The World Through the Eyes of Angels

Part Two: Al-Shahdi: The Refuge of the Fearful

7 P A R T T W O Al-Shahdi: The Refuge of the Fearful We children disliked going to the Mullah because of the excruciating boredom of repeating the same words over and over again; but we were delighted to go and listen to the marvelous, exciting stories that Sheikh Ahmad Al-Shahdi would tell. We had two breaks each day, and they were the happiest times that we spent at the Mullah’s school. As soon as recess started, we would run like monkeys and surround the Sheikh. In good weather we would sit on the ground, but in winter we would bring one of the mats that were piled in the corner of the mosque where the roof protected the worshipers from rain. Even Sheikh Ahmad was happy when recess started. His face would light up in a delighted smile as soon as he felt us gather around him. Thinking back, I believe the happiness he felt when we gathered around him was due to the severe isolation he lived in. His family members, who tended to him, were busy with their own affairs; the only chance he had to speak to anyone all day was when we would ask him to tell us stories. His hazel eyes, beautiful but unseeing, would brighten at the sound of gathering children, but he couldn’t see any of us. A few meters from Mullah Abdul-Hamid’s door, Al-Shahdi’s people had laid out for him a small, worn-out mat, which he had covered with a sheepskin on which he sat as he leaned against 8 The World Through the Eyes of Angels the wall that faced the well with the crumbling wall. Whenever it rained, and it rained a lot, he would drape the sheepskin over his head and sit unmoving. I don’t know whether or not he was able to walk, but I’m certain that he never asked anyone’s help in getting around. He would sit there wrapped in the sheepskin until his people would remember him and have him moved to a nearby house. I never asked when he had lost his sight, and no one ever discussed it. All I remember is that his hearing was very good: he knew most of us as soon as we spoke, and he called us by our names. He could recognize me by the sound of the galoshes I wore; but if I was barefoot, he would ask, “Who are you?” He was small of stature, no bigger than a small child. We never saw him standing up. The blue of the veins on the backs of his hands stood out against his white skin. His white beard was always cut and well shaped; I don’t know who did that for him. The oddest memory I have of Al-Shahdi is of his sheepskin: it was full of white lice. In the winter the sun would warm his body; and so he would throw off his sheepskin, lean against the wall, and lay the skin out under the sun. The heat caused the lice to move out in all directions. The transparent bodies of the lice showed their insides full of red blood. We used to follow them and squash them, delighting in the sound when they burst under our fingernails. When I came home from the Mullah’s, I would see my sister Shafaq standing there, telling me to take off my dishdasha. She would place it in the wash bin and then seat me under the faucet—when the water was warm—or bring a hot pot of water that she had prepared, and begin to wash my hair and body. She would then dress me in a clean dishdasha. She would check my head carefully for lice; that used to be the worst part of my day. Al-Shahdi 9 Sheikh Ahmad’s stories were different from the stories our mothers told us of fabled animals like Dayou and Al Damiya. His stories were real. He told us about Sheikh Mohammad and the Sufis, about tyranny and oppression, and about travel and adventure. The best stories were the ones about the generosity of Sheikh Mohammad—who was buried there in the mosque— and the ones about the siege of Mosul. His storytelling style was supremely thrilling because he didn’t talk to us like children. He always...