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The recitation of the shahada is the first of the five basic pillars of Islam, and is often considered, by itself, a sufficient basis to call oneself a believer of the Islamic faith. It reads “Ashadu an la ilaha ill-Allah, wa ashadu anna Muhammadan rasulullah” and means “I bear witness that there is no god but God and Muhammad is the Prophet of God.” For someone born as a Muslim, I often took this for granted and focused more on the other pillars. It is only in more recent years that I realised the depth of tevekul (trust in Allah) and tawhid (handing over matters/surrendering to our Lord) that we are called upon when uttering the shahada. It is a subtle yet omnipresent invitation to presence with the Divine.
The final stage of my PhD was a sublime assessment of my tevekul and tawhid. Funnily enough, this stage is called “submission”. While it seemed like a completion of an education degree, in essence it turned out to be a ticket to witnessing my attachments and weaknesses. My vulnerability surfaced so clearly, luckily together with my ultimate dependence on the Doer. And did I ever struggle to submit!
I was raised in a family where being hard-working and well-educated was constantly emphasized as vitally important. “Especially because you are a girl,” my father used to say, “You never know whether your parents will die young or will have to change country, or...” The never-knows all came to pass, as did my own exercise of self-reliance. It served me well over the years and I was grateful for it. God was very generous on this journey—solutions emerged in the least expected places, wonderful people were sent my way, many dreams were fulfilled. However, I was also so blind as to believe that these characteristics belonged to me and defined who I was. No wonder I needed a lesson in submission.
For many years I worked diligently on my doctoral thesis. I spent endless hours in the library, completed elaborate research, and wrote all my chapters. But the thesis was not coherent—the theory did not correspond to the empirical data, undermining many other aspects. Just a few days before the submission deadline, my faculty advisors told me that I was simply not ready to submit.
It felt like I had been hit by a train. For weeks afterward, I could not move, let alone think or write. My mind could not make sense of anything—I had worked hard, done zhikr with the appropriate Great Names, played by all rules… When I would eventually manage to leave the sofa and stagger to my praying corner, I would silently sit there for hours. I did not even know what to pray for. I would think to myself, “God, just do whatever you want.”
Little did I know that I had to be broken to be emptied. The rigid framework of linear logic, the attachment to my own actions and expectations—all had to drown for me to realise my own fragility. My once-treasured self-image was now a speck of sand, nothing belonged to me. My academic endeavour was not who I am. Mevlana’s invitation to die before death came closer to heart, as whatever I thought I had, became a stark reminder of the Divine gift I was entrusted to host. My wings were broken, yet I was offered a safe rock to rest my head. And breathe.
After stripping me of all that I thought I possessed, the Generous One prepared an incredible, almost humoristic plot. From a semi-depressed couch potato, I moved into a hyper-productive mode. I started writing for 16, sometimes even 20, hours a day—something no amount of coffee or other substances could help with today. I rewrote the entire thesis in a month and a half. My advisers gave me the green light to submit it, even telling me that the difference in clarity was unbelievable. Do not ask me how I did it, I claim nothing. The words of Kharaqani now ring loudly in my ears:
In the beginning you have Him only, and so it will be at the end, and in the middle, there is no one else. One who claims this place as his, won't find his way There.
[The Soul and a Loaf of Bread, Sheikh Abol-Hassan of Kharaqan]
The encouragement of our teachers for daily zhikr is indeed such a tender invitation to remembrance and gratitude. Our egos are very complex phenomena, layered in thousands of subtle veils, even when we confidently claim the shahada. A continuous remembrance of the breath, turning and returning to tevekkul and tawhid, to that safe rock inside our hearts where everything becomes silent…
To claim nothing and to let the Divine do seems to beg one to embrace a new cycle of maturing in this life. The first cycle is the obvious growing-up according to parents’ standards—becoming honest, independent, hard-working, etc. The second one is a far more subtle journey—growing in God. What does it mean? I am still learning and endlessly grateful for the generosity of this path. The wise Kharaqani might have a short answer though:
Choose Surrender and your journey home will be short.
[The Soul and a Loaf of Bread, Sheikh Abol-Hassan of Kharaqan]
~ Sabina Pačariz is a seeker on the Sufi path. |
