Unfolding Rose Petals

The reason I had come to Afghanistan in the first place was my love for Afghan culture. I could never forget the sincerity and kindness that I first felt with my Afghan friends in the United States. I was aware of the rich heritage of Afghan culture that reached back into earlier centuries.

For a number of years I had been studying the Persian classics, some of them written by Afghans like the now-famous Jalaluddin Rumi. Later in my journey, I was astonished to find people in the rural valleys of northwestern Afghanistan that still speak a Persian almost identical to the language of Rumi’s masterpieces.

Long before traveling to Afghanistan, I had been deeply moved by the English translations of these poems. And so I had come to Afghanistan searching for traces of this high-minded culture that had kindled the flame of my hopes and dreams. As I rode up the trail on my lethargic horse, I thought about how this brilliant culture of Islamic spirituality was quickly disappearing in the face of the suffering caused by the war. Traditional Afghan culture was being eroded by the fanaticism of the Wahabis. It struck me that this small-minded extremism was incompatible with the Islam that was, at one time, vast enough to hold and cherish the knowledge of the world it had conquered. That world stretched from the Atlantic Ocean into the reaches of China.

I rode along replaying the memory of my chance meeting three years earlier, in 1986, with the extraordinary Afghan poet laureate and mystic, Ustad Khalilullah Khalili. My brief friendship with him near the end of his life had been deeply influential, largely because he openly manifested the wisdom, broad-mindedness, and religious tolerance described in the classical literature of Sufism. He too had voiced the fear that these values were disappearing from Afghanistan.

Riding up the steep, narrow trail, I remembered our warm conversations. Once, out of concern that as a Christian I wouldn’t be able to understand Islamic mysticism, I asked him, “Does a person need to be a Muslim to grasp the spirituality of Sufism?”

“The heart of the lover of God should become purified and polished,” he answered. “Then he would see the meaning of the Qur’an written on the unfolding rose petals of his own heart. Whoever has such a heart as this is a Sufi and a real Muslim.”

I recalled that the Sufis often carry the sobriquet of jasus al-qalb, “the spy of the heart.” I thought of how Ustad Khalili had immediately grasped my essential self. He had sensed my yearning and my disillusionment. He knew that I had come to Afghanistan in search of the meaning of life.