Two Appointments of Love
Two Appointments of Love
Bibliographic Information
Author: Mohammad Reza Nekounam (b. 1948)
Title: Two Appointments of Love / Mohammad Reza Nekounam
Publication details: Eslamshahr: Sobhe Farda Publications, 2014
Physical description: 28 pages; 9.5 × 19 cm
ISBN: 978-600-7347-22-5
Cataloguing status: CIP
Subjects: Nekounam, Mohammad Reza, 1948– — Memoirs
Religious scholars and jurists — Iran — Memoirs
Library of Congress Classification: BP55/3/N8d4 2014
Dewey Decimal Classification: 297.998
National Bibliography Number: 3503096
Preface
History is a constant movement endowed with life and consciousness in a flowing and progressive time; it manifests an evident divine governance, is replete with novelty, and is a pure cypress of eternal existence.
In the visage of history, one can observe both permanence and transience that never succumb to annihilation. Its transient aspect, reflected through a permanent face, remains enduring and allows us to clearly read the distant past from it. Thus, the terms “past” and “history” no longer denote negation of reality or absence of existence; rather, all the faces of the past are perpetually present. The past no longer reminds us solely of the dead, but its tangible manifestations endure within individual and social layers for future generations to behold.
In light of this, humans can contemplate their life and existence, begin from the self, trace transient manifestations through permanent images, speak of their own existence and lineage, and regard their predecessors in this caravan as part of their own identity—observing them as objective realities.
History is the language of the past, spoken in the realm of the future, subject to reflection, scrutiny, judgment, and verdict by free-thinking and free-spirited humans; it undergoes analysis, dissection, criticism, and evaluation.
What matters in historical authenticity is the accuracy of narration and factuality of the report; what matters in historiography is sound, just, and rigorous analysis grounded in precision and fairness.
If in both respects—accuracy of narration and fairness of analysis—due diligence is observed, free from negligence, concealment, deceit, and bias, history can be regarded as the most fruitful legacy left by ancestors for posterity. Nevertheless, history has always been prone to distortion, neglect, silence, and disingenuous concealments.
Although I have pursued my short life through numerous trials and tribulations, in this writing I intend solely to recall two days of my life which have been among the most challenging. Regarding the second event, I entrust awakened consciences to judge.
These two days are: first, Fatimiyya of 1398 AH (Islamic calendar), on which day I felt utterly defeated before the truth, as though my own desires were insignificant against it; and second, Fatimiyya of 1412 AH, a far more grievous incident—when I unjustly lost my wife, the blessed offspring of Lady Fatimah al-Murtadha, who then joined her grandmother Fatimah al-Murtadha in heaven. These two Fatimiyyas are fourteen years apart.
I recount the martyrdom of that noble lady in this book to ensure that this event is eternally recorded within the annals of history, so that those who witness it may draw sustenance and gain an accurate depiction of reality for the future.
Praise be to God.
Day of Departure and Separation
Today is the day I have lost her and have been afflicted by eternal separation—an exceedingly sorrowful and painful day. A day filled with mourning and grief, darker than night, wherein separation and sadness have shattered my entire being and thrown my soul into turmoil.
My anguish and disarray on this day align intimately with its truth: a night darker than any other, when the stars of the cosmos mourned the lineage of the noble Messenger’s daughter, Lady Fatimah al-Murtadha, and filled the world with lamentation and sorrow.
Monday, the first day of Fatimiyya in Jumada al-Awwal, 1398 AH, coincided with the day when the companions of the cloak experienced the separation from the Lady of the Two Worlds. I too felt the loss of my only remaining hope and kin, and her absence pained me more than the loss of her kind father.
Although the world was engulfed in grief and lamentation, it was the day of my union—the day of reunion with the eternal Beloved and everlasting Lover, and the day of complete detachment from all else.
Today I fully realised that the Truth exercises sovereignty over its dominion and does whatever it wills, without anyone or anything able to resist or defy it.
I discovered that the divine decree manifests inevitably, dressed in the garment of destiny, and nothing can obstruct its actualisation.
I understood profoundly that everything and everyone must depart eventually. None but the True Beloved remains; no one else abides eternally with anyone. Any attachment to anything has an end, and eventually comes a day of separation.
It is fitting for a human to journey alongside every particle through a natural course filled with ardour and love, continuously yearning to embrace the eternal Beloved, never neglecting that companion for a moment.
When such a sudden but profoundly bittersweet reunion was granted to me, I prayed and supplicated in love, surrendering body and soul, and rushed barefoot to the sanctuary of the Beloved. There, overwhelmed by the wine of annihilation, reason was effaced and madness was overlooked; so much so that as long as this worldly scene remains, I will never attach my heart to reason, madness, worldly matters, or the hereafter. Nor will I admit anything into the life of my heart except the Truth.
The First Meeting
Monday, the first day of Fatimiyya in Jumada al-Awwal, 1398 AH, was the day my brother returned to Tehran from Qom with our mother and did not remain to continue his seminary studies.
That day brought me profound sorrow and painful separation; I severed ties with all and told myself: the only constant companion is God Almighty and none other.
In childhood, I had lost my father and was left with only my mother, two sisters, and one brother. At my father’s death, my brother was just a few months old. This painful solitude weighed heavily upon me, for my two sisters lived separately, and only my mother, brother, and I lived together. When I came to Qom to study Islamic sciences, I brought mother and brother with me, and we all resided in exile together.
My hope was that my brother would become a distinguished and learned scholar, and I devoted all my efforts toward this goal, yet God willed otherwise and he had no interest. Together with mother, he returned to Tehran, while I remained in Qom, unable to see myself elsewhere.
Friends arranged a truck to transport mother’s belongings to Tehran. She had packed some items for me: a rug, blanket, mattress, mirror, towel, pillow, and such.
I told her: “Dear mother, I need nothing. Take all these things away. My blanket is my cloak, I do not need a mattress, my pillow is a book, there is no one left to require a mirror, and my towel is my shirt.”
Only a small jar of pickles remained, which I said should stay to feed me during my days of solitude. I continuously ate from those pickles and no other food, until I developed a strange headache that I later treated with oily food.
That evening, overwhelmed by grief, separation, and painful solitude, I went to Sheikhān Cemetery and chose a grave, imagining it to be my brother’s. I sighed a cold, painful sigh beside it, lamenting that I no longer had a brother, thinking him lost. I repeated to myself that my many efforts had borne no fruit and that the will of God prevailed.
For a long time, I visited that grave, finding my lost brother within it, reflecting on how God’s will had prevailed over mine. I had hoped my brother would be a man of knowledge and intellect, but circumstances and the spiritual climate of the time—still present today—caused his estrangement from the seminary.
A Bitter Fate
Although he sought his own fate and I was unaware, I strove to align his path with mine, ignorant that such efforts only led me closer to submission to divine power. I realised that everything and everyone follows its own path, and no force in the universe can impede the natural course of any particle. Everyone must surrender to their own destiny and proceed accordingly, without coercion or threat to cause, reason, or consequence—even if the person is a brother or another.
Separation and Solitude
Separation and solitude inflicted such pain in me that I saw nothing in my heart but the Truth. I realised that “the servant plans but the Lord determines,” and “I came to know God by abandoning all resolves.” One may plan as one wishes, but it is the Lord who ultimately measures affairs. Imam Ali (peace be upon him) said in this regard: “I recognised God through my inability to fulfil His demands.”
It is as if God has handed the measuring tape to His servants to measure existence as they please, but the scissors remain in God’s hand, who cuts the fabric of existence in any way, quantity, or manner He wills. If one asks why the measuring tape is needed if God’s scissors ignore our measures, the answer is long and complex, beyond this discussion; suffice it to say that this measuring tape, though from God, is not without effect in our hands.
Critical Junctures in Life
Everyone values certain critical moments in their life—be it days of sorrow, hardship, or mourning, or nights of joy and celebration. Although for the saints all pain, grief, joy, and happiness are divine gifts, and they treat all life’s stages equally, their joy and sorrow are one and the same.
These important life milestones are unpredictable yet essentially fixed and consistent.
The Most Difficult Days
Despite the many trials in my brief life, I can say the hardest days were in Fatimiyya of 1398 AH, when I lost my brother—even though he was alive, he was absent from my life—and I found myself alone in the city of Qom, brotherless and far from mother and kin. I felt utterly defeated before the truth, as if my desires meant nothing. I wished my brother to remain in the scholarly path, for he had the merit, but my efforts bore little fruit. I came to realise that:
God steers the ship wherever He wills,
Even if the captain changes his clothes.
This was the event of Fatimiyya 1398 AH, unaware that another Fatimiyya awaited me years later in 1412 AH, far more grievous—the day I unjustly lost my wife.
When My Brother Left
When my brother departed from me and left, I paid no heed to the impending second Fatimiyya, nor did I recall the first at the time of the latter’s occurrence. During the first Fatimiyya, I was oblivious to the second; during the second, unaware of the first’s implications. At the time of my wife’s martyrdom, I was unaware that I had lost my brother during a previous Fatimiyya.
Later, while searching my writings, I marveled at how sorrowful days seem to fall upon me during Fatimiyyas. Both tragedies befell me during Fatimiyya, leaving the outcome to the will and judgment of the Truth.
I do not know which Fatimiyya was more difficult, but I know I have never encountered such hardship as on these two days. Even the day I lost my father, despite its great devastation, did not affect me as deeply.
The Sorrows of Imam Ali (Peace Be Upon Him)
What surprised me was that both events occurred during Fatimiyya—the day I lost my protector and brother, and the day when, amid utmost oppression and injustice, we were afflicted and that oppressed lady, after a week of unconsciousness, was martyred on the day of her mother Fatimah al-Murtadha’s martyrdom. Remarkably, the manner of her martyrdom resembled that of the Lady of the Worlds. I found the pain and sorrow Imam Ali (peace be upon him) experienced mirrored within me. I know not what pain that was, nor what he endured.
Our master suffered grievously in these days of mourning. The treacherous enemy broke into his home, ruthlessly killed his confidant, and Satan stained the cloak of the even greater Satan—the killer of the Imam.
During such times, I faced a similar calamity, when a group of traitorous evildoers besieged my home, harassed me unjustly, incited by adversaries and immoral nobles, and the oppressed lady was cast down while nursing my one-year-old son Ali. After a week of unconsciousness, she was martyred.
A City within the Ideal City
Although I was in the sacred and religious city of Qom — the stronghold of the Book and the Tradition, religion and the lineage, knowledge and piety — and in the proximity of Lady Fatimah al-Ma‘sūmah (peace be upon her), I made great efforts to investigate and address how to deal with the scholarly community. I said that a descendant of the noble Prophet (peace and blessings be upon him and his family) had been killed, yet without stirring any feeling or awakening any conscience, my attempts to vindicate the truth through proper channels were fruitless. Praise be to God! May the day come, whether in this world or the hereafter, when the veil is lifted from the deeds of the deceitful, and it becomes clear what truly happened. Such has been ordained; though we accept with contentment whatever the truth demands.
Those days were exceedingly difficult for me, and I am unable to express even a fraction of the hardship, pain, and sorrow that was poured into my soul by the separation from that companion. I can only say that I have never experienced such arduous days in my life — not even the day I became an orphan or the day I parted from my brother was as painful.
Fate plays with a person as though all that must be gradually placed into one’s destiny is slowly poured upon them. Although the system of destiny is aware of everything, the inner self of a person is also not oblivious to what must come to pass; even if the mind, memory, and external intellect do not grasp those truths, a subtle inner nudge directs attention toward them. An example of this is the composition of the following poem.
Poem of the Inner Self
“May abundant curses and damnations of the divine
Be upon that arrow loosed by the hunter.
It stole my heart and carried it away,
I lost my senses, and my memories faded.”
This quatrain is engraved upon the gravestone of that martyred innocent, near the shrine of ‘Alī ibn Ja‘far (peace be upon them both). I discovered this poem years before the incident, amidst my other compositions, without any awareness of its subject or purpose. It is as if my restless inner self had foreseen the event years beforehand without my conscious knowledge.
How is it possible for the intuition and unrest of the inner self to perceive such an event, and years before it happens, to give it poetic form and hide it unknowingly among other verses?
The Depth of the Pain
“Blessed was the meeting with a mother,
Whose mother was Zahra al-‘Aṭhar (the Pure).
Woe upon the cruel, unjust hunter
Who plucked the wings and feathers from the bird of truth.”
This poem was composed after the martyrdom of the innocent victim. Although I do not know which of these two poems best expresses my painful reality, I know that together they convey the depth of this tragedy and reveal a truth within; the first poem having been composed years prior, and the second after the event.
I also composed the ghazal “Ghazal and Ghazal” in her mourning:
“At one time, joyful tidings came to me,
I had a simple beloved with insight.
Whatever I said and she said, all were envied,
In the horizons of her revelation, I had a gift.
Her lively breath and delightful dance of the houris’ semblance,
Her twists and turns resembled the dove’s flutter.
Cruelly, a vile oppressor took my flower from me,
May remembrance remain of what a pleasant companion she was.
Curses of both worlds upon you, hunter, are insufficient,
You took away the houri who was my precious gem.
Today, I am utterly alone in her absence,
For the doe of the ghazal was the melody of my being.
My heart’s pure hem was torn and scattered,
She was truly the kindness and purity of dawn.
She became a martyr on the path of truth, while her killer is an infidel,
For she, on the path of truth, had a noble legacy.
She and I became united in a single form,
She was indeed the courageous and secret lady to me.
Her stature was both beautiful and mortal,
She was truly of the rightful and the radiant to me.”
Awaiting Another Fatimiyyah
This is a brief account of two sorrowful Fatimiyyahs that spanned fourteen years. I do not know whether another Fatimiyyah awaits me. It is said: “No sorrow is solitary that it does not become threefold,” or perhaps the third Fatimiyyah to come will be equal to Ashura, and I may not find such pain and burning again.
What remains to be said is that my restless existence will never turn its back on the Beloved, nor will my soul fear death. I have never feared the storm of grief and never will, whether in a third Fatimiyyah or the first Ashura. My wish has always been not to die peacefully but to live more intensely, and instead of safety, to be in affliction; like a burning moth in the circling of the candle of truth, to become a devoted martyr, to burn away and to perform the act of “leaving” (tarak) in every sense.
Two Fatimiyyahs stretched over fourteen years.
1398–1412 AH
