For the last ten minutes of my daughter’s gymnastics class yesterday, the teacher quite unexpectedly changed the pace and character of the lesson. Having selected a hideous Euro House/Bashment tune which was made all the worse by the aggressive, deeply cerebral lyricist shouting ‘go, go, go!’ over the top, the teacher played the song through speakers located around the studio at a rather uncomfortable volume. The teacher then proceeded to dance in a manner that required me to lower my gaze, with posteriors and chests flying all over the place. The response of the children was fascinating. Three of the youngest in the class (5 years old) immediately walked out of the studio, preferring the comfort and familiarity of their mothers’ knees to the deep bass lines vibrating around the classroom. One slightly older boy stopped still and focused his eyes on the ground. Despite the cajoling of the teacher and her assistants, he refused to move and would not dance. The three older girls (my daughter included) nervously moved from side to side in time with the music, copying the teacher’s hand and arm movements, but preferring not to imitate the shaking rear end. After a minute or so, the teacher realised that the endeavour was not achieving its objective, and decided to turn the music down a little. She then encouraged her students to run around in circles shouting ‘go, go, go!’, as she shouted instructions to jump, lay down, and do a forward roll. The children enjoyed this. Their primordial happiness was illustrated by the giggles and squeals one expects from young people.
Upon one of my numerous visits to the mosque of Sheikh Muhiyidin Ibn Arabi, I made the acquaintance of a striking elder by the name of Abu Muhammad. His name, which literally translated indicates that he is the ‘father of Muhammad’, is a perfect expression of anonymity. On those rare occasions in which he enters my thoughts, I like to consider his name as some profound expression of spirituality, that his desired obscurity was the result of some yearning to renounce the trappings of the ephemeral world, and embrace the ancient existence of an unknown dervish. Yet almost certainly nearer the truth is that in modern Syria, if often pays to remain unidentified. I was blessed by his company on a number of occasions, and we often engaged in a stuttering, graceless, yet well intentioned conversation that was to repeat itself (in form) at numerous junctures during my time in Syria. His face truly was alight with faith, and he wore the genuine smile of a man whose existence was good. We s...
Comments
Post a Comment