51
A Vision of the Next World
Your servant wishes to free his hand and pen and set down his impressions, having before been burdened with weariness and exhaustion at the things he has seen, like a small donkey carrying loads only mules are able to bear.1 I had read nothing of the strange, outlandish happenings in the country, and now I was made furious at what I saw in Damascus and Iraq. I saw squalor in the alleyways, changes of rulers and kings, and pillage by foreigners.
One day, when overcome by sleep, I saw the Day of Judgment. The Summoner of Hell began calling people to give an account of themselves to God. I rose from my grave and headed toward the land of doomsday, weary, fearful, and covered in sweat. “This,” I told myself, “is the grimmest, most dreadful day of all.” Feeble as I was, so dispirited and frail, I longed for the all-powerful God to provide me here with some refreshing meal—a loaf of hot bread, an omelet of eggs, onion, meat, and cheese, and a flask of Lebanese wine. In this way I might lose my senses, become absent from this world, freed from all these misfortunes.
No sooner had I made my wish than my companion said: “I’ve just seen some girls with children, who claim you fathered their offspring. Some say you sold them to other owners while they were pregnant.”
I could hardly believe my ears.
“Don’t, please,” I said, “compare me to Hafiz al-Ulaimi, who’d go for young boys, then sell them when their beards started sprouting and get new ones in their place. Don’t you see Malik there, the custodian of Hell, coming out of the fire, his eyes wide, a rod in his right hand and a chain in the other, pursuing sodomizers and pimps of the nation of Muhammad, peace be upon him? Stop this talk, won’t you? Let’s have no more of it.”
While we were talking, though, Malik, the custodian of Hell, assailed us. He seized our hands, bound the chain around our necks, and pulled us into the fire. I made my appeal to him.
“Please, sir,” I said, “please, Mal, let me for God’s sake say a few words.”
“Why should I listen to you,” he asked, “when you address me and leave out half my name?”
“I was trying to be friendly,” I said, “giving you a pet name.”
“Very well then,” he replied. “Say what you have to say.”
“Sir,” I said, “I’m one of the people of the Quran, come all the way from the Maghreb. I, too, memorize and repeat the sayings of Muhammad, peace be upon him.”
“You reprobate!” he said. “You devise subtle new ways in the art of sodomy. You wrote down the names of Muslim boys, in a great list, in alphabetical order. You, you pig, have led soft-skinned boys to ruin, forcing them to share your bed. But why go on and on listing your vices?”
I was livid with rage.
“I won’t,” I said, “take that sort of accusation. You’ll be sorry for what you’ve said.”
“What are you going to do to me then?” Malik replied. “Pour scorn on me in one of those famous poems or stories of yours?”
When we heard this, my companion and I, we bit back our words and made our tone more conciliatory. And so he left us, and we joined a crowd of people going up to the mount of Aʿraf, the region overlooking the gardens of Paradise. We would, I supposed, have our spirits restored and enjoy a time of ease there. My companion, though, put in a warning word.
“Don’t think like that,” he said. “We’ve lost all hope of entering Paradise now. If we were to see the trees and rivers, knowing we’d never reach them, we’d be filled with a sense of loss and sorrow. Our fancies would be a torment to us. My hope, rather, is for an eye that doesn’t see and a heart that doesn’t suffer.”
Turning to one side, I saw Rudwan, the custodian of Paradise; he was holding a scroll and reading aloud. “This,” he read, “concerns a man who calls himself a writer but is in truth a mere painter, adorning and embellishing his writings with nothing of substance or value behind them. I shan’t permit him to enter Paradise. His empty, embroidered words are good only for concubines, and for women who love other women. Should he venture near Heaven’s gate, he’ll be struck by ten thousand shoes. If he wrote such words on the thigh of a fat sheep even, the very dogs would shun it.”
While all this was being said, we heard a loud report from a corner of the place of doomsday, and saw cheering crowds moving that way, clapping their hands and shrieking with joy. They surrounded four men who were buckling under the whips of the crowd, and yet, at the same time, smiling hopefully. Wondering, I asked Rudwan what all this meant, why these four persons had such a cheerful air.
“Those men,” he said, “were once criminals of our nation:2 ʿAbd al-Rahman bin Murjim al-Muradi, who killed ʿAli bin Abi Talib, God bless his soul; Shummar bin Dhi al-Jawshan al-Dubabi, who had a part in the murder of al-Husain bin ʿAli, the grandson of our Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him; Hajjaj bin Yousuf al-Thaqafi, the Umayyad ruler of Iraq, who drove out the followers of ʿAli; and Sheikh Abu Murra—Satan himself. They’re smiling in the vain hope of God’s mercy, buoyed up by the thought that God forgives those who repent and regret their wrongdoing.”
We came across ʿUzraʾil,3 too, praising, ceaselessly and at length, the physicians of the day. Thanks to their shortcomings, he said, he’d been feasted through the sweeping away of so many lost souls. One man’s defect may be another man’s boon.
At this point the commotion grew louder. A grand convoy approached us, of people like suns and moons in their brightness. They were riding on lustrous horses toward a crystalline spring. We asked who they were. “This,” came the answer, “is the master of prophets and messengers, Muhammad bin ʿAbd Allah, peace be upon him, with his companions and the members of his household.”
We made our way toward him, straining to reach him, but were held back by the vast throng. We climbed a hilly part of the Aʿraf mount and watched him pass by. Caliph Abu Bakr was on his right, on his left Caliph ʿUmar. Around him were his children, along with al-Hasan and al-Husain, together with ʿUthman, Hamza, al-ʿAbbas, Jaʿfar, and ʿAqil. Other companions, and also the emigrants and supporters,4 took part in the procession. Now he would turn to speak with ʿAli, now with ʿUthman. The crowd hailed and wailed in supplication, waving their arms and beseeching him from all sides.
When he came close to the spring, he paused. The Sufis approached him from all sides, carrying their combs and toothpicks, which they then presented to him. The Prophet (peace be upon him) asked:
“Who are these?”
“They are people of your nation,” someone said, “who turned into useless, idle hermits. No longer prepared to work for a living, they withdrew into mosques, and there they did nothing but eat and sleep.”
“What benefit have they brought to others?” he asked. “What help have they been to them?”
“None at all, peace be upon you. They live like useless castor plants in the garden, wasting water and taking up space.”
He turned away from them and moved on toward the spring.
The Ayyubi rulers Najm al-Din and Asad al-Din approached, riding two fine horses like falcons, each carrying with him two garments, one for pilgrimage, the other for holy war. They were joined by Saladin, whom they led to the Prophet (peace be upon him), ordering him to kneel and kiss the Prophet’s feet, and this he did. The Prophet asked for God’s mercy on him, stroked his head, and prayed for his success and victory, asking him to show kindness to the beleaguered, the ill-treated, and the oppressed. They all stayed some time by the great water source, then returned the way they’d come.
My companion and I sat down to rest and drink. What I needed now, I said, after this long trip, was a piece of soap and some water to wash my beard, covered in dust and sweat. If I didn’t clean myself thoroughly, my companion said, I wouldn’t be admitted to Paradise; rather, I’d be moved to the gates of Hell, where the custodians would twirl my beard into a wick and burn it.
As we were there, enjoying the leisure of comfort and peace, we heard a mighty tumult coming close, with piercing shrieks and scr
eams, one after the other. Our companions and friends began scattering in all directions.
“What’s the matter with these people?” we asked.
This, we were told, was ʿAli ibn Abi Talib (may God bless his soul), coming with horsemen led by his son Muhammad ibn al-Hanafiyya, roaring like a ferocious lion. When he reached us, he cried out and brandished his spear to impale me. And this jerked me from the depths of my slumber, hurling me from my bed to the floor. There I was, wide awake now, with the sweetness of that water still in my mouth, that cry still ringing in my ears, the terror of my fall in my heart, as long as I lived.
Now, sir, what do you have to say of my long ordeal, my feverish vision, stirred up by anger and vengeance?
(And may Almighty God bestow peace upon our Prophet and Master Muhammad, and upon his family and companions.)
From Shaikh Rukn al-Din Muhammad bin Muhammad bin Muhriz al-Wahrani [d. 575 / 1179], Manamat al-Wahrani (The Wahrani Dreams), ed. Ibrahim Shaʿlan and Muhammad Naghsh (Cairo: Dar al-Kitab al-ʿArabi li-ʾl-Tibaʿa wa ʾl-Nashr, 1968).
1. The author of this piece, Rukn al-Din al-Wahrani (d. 575 / 1179), was a little-known writer born in Wahran (Oran), in what is now Algeria. He traveled to Cairo, Damascus, and Baghdad and wrote down, in the form of a series of dreams and letters, his impressions of the corrupt practices he witnessed there.
2. The author’s attitude to various characters seen in the vision is colored by his Shiʿite loyalties.
3. ʿUzraʾil, the angel of death.
4. The Quraysh was the majority tribe in Mecca, to which the Prophet belonged and which rejected his proclamation of Islam and took up arms against him. Muhammad and his followers thereupon took refuge in the town of Yathrib, to the north of Mecca, later called Medina. Some there had already been converted to Islam, and they invited Muhammad to take refuge with them. They were therefore called al-Ansar (the supporters), while the refugees from Mecca were called al-Muhajirun (the emigrants).
V
Comic Tales: Tales of Juha
[JUHA IS A TRADITIONAL CHARACTER AROUND WHOM COUNTLESS COMIC ANECDOTES WERE SPUN, HIS PORTRAYAL VARYING WIDELY FROM THAT OF SAGE TO SIMPLETON. THE HUMOR ITSELF RANGES FROM THE ASTRINGENT TO THE STRAIGHTFORWARDLY HILARIOUS. IT HAS BEEN THOUGHT PREFERABLE TO GIVE THE JUHA STORIES THEIR OWN SECTION SO AS TO HIGHLIGHT THE RANGE OF POPULAR HUMOR THEY EMBODY. THE SELECTIONS WERE MADE FROM VARIOUS EDITIONS OF THE JUHA COMPILATIONS.]
52
Juha as a Vehicle for Satire
[Juha’s role here permits not simply general social satire but attack on specific historical individuals of high rank.]
One day Tamerlane1 summoned the city’s governor to confiscate his possessions, on the pretext that he’d stolen large quantities of funds. The truth was, the crops and fruit had been damaged that year by Heaven-sent natural disasters. The previous year’s harvest had indeed been plentiful, but this year the earth had produced barely enough for the people to stay alive. The governor had in fact done the best he could, using all his powers of firmness to extract everything possible from what the people had built up.
The man produced his account books, written on the paper of the day— only to see Tamerlane tear them up, then have the soldiers, on Tamerlane’s orders, first flog him then force him to eat the torn pages. Tamerlane thereupon confiscated the governor’s possessions, leaving him totally destitute.
He then summoned Juha, who had a reputation for honesty, and charged him with supervision of the realm’s treasury. The old man tried to wriggle out of the post, citing his failing health, but no excuse was accepted.
At the end of the month, Tamerlane called for the account books, which Juha had prepared on thin layers of bread. Tamerlane asked him just what it was he’d brought.
“Sire,” Juha said, “it will end, I know, in your ordering me to swallow these. I’m an old man, not a man of fame and prowess like my predecessor. Indeed, my stomach will scarcely be able to digest even this bread!”
One day the governor2 was walking around, inspecting the city streets, when he sniffed the mouthwatering smell of a grill coming from a bakery nearby. He summoned the baker and a puerile argument ensued, which ended with the governor’s ordering the baker to send the grilled goose to his house, and to tell the real owner that it had flown off after being cooked.
“If the owner isn’t satisfied,” the governor concluded, “then come straight to me and I’ll judge between the two of you. I’ll deal with him, don’t worry.”
The baker gave in to the governor and sent the goose to his house. When the owner of the goose arrived to claim it, and the baker told him it had flown off, he was furious. The two of them started quarreling, and the people round about sided with the customer, saying the baker was a thief. They kept on at him till, in the end, he became desperate, panicked, and ran off like a madman, having first given the nearest man such a vicious punch that it knocked out one of his teeth.
The mob’s mood grew uglier, but the desperate baker managed to leap into a nearby alley, where he found his path blocked by a pregnant woman returning home with her husband; and he gave her such a kick that she lost the child. The mob, angrier still, kept following him, but off he shot like an arrow from a bow, entered a nearby mosque, and climbed to the top of the minaret. The mob still followed in hot pursuit, and so he jumped from the top of the minaret and landed on one of his pursuers. The man died but the baker survived. As the mob’s anger grew fiercer still, the baker fled into a butcher’s shop, where he seized hold of a knife, pretending to be crazy.
Now, Juha’s donkey was nearby, and, as the baker slashed downward with the knife, he cut off the donkey’s tail. Then he ran off to the residence of the governor, Kameesh, the mob still pursuing. Finally they all fetched up in the governor’s presence.
Kameesh, for his part, feigned surprise and pretended to have no knowledge of the baker. Then, having heard the full story, he told everyone he believed the baker’s claim: that the goose had flown off after being grilled, so demonstrating the power of the Creator, praise be to Him. The goose’s owner grew furious at this, whereupon Kameesh, in his capacity as judge, accused him of heresy and lack of faith in the Creator’s power, fining him ten dinars accordingly.
The governor then addressed the case of the second plaintiff, who was instructed to strike the baker a single blow that would knock out exactly the same tooth as the one he’d lost—and woe betide him if it was otherwise! The man, realizing how biased the judge was, and despairing of justice, relinquished his case. The governor thereupon fined him ten dinars.
Next it was the turn of the third opponent. “The fault,” the judge told him, “lies with your late brother. Why did he have to choose that precise moment to walk under the minaret? Still, let right prevail and justice take its course. You must climb the selfsame minaret and jump down on top of the baker, killing him as he did, indeed, kill your brother.” The claimant, realizing the judge’s perversity and despairing of justice at his hands, relinquished his right, and the judge ruled he should be fined ten dinars for failing to carry out the decision of the court.
Now it was the turn of the woman who’d lost her child. The judge admonished her for choosing to pass, at that very moment, along a street she knew to be narrow—though in fact (he went on) the real fault lay with her husband, who’d arranged for her to live in such a street. But, be that as it may, justice must take its course. He decreed, accordingly, that the one who’d caused the abortion in her womb must make it pregnant again in lieu. The woman and her husband were stunned, and she relinquished her right. The judge imposed a fine of ten dinars on her for wasting the court’s time.
Juha, having witnessed the awesome judgments of this crazed tyrant, fled with his donkey, looking only to make good his escape. The governor, though, forestalled him; whereupon Juha cried out that God had created his donkey without either tail or brains. This the governor, egged on by the baker, refused to accept, and Juha saw it was useless to argue with him. He gazed at the
governor.
“My lord governor,” Juha said, “so it is. God created my donkey without either tail or brains. Are you denying the might of the Creator? Do you doubt and contend His power?”
The governor, hearing his own reasoning thrown back at him, was dumbstruck and found no reply.
1. This is one of a number of stories in which Juha figures alongside the despotic ruler Tamerlane (1336–1405).
2. The governor in question, Kameesh, was the living embodiment of the corruption of justice and the judiciary in his time. Clever though he was, and full of mental agility, he was driven by greed and avarice. He had no compunction about cutting corners and no shame about fabricating feeble justifications only the stupidest or most naive person would ever dream of. This is demonstrated in the present anecdote.
53
The Comic Wit of Juha
[The following anecdotes demonstrate the wit, and also the ingenuity and resource, typical of Juha in many of the traditional stories.]
A merchant went into a restaurant and ordered a chicken and two eggs. He would, he said, pay the restaurant owner in three months’ time, when he came back from a business trip. On his return he went to the restaurant and asked to settle the bill in full.
“The account’s a high one,” the restaurant owner said, “but I’ll settle for two hundred dirhams.”
“In Heaven’s name,” the merchant cried, “how could you ask two hundred dirhams, even for two chickens and four eggs?”
“Well,” explained the restaurant owner, “if the chicken you ate three months ago had still been alive, and laid one egg a day to be put under a hen, we would have had so many chickens and so many eggs. We could have sold them for hundreds of dirhams.”
After a heated argument, they ended up at the court of a judge who was in collusion with the restaurant owner. The judge asked the merchant if he’d agreed upon the price with the restaurant owner three months before, and the merchant said he hadn’t. And, pursued the judge, might the chicken and the two eggs not have produced hundreds of eggs and chickens in the meantime?
Classical Arabic Stories Page 20
