i’ve feeling very low lately until i recalled this essay i wrote for a book that never materialized. it was supposed to be reflections of malaysian experiences in iran for the first time. i wrote something really personal and raw to me. when i look back at it, i am reminded of a kind of vibe that i cannot relate today. it is indeed strange. have i grown that much? or am i just out of touch with my own feelings?

either way, this piece will never see the light of day in print form. but i guess it is worth being put here to serve as a reminder of my journey towards healing. persian poetry has played a major role in my mental health from the philosophical perspective. now that i have pieced that together (or somewhat i think), i am now onto the second aspect, which is the medical recovery. anyway, if you are reading this and feeling low, i just want you to know that spiritual self-connection is essential to coping with depression. yes, it is a medical problem but from my experience, it can be a very overwhelming philosophical burden too. this is because it engages with the purpose of existence, the will for optimism and the vitality that resides within intimacy. here’s a spectre of my depression’s past.

From Khayyam to Hafez and the Healing of a Broken Heart

Introduction

“As far as you can avoid it, do not give grief to anyone. Never inflict your rage on another. If you hope for eternal rest, feel the pain yourself; but don’t hurt others”.

The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

Every time I think of this quote, I am reminded that it is often difficult to actually avoid inflicting grief upon others. After all, aren’t human beings so fragile and vulnerable to the contingent tide that we have immersed ourselves in? Every time I think of this quote, I am reminded that eternal rest may not be the destiny for all us as long as we are restless souls. After all, aren’t human beings so fragile and vulnerable to the point we succumb to wherever the currents of our grievances may take us?

Such were the thoughts of a 16 year old girl in the suburbs of Seremban. She was often tired, sullen and pessimistic about the future as the voices in her mind and around her say, “This isn’t good enough”, “Geez, you screw up everything” and “You’re such a freak of nature”.

There’s more from where that came from, and it would be the book of verse she held in her hand that could give her the kind of solace that nothing else could. It was the Rubaiyyat of Omar Khayyam, as translated by Edward Fitzgerald. She would spend her evenings perusing quatrain after quatrain, while imagining herself in the painted universe of Edmund Dulac’s Persia. Some days she walked through a garden of roses, while on other days she sat beneath the moonlight as she rejoiced the love of the divine Beloved, or so she desired. There was a strange, enigmatic energy that came from reading the Rubaiyyat. It was like there was a promise of attaining a peace of mind that she was destined to keep.

My first encounter with Omar Khayyam was somewhat arbitrary. It was an accidental stumble while flipping through the pages of the Reader’s Digest Illustrated Encyclopaedia in the library of my home. I was looking for suggestions of new poetry to read and given that I was exposed to only English literature, I was eager to learn the poetry from different parts of the world and find something that I could connect with beyond the sonnets of Shakespeare. It was at this spontaneous moment that I found myself puzzled by the line,“A Book of Verses underneath the Bough/ A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread – and Thou”. It was indeed puzzling, given that the first thought that arose was, “A wine-drinking Muslim? Impossible in Malaysia”. Perhaps that was what attracted me to Khayyam in the first place – unconventionality and unconformity. He would render the world, the universe as ultimately uncertain and dismiss the arrogance of thinking minds that believed its knowledge to be in the grip of their palms. He wrote;

Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss’d
Of the Two Worlds so wisely – they are thrust
Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words of Scorn
Are scatter’d, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.

Myself when young did eagerly frequent
Doctor and Saint, and heard a great argument
About it and about: but evermore
Came out by the same door where in I went.

With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,
And with mine own hand wrought to make it grow;
And this was all the Harvest that I reap’d
‘I came like Water, and like Wind I go’.

The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

At first impression, Khayyam’s existentialism might render one to feel hopelessness but for an exhausted young soul, it might be a remedy to dealing with the worldly polemics surrounding oneself. This is because I felt there was some sort of peaceful rest with knowing that I did not know or control everything, and through knowing this, there is acceptance of a certain order of things. However, I am still granted with the agency of mind and body that I possess. My hand will nurture and harvest Wisdom that is mine own. I knew I came like Water, and like the Wind I will go. To Khayyam, Life is a journey from one destination to another, and the accumulation of wisdom is the purpose and antidote to surviving it.

Thus, this would be the ideal that I held on to in the midst of bitterness and alienation. By 17, I suspected that it was clinical depression. It was meant to be kept a secret, at least for a while. Distraction helps keep the lingering sadness at a distance. So does seeking solace in Khayyam’s whimsical, rebellious yet profound poetry. This would serve as the marker of Persian poetry as an essential part in the healing a broken heart.

Marching on, without moving on

In spite of coming from almost halfway across the world, there was something oddly relatable about Persian poetry. No one could explain the reason for this better than Arp and Perrine in their introduction to “Sound and Sense: An Introduction to Poetry”. To them, poetry is inherently universal and ancient. We do not give great importance to poetry only because we derive tremendous pleasure from reading, listening or reciting it. Poetry, in its totality, could be regarded “as something central to existence, something having unique value to the fully realized life, something without which we are spiritually impoverished”. Poetry, for me, had become a necessary sustenance in my mental life. As the world continues to make an assault to my senses, I do think, once in a while, that I have beguiled myself with the pursuit of an intellectual life. So much so, a false consciousness had blanketed me from the occasional weavings of sorrow. Like medicine, reading poetry acted as a remedy to an illness that leaves the patient with the impression that she was healing.

But I was wrong.

By this time at 21 years old, I had delivered two TEDx presentations, moderated several public forums, been a young columnist at a popular news portal and manage my own alternative history project called Imagined Malaysia. Success may have followed me wherever I went, but so did the void, which is my illness within. During this time, the words of Jalal al-Din Rumi, another very popular Persian poet and scholar, would help fill the
emptiness. In a way, it felt like Rumi was the wine that poured and overflowed the heart, a very thirsty Cup. His words strung together so beautifully, emboldened with yearnings for love, peace and light. Rumi’s words were the bricks of my imagination – a fantasy of life being a celebration in the sheer mundanity that often consumed my mind. He carried a sense of cherishment, adoration and optimism that would make me so envious. Rumi asked;

“There is a candle in your heart, ready to be kindled.
There is a void in your soul, ready to be filled.

You feel it, don’t you?”

Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī

I replied, “Yes, I do. Very much so”. Later, I found that he asked me again in the midst of frustration, “If you are irritated by every rub, how will your mirror be polished?” Life had brought in greater challenges to cope with, in the forms of finances to family bonds that were close to being severed. How would I, so riddled with the monkey chatters of my distress, ever be able to handle such great irritations in a state of vulnerability? He assured me, “The wound is the place where the Light enters you”. Without a doubt, reading Rumi felt more like a conversation with an enlightened soul as he had the most comforting responses to the most discomforting thoughts plaguing my mind.

It was a constant struggle to be coping in this cyclical wave of emotions, but I was determined to survive it and hence why, Rumi and Khayyam would be the spiritual nourishment that provided a sense of optimism in my life. I had hoped someday, I would be able to visit the land of these brilliant poets. My Iranian friends, whom I could derive my knowledge and aspirations with, spoke of a great many ideas and tales of people, culture and politics. However, it had never occurred to me that the opportunity to visit, to experience Iran in its urban totality would arrive so soon.

Is this Iran? Or is this Iran?

I would be going to Tehran for a study trip on Iranian culture, society and history, thanks to Professor Syed Farid Alatas, a well-known Malaysian sociologist that would be an important anchor in my progressing intellectual life. Although, to me, he became more like a pillar of paternity – a father, an advisor and a friend. With a vintage edition of the Rubaiyyat in my hand (and anti-depressants on the other), I ventured on a new travel experience. In spite of having to constantly assure people that I will be returning alive and in one piece, it did not interrupt my optimism and openness to learning about a place completely different from where I would come from.

I would be honest and say that I did internalize some Oriental imaginings of Iran before visiting – mostly of mysticism. However, much of it changed as the landscape began to shift, transform and solidify in the hands of our surrounding counterparts. This mysticism was not apparent as I anticipated it to be. Rather, it appeared more bureaucratic, hierarchical and regimented. Our hosts were exemplary, kind and hospitable but intriguingly, they were also the contemporary defenders of the Iranian Revolution. They were the face, the mind, the guardians of the Islamic Republic of Iran and its struggle for authority and religion. From where we stood in this visit, I figured that our experience of the country was to be crafted by the spirit and ideological underpinnings of its establishment. Iran, in these eyes, is a monolithic universe – Shi’ism is its language of resistance and obedience is their guarantor. Not that there is anything wrong with it, but I have always been slightly uncomfortable with the journeys to nationhood as histories of the world have been written. In our imaginings to belonging to a single, unified political and social community, gaps are often left behind as everyday life is so often an entanglement of different realities and fantasies. All the chaos that is reduced to the ‘national’ often gets lost in translation. In the case of a place like Iran, in all of its magnanimity, there was a familiar sense of uncertainty, of incomprehensibility in spite of her spokespersons’ assurances.

The lines between truth, reality and fantasy felt somewhat blurred in their narratives of the world (it must be because I am still not convinced that there is a Jewish conspiracy for world dominance). Although, the anxiety of being pushed into the periphery because of American- led globalization comes from a historical and contemporary rationalization of international
relations. Perhaps that is what makes Iran such a fascinating country today for so many – it is either painted as a despotic project, and for some, deviates from the original intention of a revolution against the Pahlavi dynasty, while for others, such as myself, are longing to experience the enigmatic ‘soul’ that resides deep within a nation of such rich heritage. No
amount of laws, customs, ethics and dogma could conceal the complexities of Iranian diaspora – whether it was its people, their government and history. To me, the most innate and irrepressible element is its ethereal poetics, constantly expressed in cultural and religious activities with such aestheticism. These poetics is wittily exuded by Iran’s irreplaceable intellectual and artistic heritage, particularly their poets. After all, did not this journey of healing a broken heart begin with Persian poetry? I bare witness, for I knew, and I sighed, similarly to Hafez, to the motherland:

“Your heart and my heart are very, very old friends.”

The Divan of Hafez

A book of verse in my hand, towards the abandonment of my sacred shrine

Initially, I could not be too sure about where would I find the answers of healing. Was the healer a book, a person or a moment? Was it subtle or boisterous? Was it effective or ineffective? These questions often muddled a critical, overwhelmed mind like mine but I reminded myself to completely immerse myself in Iran to truly appreciate and learn from her. This was when the healer appeared. He was coy, playful yet harboured a deep longing for the Beloved so much so, it could be somewhat melancholic. Oh, Hafez! How you have changed my mind, and these sweet, precious moments!

Our first encounter was at the Iranology Foundation in Tehran, which was hosting us for the celebration of Yalda Night, which is basically the Iranian winter solstice festival. Yalda celebrates winter’s coming, and the dawn of a new day that marks the light’s victory over darkness. There was something particularly special about the entire ritual – every articulation was a symbol and metaphor for the recurring theme of Yalda, the battle against negativity and the restoration of harmony and goodness. In homes, Iranian families would stay up all night long to brave the night’s evil forces, while munching on pomegranates, watermelons and nuts. Even though we were not exactly at someone’s house, we got a pretty good idea of what were the activities that entailed Yalda, particularly the people’s source of entertainment. They
would recite and discourse on Hafez’s poems together. Observing Faal-e Hafez, meaning Hafez Omen, would be the most significant event of that night for me.

Traditionally, each family member makes a wish and the eldest of them will be asked to randomly open a page of the poetry book and read it aloud. The meaning expressed in the verses of the poem serves to signify the interpretation of the wish and how it will come true. For this occasion, however, trinkets belonging to people were placed in an urn, and as random verses of Hafez are read out and defined, the trinket that is incidentally picked out would imply Hafez’s prophecy would happen to the person who owns the trinket. I listened carefully as his playful, whimsical and sacred reflections are read out beautifully in Persian, and translated into English for our understanding. His words filled the air with a sense of wishful thinking as the melodious voice of his reciter, a mature and elegant Persian lady giggles when sharing Hafez’s thoughts on love and life. Some of them predicting future romances, successes as well as difficult times that promise perseverance. We laughed, we teased, we jived, we astounded. This sense of communion was hardly felt on most days. What I found most delighting was that this ignited feeling of comradeship has spiritual connotations. It was an unexplainable sensation of unity that was brought about by our openness to new possibilities of thinking about ourselves and the people around us. In this moment, I heard Hafez say:

“Even after all this time,
The sun never says to the earth,
‘You owe me.’
Look what happens with
A love like that.
It lights the whole sky.”

The Divan of Hafez

Such a moment reminded me of the need for kindness. More often than not, kindness is neglected in pursuing of our esoteric desires. Kindness, as what I have learnt from my captivation for Hafez, is an essential characteristic of Love. To be kind is to be loving. A kindness that sees no colour, no age, no differences. A kindness that is all-embracing and mighty can move people’s Love towards the divine Beloved. This must be the healer’s secret to mending jaded hearts and minds. For I was convinced in Yalda Night that Hafez the healer, can teach me some lessons on expressing Love in the form of kindness, and permitting me to forgive and let go of all my worries, my judgments.

I want to love as if I want to light the whole sky and never think of owing. I want to be the Sun, and spread a love that vanquished the dark. I want to be kind.

***

“Qom?! Seriously? What is wrong with you, Netusha?”

My Iranian-British friend exclaimed in a text message. We seemed to garner similar reactions from other Iranians when we told them that we were going to visit the religious capital of Iran, Qom (pronounced with a deep, guttural tone). It was surprising given that we were being presented with an Iran which has a strong fixation for distinguishing the sacred from the profane. Evidently, this constructed image of the nation would find itself shaken and vulnerable to collapse so easily. Nonetheless, coming from a country which vilifies Shi’ism as a vulgar deviation from Islam, it is perhaps necessary for us to encounter and experience the spiritual life of devout Muslims so different from ours. I, for one, not being able to sympathize with such reservations, found it even more thrilling to experience sacredness of a society so different from mine. Having been to a Sunni mosque, churches of many denominations and even Native American rituals, but the one thing that had always seem so ‘other’ for Malaysians today must be this.

I learnt that Qom would be known as the birthplace of the Iranian Revolution. This was because Ayatollah Khomeini spend most of his life in this city during the period of the revolution, besides being exiled in France. Indeed, Qom is fascinating and intellectually vibrant in its own way. A walk along the pavements would be a sea of women clad in flowing black chadors (a body-length veil) and men, who appear elegant and scholarly in their clerical robes, the labbaadeh and qabaa, as they hold on to books in one hand. Qom was also home to many important historical archives that belong to the Shi’ite community. “They guarantee to the rest of the world that we have a long, sacred history. It is for our continuity”, said a cleric to us as we toured the Ayatollah Mar’ashi Najafi Library, the third largest centre for Islamic manuscripts in the world. This scholarly environment still failed to reveal the essence of the city. I was keen to see what drew so many seminarians, religious tourists and pilgrims to this place. The reason would be that several magnificent shrines of the Twelver Imams and their relatives belonged in Qom. One of them was Fatimah Masumeh, sister of the
eight Imam Reza and the daughter of the seventh Imam Musa al-Kadhim. In Shi’ite Islam, women are revered as saints if they are close relatives to the Twelver Imams. Every year, thousands of Shi’ite Muslims visit Fatimah Masumeh to honour her and seek her blessings.

We walked with much anticipation across a long stone bridge, approaching two minarets overseeing a monumental golden dome. As I came closer and closer to the honourable Fatimah, I witnessed grieving women caressing her tomb. They cried hysterically and chaotically, as if they lost one of their own loved ones. The pilgrims mourned, calling out to her, “Fatima, oh Fatima!” Some even collapsed to the floor, their wailing faces flat down as
tears streamed. It was indeed a moment that left me perplexed and dumbfounded, as I did not understand what drove them to experience such immense grief. What had happened to Fatima that was so tragic? I later learned that something terrible had happened to Fatima. She paid a detrimental cost for her bravery and loyalty to the Imams. In 201 A.H., Fatima died during travels with her brother Imam Ali al-Rida in Khorasan. Their enemies attacked her caravan, killing many of her family members. She was then poisoned by one of the women from the enemy’s side, fell ill, and returned to Qom to die. Fatima’s fate is devastating for her followers, even after hundreds of years. The shared sense of loss that was amplified in the building was somewhat magical to me, as I felt the collective historical trauma that is carried by whole communities, similar to that of Jews. Does this sentimentality trace across Abrahamic traditions? I could not be certain. These lamentations over injustices inflicted upon different peoples are not easily forgotten, especially in the advent of intense marginalization. The hysteria was hardly relatable, but it struck my heart strings as I realized the legitimacy of Faith and the proclaimed suffering of communions. On a more transcendental level, it speaks of the ethereal feeling that is shared with diverse memories of different believers. Hafez suddenly came to mind, as I struggle to rationalize the moment;

I have a thousand brilliant lies
For the question:
How are you?

I have a thousand brilliant lies
For the question:
What is God?

If you think that the Truth can be known

From words,

If you think that the Sun and the Ocean
Can pass through that tiny opening Called the mouth,
O someone should start laughing!
Someone should start wildly Laughing Now!

The Divan of Hafez

This episode reminded me of the “thousand brilliant lies” we often tell ourselves about the universe. We would like to think we have the answers to all our questions, but there has always been a different colour and expression to everything that we believe in. It is in this very moment that I remembered that faith in the Beloved is riddled with anxiety. I say it is this way because as we try to categorize and comprehend our surroundings and actions, to consider them as holy and unholy, we easily cast doubt upon ourselves as contradictions reveal themselves unexpectedly. Echoing Rumi, Hafez too, said:

“I have learned so much from God that I can no longer call myself a Christian, a Hindu, a Muslim, a Buddhist, a Jew.

The Truth has shared so much of Itself with me that I can no longer call myself a man, a woman, an angel, or even a pure Soul.

Love has befriended me so completely it has turned to ash and freed me of every concept and image my mind has ever known.”

The Divan of Hafez

Although, there is something very comforting yet unnerving about contingency in faith. It is inherently a paradox that enforces both security and insecurity on different occasions in our lives, as we are constantly divided and united with a multiplicity of narratives. I am terrified of the unknown and the fact that I cannot wrangle with contingency, but these esoteric moments are beginning to illustrate the reasons I could finally be at peace with it. It is the only way a broken heart can be healed. It compelled me to recall historian Farish Noor’s lecture on the contingency and ethics in religion. He mentioned a significant historical event in the Quran that perfectly argues against our peculiar readiness to control and define the boundaries of faith – the moment of revelation to Muhammad (peace and blessing be upon him).

In the course of Muhammad’s recitations, he met the Angel, a messenger of God. The Angel asked Muhammad to recite. Muhammad seeming confused asked, “Recite what?” What do you wish me to recite?” The Angel said, “Recite in the name of God that created humankind from a cloth of blood”. Noor said he found this exchange intriguing because it demonstrates that at the very origin of Islam, that being the moment of revelation, uncertainty is already at the naval of existence. In the lecture, he said, “This is not the Year Zero of Islam. This is the Second Zero of Islam. At the moment of the revelation, there is uncertainty. You do not know what God wants and you cannot understand. You cannot have the foreknowledge of the radically Other”. In the heart of Islam, Faith is in a muddy confluence of ambiguities,
displaying faith in its “rawest form”. For us to have Faith, we have to also accept that we are taking a chance as there are risks and varying possibilities. “There is no certainty to communicate with God”, he said. “To communicate with the radical Other, that which is radically outside the economy of the same, the familiar, the human”. Thus, contingency has
always, and will always be, central to Faith.

Such a notion rendered me speechless, but gave me an answer to set to my own beginning. At first, I did not understand why it knotted my stomach and left me breathless. Perhaps it was an epiphany. It crushed everything I thought I knew about faith. I now know for sure that I know nothing. How startling! How could someone be so sure that God existed but what truly frightened me was how could I be so certain that God did not exist? Was I a fool for having no faith in the Beloved’s presence? Am I a coward for being afraid of having Faith? This anxiety compelled me to surrender to life’s contingency. As pilgrims wept and kneeled in front of Fatima, I figured that I ought to embrace the beauty and willingness of faith. I could try to surrender to something so great, that it was above and beyond everything I knew.

Conclusion

I’ve come a long way from where I’ve began, only to find means to have a new beginning. Iran has granted me some enormous gifts through the lessons derived from these exquisite moments. Without a doubt, if I wanted to spiritually heal, I would have to immerse myself in the Persian philosophy of life – to simply let go. A salient reminder of this came from Hafez:

What do sad people have in common?
It seems they have all built a shrine to the past
And often go there and do a strange wail and worship.
What is the beginning of Happiness?
It is to stop being so religious like that.

The Divan of Hafez

To live in the present, is to essentially be happy. When someone like me, has grown so devoted to a sacred shrine like my past, I want to belong to a new sacred shrine – Love. It is undeniable that from the beginning itself, the answer has always been Love. It is up to me, to embrace and discover the Lover, the Loved and the Beloved within me. My gratitude goes to Iran, as she gave me the opportunity to know how I will heal this broken heart. From Khayyam, Rumi to Hafez, to these moments of camaraderie symbolize that the cultivation of self-love is the Love that is connected to the divine Beloved, the Merciful and Compassionate. As for all that humanity has been able to attain, I, in my lifetime, will never be certain of who speaks to my broken Heart.

Sources

While writing this essay, I benefited mostly from my readings of Omar Khayyam, Jalal ad-Din Rumi and Hafez. I am also greatly indebted to Elif Shafak’s book “The Forty Rules of Love” which served as the bedrock of my inspiration to write this essay. The poems by Khayyam, Rumi and Hafez were from the following sources:
1 The Essential Rumi: New Expanded Edition (2004), translated by Coleman Barks. Published by Harper One.
2 The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam (2010), translated by Edward Fitzgerald. Published by Arcturus Publishing Limited.
3 The Divan of Hafiz. Selections of modern translations were found here:
http://www.azquotes.com/author/37991-Hafez