It was early morning, just before the break of dawn and somewhat earlier than my usual primordial awakening. Slightly chilly, even for the mild Sydney winters. Out on the back veranda, my favourite reading spot, the first glimpse of daylight struggled for a place in the blackness of the nightly solitude.
The first dim sounds of the awakening birds grew steadily louder. This matutinal ritual of nature’s symphony soon filled the limpid air with the joy of a new day breaking.
In a semi-dazed stupor, I wandered into the kitchen, to quench the yearning for my routine dose of fresh, hot tea, like a smoker gasps for his first taste of nicotinic replenishment following a long night of abstinence. My awakening!
Unconsciously almost, in stereotypical fashion, I turned on my clock radio, fully expecting to hear the usual familiar voices of the daily ABC announcers. Instead, in flowing mellifluous tones, much to my astonishment, came the distantly familiar sound of a zealous Imam calling his faithful to the day’s first prayer, at the crack of dawn.
Had the Australian Broadcasting Corporation suddenly assumed an unfamiliar ethnic role, I thought, much to my indignation? Had this national Australian icon of public broadcasting suddenly gone bonkers? Not that I had any qualms about non-English language broadcasts, but that was a matter for other radio stations, surely! One of the several FM Band radios occupying the Sydney airwaves.
I listened attentively to the measured, unusually pleasant rhythmic intonations of the devout and enticing voice. As I voraciously gulped down my first dose of caffeine, it suddenly dawned on me that someone had moved the radio dial to their own favoured station; hence the not entirely unpleasant break in my daily morning routine.
There was an ancient magic in this Imam’s deliverance. It reminded me instantly of my past wanderings through the Arab Muslim countries. Their appeal to my finer sentiments had been instilled into my subconscious through the many tales my dad used to relate to me, way back in my long gone childhood days. He often used to speak, with great nostalgia, about his times as a young soldier in the British Forces and the enjoyable days of his youth in Palestine, in Port Said, in Aden, in the north of Egypt, and other exotic Arab Muslim places. As a young boy I had thoroughly absorbed these images with a certain relish. They had formed the most romantic of pictures that needed requiting. And that was precisely what I had done on reaching adulthood and attaining a level of economic independence.
Being greeted unexpectedly by these vaguely familiar though pleasant sounds, on a normal weekday morning, when I was fully prepared for something other than a haunting cry from the local muezzin, bewildered me somewhat. In the clearest of tones, in perfect pitch, those measured cadences and the mystic balance resonated to a heavenly echo. As I continued to listen, enchanted by the fine qualities exuding with a certain devotional passion, I could not help but admire the clarity of diction and the deep respect and reverence and solemnity encapsulated in that esoteric sound, as the Imam intoned each syllable from the holy book of Islam, the sacred Qur’an, with utmost reverence. In profuse praises to Allah, the Lord God, the laudation poured forth effortlessly and unrelenting.
Enthralled by the sheer bliss instilled within my spirit through these pleasantly mesmerising intonations of oriental chant, my inadequate knowledge of Classical Arabic sufficed me well to savour this unique experience. A mixture of the most pleasant emotions floated through my mind during those precious few moments of the most intimate and sacred euphony.
But one thought loomed incessantly, recurring almost compulsively.
The day before I had spent some time in the company of an old friend, whom I had not seen for well nigh 30 years − a monk from one of the more mendicant Orders of Catholic monastic life. He was a person whom I had known and admired in my younger formative years. This one man, I recall, had left a lasting impression on me, both as a man of letters as much as a devout Christian man of God... But that was long, long ago!
On that occasion, following our mutual expressions of joy at having met up again, after such a long time, we exchanged some niceties in a kind of ritualistic re-acquaintance of each other. It was not long before we got down to the heavier questions confronting humanity in today’s world.
The occasion of my visit to this old and cherished friend was to present him with a copy of my latest anthology of verse entitled Aporija. Having called at the monastery at random, I considered myself most fortunate at having found him at home. He could well have been abroad, or in some distant corner of his vast parish, or worse still, should I say it... deceased. We had lost all contact with each other! But fortune had smiled on me that day. Or had it!
Being the erudite person I had known in earlier days, I thought the good monk would appreciate an intellectual gift from an old friend. Even with the measured dose of religious doubts I had expressed in some of my poetry, included in this collection, much to my delight he was thoroughly overwhelmed... if only just to see me again after having lost contact with each other and for so long. He was visibly moved that after a lapse of so many years, I had even remembered him. At this precise moment, nostalgic reminiscences oozed forth with a certain overt and radiant intimacy.
I too was equally excited at having found him home. So excited that it was not until some time later, after we had parted company, that I realised, in retrospect, what lavish praise he had poured on me at our reunion! In the most flattering and honest free flow of anecdotes about myself, he instantly recalled some of our most favourable experiences that had long skipped my memory!
Alas, the joy at having rekindled a dormant friendship, soon revealed a certain human flaw that lingered within the psyche of this fellow human being; this distinguished man I had so idealised through the passage of several years apart. With all his accumulated knowledge, his intellectual and spiritual discipline, all his learning and his monastic life of self-denial, the instant I referred, during our conversation, to the plight of humanity in the Middle East, I was utterly and thoroughly astounded by his self-righteous retort about Islam and Muslim culture, generally.
Time had changed me from the young, devout, unquestioning believer he had so vividly recalled, into a voracious reader of serious and free thinking literature. I even thought of myself as completely emancipated from all narrow religious, political and arcane philosophical convictions.
This wise man whom I had revered in my early days, in all his wisdom had, much to my chagrin and dismay, remained static, uncompromising, so sure in his ways and perceptions, in his beliefs. The stark contrast between the two of us, I thought, could have made the walls of that traditional seat of ascetic living tremble, as if an earthquake of the mightiest force had suddenly struck. This man of God, whom until that moment, in my eyes, had epitomised the ultimate in wisdom and learning, had instantly metamorphosed into a bastion of conservatism. Of intellectual stagnation!
Meanwhile, as all these recollections from the past hurried crowdedly through my mind, I was habitually into my second or third mug of the strongest tea, necessitating me, each time, to boil a fresh jug of water, as if to subconsciously provide me with a soothing interruption from the stark thumps of this new reality. And all the time I loathed this irresistible need, this compulsion to drink more and more of the stuff, especially as it interfered with my keen appreciation of the unexpected surprise at each call of the Imam replacing my anticipated ABC announcers.
As the caffeine flowed freely through my veins, a harmless addiction I rationalised, my recall of bygone days seemed to grow more and more vivid. The Imam, in his lucid and pleasant voice, at times sounding earnest and at others humble and resigned, was still chanting the holy words from the glorious Qur’an... And my mind drifted away into the distant past, bringing to the fore the experiences of bygone travels.
Suddenly I found myself reliving the fascination of Spanish Andalusia, where Latin cultures had blended harmoniously with Jewish and Arab occupations. From there I proceeded on to Arabo-Berber Morocco, with its lingering influences of Franco-Spanish rule, then into the former French colony of Tunisia. These former worlds, which were rapidly disappearing from the geographical scene, returned to me in an instant of nostalgic reminiscence. The sheer beauty of relatively unspoilt yet forbidden Libya formed the icing on this unexpected celebration in reminiscence!
Part 2 will be published next Sunday