A time when our religion belonged to us

I live with the perpetual fear of the Somali cultural heritage and the tolerant, almost native Islam being eroded by torrents of alien and jihadist movements of Salafism, Tabligqhi and Al Ittihad Al Islam, which are all different variations of Wahhabism. So I thought it might be useful if I set down my childhood memories about the tradition of Ramadan back home, particularly as my son, like so many others, has not seen the home that is his birthright and he, also like others, finds it hard to relate (to) parents’ practice of Islam, especially with the distorted image they encounter everywhere at the present time.

To my Son

My Son, with great pride and delight I can tell you that growing up in Somaliland was full of fun and excitement and the most exciting month of all was Ramadan. In our village of Dilla where I grew up, and in every village of Somaliland, the excitement used to start in the evening of the first day of Ramadan. With everyone filled with the urge and expectation to be the first to spot the crescent of the new moon, people of the village rushed to open areas and higher altitudes on the outskirts of the village to participate in the great search for the Ramadan moon.

Once the Ramadan crescent was spotted “Bileey bil khayr ...” resonated through the whole crowd with the children singing all the way back to the village, "bileey bil khayr... bileey bil kheyr ..."

Ramadan nights

Ramadan nights had the feeling of modern day music concerts. Crowds of people gathered in tea shops, sitting side by side in rows on straw mats, all chewing the narcotic khat, sipping light, sweet black tea and burning incense once in a while on a little stove, or girgire, strategically positioned to warm the place and to help the effect of khat to kick in. The "rock and roll stars" of Ramadan nights were the clerics who mesmerised the audience with their chanting of religious lyrics. So when the cleric uttered the first line, a wave of nostalgia gripped the crowd and with the drum and clapping all would reach the highest realms of spiritual delight.

The evening's program mainly comprised of several lectures and several Qasidas, or religious lyrics. As soon as the sheikh uttered the first line a talented drummer set the tone with exotic beats on the oiled drum amid the rhythmic clapping of the crowd. The drummer would be innovative in his task: surprising the audience every night with new beats and stunts, such as throwing his sticks into the air and juggling between them, while continuing his beautiful beats without any disruption.

For us, children, this was the most hilarious experience of the month because in the absence of circus groups and amusement parks we looked forward to such skilled demonstrations of talent. In our village, Ramadan drummers were our stars, our heroes and our role models. Their beats and stunts dominated our thinking and dreams. It was not unusual to see a man or two, pseudo-Sufis, reaching nirvana through the shouting, drums and chorus singing.

The iftar and taraweeh

My Son, the time of breaking the fasting, usually known in all Muslim countries as iftar, was a feast time. As the sun went down over the horizon and the time for the evening prayer call (adhan) came near, all people sat around the iftar food which mainly consisted of water, dates, sambuusa, shurbad (a kind of soup made of barley and cooked with little pieces of meat and vegetables) and tea.

After taraweeh prayers, men spent their Ramadan sessions in the tea shops listening to religious lectures and singing religious hymns amid clapping and drum beat. Some affluent or prominent individuals used to hold their own private Ramadan sessions in their homes.

Your grandfather, who was the grand sheikh of the area, used to spend Ramadan nights at home with one or two learned friends with whom he conversed and discussed issues of religious, cultural or social importance to them. He would once in a while make a round of the tea shops and when he arrived at any of the congregations, complete silence was observed out of respect. He would greet them, say a few wise words, and leave them to enjoy their nights as they pleased.

Look, my Son, as a man who was schooled by the hands of scholars of eminent standing in the old and famous Islamic learning centres in Zeila, Harar, other parts of the Somali territory, Yemen, Sudan and finally at Al Azhar University, your grandfather, Sheikh Omer Good Nur, had the Islamic knowledge, cultural understanding, social intelligence and experience needed to teach people by good example and by the power of the good word.

He saw Islam as a religion that could thrive and prosper in any culture. He saw that different cultures in the wider Islamic world demanded different approaches to the teachings of Islam. During Friday sermons and every time the occasion demanded, he would remind people of what the duties of a good Muslim were: he would tell them the merits and rewards one would get in being a good practicing Moslem, but he would never harshly reprimand or disown anybody for not being an adhering Muslim.

Looking back at his moderate way of educating people, I can now understand why he viewed Islam as a message of universal truth that should find its way into the hearts and minds of people without imposing rigid and draconian codes. This is how your grandfather and his fellow sheikhs used to educate people. They contented themselves explaining and highlighting what they saw as the truth. Their philosophy, as the popular saying goes, was "you can take the horse to water but you cannot make it drink".

You see, my Son, at that time, religious scholars like your grandfather didn't have the audacity to issue fatwas. The fatwa was something they avoided like a plague. We have a Somali proverb, which says, "Only a man who doesn't know the menace of a lion will try to rescue a sheep from its mouth". Your grandfather and his contemporaries knew the danger entailed in issuing a fatwa, therefore, they stayed away from it and they never, never accused anyone of committing blasphemy. Being genuine scholars, they knew their role was limited to act as heirs to prophets but not as prophets themselves.

Now, you see Son, why your grandfather and his contemporaries despite their profound knowledge didn't object to people remembering and commemorating religious occasions, particularly Ramadan in such a lively and entertaining way, without saying "haram, haram, haram" as many of today's dwarf clerics are quick to do now. You know your grandfather was not alone in this: every scholar of Islam in all regions and areas where Somali people lived, in the Horn of Africa, didn't see any conflict between Islam and the way Somalis celebrated Ramadan, and other Islamic occasions, with dances, drums, singing and festivity. This was the time, my son, when religion belonged to us and Islam was inseparable from the Somali culture. Unlike what you see or hear today, my son, being Somali and being Muslim were one and the same. Islam was not something imported, it was home-grown and had from the beginning blended with the soil of the land and soul of the people.

The Eid festivity

There was no one who was more excited than children, because of the two Eids, the fast-breaking Eid known as Eid Al Fitr and the pilgrimage season Eid known as Eid Al Adha, were almost the only two occasions when we, as children, used to get new clothes and shoes, lots of jelly nougats (nacnac malab) and money to spend. We could hardly sleep the night before Eid. Our intense excitement about the joy awaiting us on the Eid day deprived us of any sleep. I remember my brothers and I keeping a watchful eye on the spot where the new clothes were stored. We couldn't wait to try them on and stroll through the streets with pride and haughtiness for having such good new clothes. We would whisper to each other, giggle and stay nervous the whole night.

You see, for you, my Son, new clothes don't count as a present. For you new clothes are something you buy whenever you feel like it. Buying new clothes is like buying potato chips, uneventful and unexciting. You live in the age of plenty and the age of technology. What you want as presents are high tech electronic chips, games, mobile phones and computers. But back in my country, we saw new clothes as the greatest gift.

We had few toys in our village, no big selection. Some flutes we called biibii, small harmonicas and tennis balls such as abu cudbi (made of cotton) or abu cinjir (made of rubber), which we used as footballs, and a few toy cars. However, our biggest buy of the day was fataatiir (marbles). We would have pocketfuls of fataatiir, and would play a gambling game of marbles all day with each other, in twos, threes and groups. At the end of the day one may have doubled or tripled our possessions or we may have lost everything and returned home forlorn and empty-handed.

But now this innocent marble gambling tops the haram (that which is forbidden) list of today’s extremist groups, who view religion only as a leash to be tied to people’s necks, while the one who holds the other end of the leash dictates their movements, their freedom and their thinking. Not even innocent children's games are safe from these people’s onslaught on popular culture. Remember the banning of Pokemon in Saudi Arabia. Remember, Son, how you as a 10-year-old boy got confused and angered because you couldn’t see the logic in why anyone would spend time and energy banning an innocent children’s game that would inevitably disappear by itself in time. Now you know why we have to fight this new breed of religion because it has been imported and because it denies our children laughter and play.

The night before the Eid and the early morning of Eid before the start of prayers, people used to be frantic about paying the fitri alms. It is mandatory in Islam that the head of every household should pay to charity zakatul fitr (fast-breaking alms) for every member of his family to needy people. It is like a head tax paid to the poor at the end of Ramadan. The rule is to pay the fitr anytime from the last ten days of Ramadan up Eid day prior to prayers. The logic was to share the happiness of the Eid with poor people.

After the morning’s sermon, people would start leaving the place but not before hugging, lots of handshaking and exchanging complimentary words with cheerful faces. Soon then Ulema, led by your grandfather, would gather under the shade of the big trees of Dilla valley. They would make a big circle and start performing the traditional sufi dance known as dikr, while chanting qasa'id in praise of God, Prophet Mohammed and Sheikh Abdul Kadir Al Jeelani, the founder of the Qadiriya order to which most of the Somali people adhere. The dance itself had such beauty and rhythm that we children couldn't wait to join in. A cleric with the best voice would sing lines of some famous poems, while the rest of the congregation repeated the chorus. Then they would sway back and forth, bowing down until their torsos became parallel to the ground, then they would straighten up. They begin with a slow motion, with one or several of them singing some beautiful lines.

Then they hastened their movements, all chanting Allah while bowing down and Allah while straightening up. They continued with this soul purifying dance for sometime all reaching spiritual ecstasy with the swaying and "Allah, Allah, Allah, Allah" ... amid the ululation of women, watching from the sidelines.

As soon as the dikr was finished, men and women started performing cultural dances, such as the legendary wilwile and women’s colourful heello yar-yar. This made the Eid a fanciful cultural festival that was equally enjoyed by men, women and children, as well as elderly people.

This was, my Son, how we celebrated Ramadan and Eid. This was the culture of the Somali people everywhere. Ramadan nights and Eid days were happy occasions in which religion and local traditions had joined to create such a splendid and joyous Somali-Islamic culture.

It saddens me, my Son, and I feel a great pain to tell you that you may not be fortunate enough to see such a beautiful blend of folk and religious spirit: such a popular religion that embraced music and dance. An Islamic faith that lived in harmony with the African drum and the African beat. A faith that lived in the hearts and minds of people.

This great and vigorous culture, my Son, has been converted into a grim, austere and unattractive code of police laws by an ignorant horde of extremist groups. These alien infiltrators had turned our Ramadan and Eid festivities into a lifeless, souless, music-less and uncreative ritual. They silenced the drum in Ramadan and banned the women's singing and dancing in celebration of Eid as being Satan's verses that would invoke the anger of the Almighty. For their Almighty, unlike our merciful Allah, is a philistine deity that would rather use the whip in order to strike fear in people's hearts rather than raising the drumstick and creating a beautiful beat that helps the soul of the faithful to soar.