register their images in my mind so I can remember them in the many lonely nights ahead of me.
I look back for the last time and see them all lined up and looking straight at me, but they can’t see my tears. The distance between us is greater now than it was a few minutes ago, I feel so close to them, even though, their images are now blurry through my tears. I’ve a strong intuition that makes my breathing difficult. I feel I shall never see my family again. This intuition is similar to those others that come over me at unpredictable times that I cannot explain to people and, even if I could, I then become the target of their laughter or they tell me I am crazy.
An hour later, leading my mule to the top of a gloriously green cliff, with the vista of Tabriz behind me, the wide green and lush valley carved on the mountainous landscape ahead of me, I fill my lungs with the fresh air. It saddens me more when I realize that this is the same air I have breathed my whole life, and may never breathe again. But as the perched sun in the sky generously shines on my face a strange sense of freedom I have never known before gradually comes over me, chipping away the fragments of my sorrows.
My destination is the exotic city of Baghdâd, the Learning Center of Nezâmieh, which is known as the greatest learning center of the Islamic world. My itinerary will take me through magnificent great cities that are also cultural centers having well known, madresehes [legal colleges], and mosques. I’ll stay a short time in small cities and towns, but spend more time in cities such as Shahr-e Ray, Esfahân, Shirâz, Basreh, and Najaf in order to seek the company of men with knowledge in mystical intuition. I don’t know where I’ll be lodging, in madresehes or in khâneghâhs [dervishes’ and Sufis’ lodges, monasteries]. And in the wilderness, the sky will be my roof, the earth, my bed, and in the company of my own soul, I may have a chance to discover myself.
Chapter Three
I see a burning fire of unconditional and pure eshgh [love] within this boy and when it erupts its flames will give warmth to the hearts of mankind for millenniums to come.
Attar about Rumi
I’m a twelve-year-old boy, Jalâleddin Mohammad, the second son of Shaykh Sultan Bahâeddin Mohammad Valad. I was born in a, you might say, narrowly fundamentalist religious family on September 30, 1207, in the city of Vakhsh, in the greater Khorâsân’s province of Persia. We lived in Vakhsh until 1209, but in 1213, for several reasons, we moved to the beautiful and richly cultured city of Samarghand. We didn’t live in Samarghand very long. I was only five-year-old when Samarghand was savagely seized by Sultan Khârazm Shah. I have vivid memories of that beautiful city. One in particular is the memory of a beautiful young girl in Samarghand, whose firm belief in God saved her from the clutches of the Sultan’s murderous soldiers. The image of her smiling face is etched in my mind. We now reside in the city of Balkh.
I’ve heard people around me, including my father and mother, say that I’m quick, intelligent – a curiosity-driven child. They believe I possess a rare spiritual power. I know I’m different from other children of my own age. I don’t try to be different though, for I am the way I am, I can’t help it. I might, to the eyes of others, appear peculiar, a loner, or a socially incompetent in developing relationships with other kids of my age. I don’t care.
Once, when I was six, a bunch of kids my age, who playfully were jumping from patio to patio of our neighborhood invited me to join them. I didn’t feel like playing that silly game. When they insisted, I challenged them by suggesting, “My brothers, jumping from patio to patio is for cats and dogs. If you feel up to the task, let us spring up to the heavens and meet the regions of God’s realm.” Upon hearing that, the kids dispersed, running away from me as if I had a plague or was possessed by a demon.
A few adult neighbors apparently heard my response and told my father. Later that night, as I was about to turn the lantern off and go to sleep in my bedroom, father came in, and as he was pulling the blanket over me he praised me for making that statement to my friends earlier that day. That meant so much to me.
I think the main reason we moved from the city of Vakhsh to Samarghand was because the Ghâzi [grand judge and ruler] of Vakhsh and a few jealous religious leaders, created insurmountable obstacles for my father. They publicly expressed their opposition to some of father’s fatwâs [religious rulings] and openly went on to invent ways to block my father’s rise to prominence in the community, which he well deserved. After spending a great deal of his life writing essays and lengthy narratives of his own experiences in spirituality, he felt he deserved better recognition and treatment than what was rendered. Every religious scholar and man holding high pulpit knows that father possesses a rare spiritual power.
Father kept talking about his desire to migrate to another city outside the areas controlled and ruled by Sultan Khârazm Shah. Also some of his followers, people he respects, routinely expressed their premonitions based on their dreams that father must migrate elsewhere if he wished to realize his aspirations.
Another reason for our move was the political instability and disturbances of the region, caused by the Sultan Khârazm Shah’s military adventures, particularly in the city of Samarghand, the precious shiny stone that sat on the golden ring of that region.
I sit on the floor in a large hall of father’s khâneghâh, close to his wooden pulpit a foot above the floor. The pulpit is covered with a small Persian carpet and a mat. We are in a spacious room of this khâneghâh in the city of Balkh. The place looks like a small but elaborate mosque, with high ceramics and tiles of deep blues, greens, red and yellow ceilings and numerous tall columns. It is decorated with colorful ceramic tiles that support the arches. This large khâneghâh is used as father’s learning center and, with its numerous attached rooms, and it also serves as the place of our residence.
My father, a sweet tolerant man, a renowned preacher and a religious leader, salt-and-pepper bearded, is in his late sixties. As an only son, he comes from a long line of people, all well-versed in religious laws. His father was Hussein Khatib, a preacher, who was the son of Ahmad al-Khatibi, also a preacher. My grandmother, Mama, who caused father a lot of grief by having the temper of a tigress with cubs, often addressed him with words of profanity in public. My mother is Momeneh Khâtoon, and in her mid-fifties. She is truly a beautiful and gracious woman, whose captivating presence is always noticed in all gatherings.
Father wears a large cream-colored turban and ruby-red robe over his shirt. There is a large old leather-bound holy book of Ghorân open on the floor in front of him. To reinforce and validate his opinions or fatwâs in spiritual and social matters, he quotes passages from the holy book by referring to it now and then.
A dozen young students ranging in ages from late teens to early twenties, all dressed in traditional Persian clothing, with their own Ghorâns open on their laps, sit around him. I know that they all needlessly fear my father, but I’m aware and I’m happy that they also respect him. My feeling toward him, as a man and as a father, is pure mohebbat, for I’ve witnessed his gentleness and acts of caring for others numerous times.
Lately, I’ve seen many signs of unhappiness on father’s face; he tires easily, loses his tolerance and explodes with temper. Today is not an exception. He looks tired. After a long pause and staring at a page of the holy book, he looks up at all of us and announces abruptly, “It is enough for today. God be with you all.”
I watch the students as they quietly leave the khâneghâh. I remain with father and look at him with concern, wondering what is bothering him. I’d like very much to know exactly what’s troubling him, this wise man who I respect and love so much. But I don’t have the heart to trouble him with my questions.
As father stares at the open pages of the holy book of Ghorân and I’m gazing at his face, a man in his late twenties, with a wind-worn face, hurriedly rushes into the hall and approaches father.
“My master, a man has come from the northeastern frontier. He brings bad news,” the man speaks excitedly.
I see a sheet of sadness come over father’s beautiful face. He tells the man, “Go on, tell me. What the bad news is?”
“The Mongols are on the move across