a chicken in the road, and stepped over a
stream of liquid emerging from a nearby cluster of straw houses.
We arrived at the small mosque, which looked even smaller now
that it was overflowing with worshippers. I tried to listen and
understand some of the talk given by the leader of the prayer
(but without much success because it was in classical Arabic).
Eventually, we prayed, but I was glad to be out in the open
again, for at least there was some moving air. The photo shows
the fuqara returning a few minutes later, on the way back to the
Zawiya, where food was being prepared.
I scooped up my slippers and placed them together, before
putting them in my usual place. I knew that food was imminent,
for there were very few people inside the Zawiya . Over the
noise of simultaneous conversations, I still managed to catch
the shouts of the kitchen staff as they organized food for this
large number of people. I stepped inside and –
“AbdarRahman!”
I tried desperately to recognize the caller, but it was no use.
It didn’t seem to matter though, for he knew me well enough. I
suddenly became very interested as he told me of how he had
known me as a little boy, how he had seen me grow up…
During the
night, amidst the mass of sleeping bodies. I knew that it was
very late, but my mind and body were still racing. I saw my dad
lying asleep – so were my brothers. I thought briefly of England
and felt sure that no-one that I knew was having as good a time
as I was. I lay down on the hard sofa and listened to the
snores. I turned onto the cool side of the pillow and smiled at
the warm feeling in my heart. I realized that these trips to the
Zawiya have been the most amazing times of my life. They have
been the foundations for my life, both spiritual and otherwise.
I realized that this religion is more than simply a religion; it
embodies all aspects of life at the same time. I looked forward
to the morning, to see what God would bring...
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2003 - 2005.
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