A Jihad for Love

Picture credit : Hetgras

Parvez Sharma the director of A Jihad for Love being interviewed on the tv show The Hour.

Video Uploaded by TheHour

Yesterday was an eventful day after the monotony of the past few days. I met a guy in the city who I got in touch with over the internet. The guy had also done a course in cookery from TAFE the same campus as me but not is French Cuisine. I though that it would be nice to exchange notes with him. But I was taken aback by the meeting. All that this guy did was proclaim his admiration for Indian cuisine and disgust at most western culinary traditions. I thought that it was rather strange that he would do a course in a culinary tradition that he didn't have any interest in. Luckily for me as always Garfield came to my rescue. I took the guys leave in time as I was supposed to meet Garfield and go to see a screening of "A Jihad for Love".
The movie is a documentary about homosexuality in the Islamic world and how people are torn apart because at times they feel that their sexuality is in conflict with the teachings of Islam. I was moved to tears on watching some of the stories in the movie especially on hearing the conversations between mothers and their gay sons. It reminded me of mum and how she has always been there for me and accepted me with an open heart and also the men in my life (especially Mr Big) and how she had showered them with unconditional love. Another theme that resonated with me was how most gay men in order to escape persecution in their country are forced to leave their entire life behind and move to foreign shores hoping that in their new home they would be able to live their life without having to always be on a guard about being outed and bringing 'shame' to the family name or being pressurized to get married by family or relatives. That is one reason that I left India thinking Australia would be different but some of the bubbles have burst since I have arrived here. The saddest part has been to see the discrimination within the gay community in Australia against people from different cultures and how people are trying to put other people in boxes based on their nationality or colour. It is not just a one way thing. Most Aussie would would want to be with Caucasians or Orientals and most Indians or South Asians would want to be in a relationship with someone who comes from the same 'culture' with similar 'values' and 'morals'. It got me thinking about the guy I met yesterday and how in his case along with his taste in food his taste in men too was very 'conservative' and discriminatory.
Another theme that was covered in the movie and was brought up in the Q&A session with the director and producer after the movie ended was how Sufi mysticism is replete with references to divine love between two men and how in Sufi poetry it has been written about so beautifully that it is almost homo-erotic. Case in point being Rumi's poetry inspired by his 'beloved' Shams of Tabriz, Amir Khusro's poetry dedicated to his 'master' Nizamudin Auliya, and the folklore that was covered in the movie about Madho Lal and Shah Hussain.
As has been in my case the first time that I felt pride and not shame on being gay was when I read the poetry of Rumi and with time I realized that there have been great men in the past that have found love in an another man and it was not 'queer' or 'wrong'. With time I discovered the poetry or Amir Khusro and I have written about it in the past on the blog and how it helped me through some rough patches in life and feel comfortable about my sexuality. Hence it was Sufi music and poetry that did for me what gay pride may have done for some other people. In the East gay prides are a distant dream and until then there is this beautiful literature that can provide some much needed comfort and reassurance to the 'queer (i find this word kinda derogatory)'. I once saw a documentary about the celebration of the festival (Urs) at the Dargah in Delhi of Nizamudin Auliya celebrating the marriage (union) of Amir Khusro and his beloved (Nizamuddin Auliya). The whole ceremony was so very beautiful and the entire dargah was cleaned with milk and rose water and then decorated for the occasion. It was followed up with a performance of Sufi music.
Here is an interesting article about Shah Hussain comparing his works to that of Rumi and other Sufi mystics.

To end the post I am quoting some poetry so that you get an idea of what I am talking about:

Mevlana Rumi

I am seeing a moon outside the eye in the eye, which neither eye has seen or ear heard of.
I do not see tongue and soul and heart save without myself, from that moment that I stole a glance at that cheek.
Had Plato seen the loveliness and beauty of that moon, he would have become even madder and more distressed than I.
Eternity is the mirror of the temporal, the temporal the mirror of pre-eternity - in this mirror those two are twisted together like his tresses.
A cloud beyond the sense whose rain is all spirit; sprinkling on the dust of the body - what rains he has rained!
The moonfaced ones of heaven, seeing the picture of his face, have become ashamed before that beauty and scratched the bank of their necks.
Posteternity took the hand of pre-eternity and took it toward the place of that moon: having seen both, it laughed in jealous pride at the two.
About and around his palace what lions there are, roaring jealously, aiming at the blood of the self-sacrificing, adventurous men.
Suddenly the word jumped from my mouth, 'Who is that king? Shams-al-din king of Tabriz'; and at those words my blood surged.

Translated by A.J. Arberry

Amir Khusrau

I am a pagan (worshiper) of love: the creed (of Muslims) I do not need;
Every vein of mine has become (taut like a) wire; the (pagan) girdle I do not need.
Leave from my bedside, you ignorant physician!
The only cure for the patient of love is the sight of his beloved –
other than this no medicine does he need.
If there be no pilot on our ship, let there be none:
We have God in our midst: the pilot we do not need.
The people of the world say that Khusrau worships idols.
So I do, so I do; the people I do not need,
the world I do not need.


Shah Hussain

My wrist in the beloved’s grip,
I cannot ask Him to leave hold.
Dark is the night, the cloud is dripping,
I suffer it for lack of a messenger,
The tyrant has sent a call.
They alone know what is love and longing,
Who have it in their lives.
Like digging a well in dry land,
With no cart to carry away the sand.
Carrying loads everyday,
You will leave at last.
Says Husain, the humble fakir,
Put thy eyes into mine, O love.

(Translated by Sant Singh Sekhon)

Constantine Petrou Cavafy revisited

A spread from Constantine Cavafy's passport, listing "Poet" as occupation and two discrete birth dates, both erroneous.

The City

You said, “I will go to another place, to another shore.
Another city can be found that’s better than this.
All that I struggle for is doomed, condemned to failure;
and my heart is like a corpse interred.
How long will my mind stagger under this misery?
Wherever I turn, wherever I look
I see the blackened ruins of my life,
which for years on end I squandered and wrecked and ravaged”.

You will find no other place, no other shores.
This city will possess you, and you’ll wander the same
streets. In these same neighborhoods you’ll grow old;
in these same houses you’ll turn gray.
Always you’ll return to this city. Don’t even hope for another.
There’s no boat for you, there’s no other way out.
In the way you’ve destroyed your life here,
in this little corner, you’ve destroyed it everywhere else.

Translated by Stratis Haviaras


Candles

Days yet to come stretch out before us
like a row of candles, burning brightly ―
vivacious candles, golden and warm.

The days that have passed fall behind us,
burned-out candles in a dismal row:
those closest at hand still smoking;
cold candles, melted and deformed.

I don’t want to look; their state saddens me;
it saddens me to remember their initial glow.
I look ahead, instead, to my lighted candles.

I don’t want to turn back to see, with horror,
how quickly the dark row of candles has lengthened,
how rapidly the number of dead candles has grown.

Translated by Stratis Haviaras

Poetry and Photo Credit: Cavafy.com

Raqs-e-Bismil (Dance of the wounded)

Nameedanam che manzil bood ke shab jaye man boodam
Bahar su raqs e bismil bood ke shab jaye man boodam
(Amir Khusrau)

I know not of the state
in which I was Last night...
Everywhere the wounded danced in ecstasy
where I was Last night...

Thought and form, poetry and music are integral to Sufism. Sufi music is derived from a state of ecstasy, a dance of the body and soul of those wounded in love...Sufi thought expressed in Persian poetry of the mystic poet mainly Rumi, Khusrau, Saadi and Hafiz, along with Urdu Ghazal is the blending of thoughts in the two genres of mystic expression...

I am quoting a song by Abida Parveen set to music by Muzaffar Ali. It is from my favorite Sufi music album by Abida Parveen called 'Raqs-e-Bismil'. The poetry in this song is mystical and intense to say the least.

Hairat mara ze har do jahan be niaz kard
Een khab kaare daulat e bedaar meekunad
(Rumi)

Bewilderment has absolved me of both the worlds
This is the consequence of awakening from my dreams

Khuli jab ki chashm e dil e hazeen,
to vo nam raha na teri rahi
Hui hairat aisi kuch aankh par ki asar ki be asari rahi
Pari goshe jaan mein ajab nida ki jigar na bejigari rahi
Khabare tahhayyur e ishq sun na junoon raha na pari rahi
Na to tu raha na to main raha jo rahi bekhabari rahi...
(Khamsa by Nazeer Akbarabadi for Siraj Aurangabadi)

The eyes of an anguished heart open...
No longer moist.. Bereft of tears
The perplexed vision
Remained unmoved.. Devoid of response
The soul heard.. An unusual sound
That took the pluck of life away
As wondrous love revealed itself
The fairy vanished..The ecstasy lost
Nor you remained.. Nor I was found
mere oblivion was all there was...

Mujhe bekhudi ye tune bhali chashni chakhayi
Kisi aarzoo ki dil mein nahi ab rahi samayi

O surrender in love,
You have given me a taste that pales all worldliness
No desire remains
In the heart filled with submission

Na hazar hai na khatar hai, na raja hai ne dua hai
Na khayaal e bandagi hai na tamana e khudai

Neither distance nor fear...
neither hope nor prayer
neither thoughts of subjugation
nor desire of godliness

Na muqqam e guftagu hai na mahhal e justaju hai
Na wahan havaas pahunche na khirad ko hai rasai

No place for exchange of words...
no occasion for further quest
Where neither consciousness reaches
nor thoughts transcend its realm

Na makin hai ne makan hai na zameen hai ne zaman hai
Dil e be nava ne mere jahan chhavni hai chayi

No one resides..Neither habitation exist...
Is where this wandering heart has come to camp

Na visaal hai na hijran na suroor hai na gham hai
Jise kahiye khwab e ghaflat so woh neend mujh ko aayi

Where there is no union... No separation
no sorrow... no joy
What is said to be an endless oblivion
I enter such a slumber

(Hazrat Shah Niaz)


Translations by Muzaffar Ali

Painting Credit: Miguel Tio

Kahlil Gibran

Night Songs

Silent is the night, but in the robe of silence
dreams lie waiting.
The moon rolls overhead.
Its watchful eyes observe
the passing day.

* * * *

Let me take you,
daughter of the fields, to the
lovers' vineyard.
The wine we press will quench the
fires of longing.

* * * *

Can't you hear the nightingale out in the fields
pour out melodies?
The breathing of the hills has filled
the sky, their breath
the scent of herbs.

* * * *

You need not fear, my love,
for never have the stars on high
told what they know.
Night's thick mists swirl in these vineyards;
they will veil our secrets.

* * * *

You need not fear the spirit bride
will come out from
her magic cave.
She lies in drunken sleep, unseen by all
save houris' eyes.

* * * *

The spirit king, if he pass, let passion
give him due praise.
Like me he is in love and will not punish love,
for he burns too.

Excerpts from The Beloved (Reflection on the path of the heart) by Kahlil Gibran

Artwork: Kahlil Gibran
Video Credit: LoveKassandra

Hazrat Amir Khusrau

My Beloved

Your Arrival

I have received a message
that my beloved will arrive tonight
I will lay my head on the path
that he will tread

The deer of the desert hold
their head up in surrender
Await the huntsman to
come and make them his prey

My love for you will forever draw you
towards me
You may not have come to my funeral
but surely you will come to my grave

My life hangs on my lips...
come, keep me alive,
For what will be the use of your coming
when I am no more

You came once and stole Khusrau's
patience, faith and heart..
What will happen to him if you
reappear two or three times.


Your Beauty

O wondrous eyes full of languor,
O wondrous tresses wavy and long
O wondrous wine worshiper
O wondrous mischievous one

He draws the sword, I bow my head,
I prepare myself to die
Wondrous in his beneficence and
wondrous my submission

And as I die, my soul departs, I behold
your face
Wondrous you are in benevolence
wondrous you are O protector

Khusrau, keep the truth within
for here disbelief prevails
Wondrous is the source of mystery
and he who knows the secrets.

Hazrat Amir Khusrau translated by Muzaffar Ali

Photo Credit: Jasmin

Ithaca

                                               
 

Mike left me a comment on my last post about Cavafy and I searched for a poem he mentioned. I am not sure if I found the right poem but instead I also found  a few videos related to Cavafy. The first one is a recitation of the English translation of his poem 'Ithaca' by Sean Connery and music by Vangelis. The second is the original Greek version of the poem as seen in the 1996 movie 'Cavafy' directed by Iannis Smaragdis (which looks beautiful).

Then there also is a video I got from You Tube by Souldier. It is based on the poem I posted in my last post about Cavafy called 'Body Remembers'. There are some other interesting videos posted by Souldier on his profile on You Tube.

                                 

  ITHACA

As you set out for Ithaca

hope that your journey is a long one,

full of adventure, full of discovery.

Laistrygonians and Cyclops,

angry Poseidon-don't be afraid of them:

you'll never find things like that on your way

as long as you keep your thoughts raised high,

as long as a rare sensation

touches your spirit and your body.

Laistrygonians and Cyclops,

wild Poseidon-you won't encounter them

unless you bring them along inside your soul,

unless your soul sets them up in front of you.

Hope that your journey is a long one.

May there be many summer mornings when,

with what pleasure, what joy,

you come into harbors you're seeing for the first time;

may you stop at Phoenician trading stations

to buy fine things,

mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,

sensual perfume of every kind-

as many sensual perfumes as you can;

and may you visit many Egyptian cities

to learn and learn again from those who know.

Keep Ithaka always in your mind.

Arriving there is what you're destined for.

But don't hurry the journey at all.

Better if it lasts for years,

so you're old by the time you reach the island,

wealthy with all you've gained on the way,

not expecting Ithaca to make you rich.

Ithaca gave you the marvelous journey.

Without her you would have not set out.

She has nothing left to give you now.

And if you find her poor, Ithaca won't have fooled you.

Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,

you'll have understood by then what these Ithacas mean.

                                                 

    

In an Old Book

Forgotten between the leaves of an old book—

almost a hundred years old—

I found an unsigned watercolor.

It must have been the work of a powerful artist.

Its title: “Representation of Love.”

 

“...love of extreme sensualists” would have been more to the point.

 

Because it became clear as you looked at the work

(it was easy to see what the artist had in mind)

that the young man in the painting

was not designated for those

who love in ways that are more or less healthy,

inside the bounds of what is clearly permissible—

with his deep chestnut eyes,

the rare beauty of his face,

the beauty of anomalous charm,

with those ideal lips that bring

sensual delight to the body loved,

those ideal limbs shaped for beds

that common morality calls shameless. 

Video Credits: Souldier and Babylonianman

Constantine P Cavafy

I was introduced to Constantine P Cavafy's poetry through a friends profile on a website. I read a few of his poems online and I fell in love. The raw sensuality and simplicity of the poetry struck me.  He was born of Greek parents in Egypt and worked as a Civil servant. His poetry was in Greek but translations are available online. Cavafy was  homosexual and his most well known relationship was with Alexander Singopolous. I am posting a few of his poems here and more can be found online.

Desires

 

Like beautiful bodies of the dead, who had not grown old

and they shut them with tears, in a magnificent mausoleum,

with roses at the head and jasmine at the feet --

that is how desires look that have passed

without fulfillment; without one of them having achieved

a night of sensual delight, or a moonlit morn. 

Body Remember

Body, remember not only how much you were loved

not only the beds you lay on. 

but also those desires glowing openly 

in eyes that looked at you, 

trembling for you in voices- 

only some chance obstacle frustrated them. 

Now that it's all finally in the past, 

it seems almost as if you gave yourself 

to those desires too-how they glowed, 

remember, in eyes that looked at you, 

remember, body, how they trembled for you in those voices. 

He vows

 

Every so often he vows to start a better life.

But when night comes with her own counsels,

with her compromises, and with her promises;

but when night comes with her own power

of the body that wants and demands, he returns,

forlorn, to the same fatal joy. 

One Night

 

The room was penurious and common,

Hidden over a disreputable tavern,

The alley could be seen from the window,

Unclean and narrow. From below

Came the voices of a few workmen

Who were playing cards and having a good time.

There on the vulgar on the humble bed

I had the body of love, I had the lips,

The sensuous, the rosy lips of wine,

Rosy with such a wine, that even now

Here as I write, after so many years,

In my solitary house, I am drunk again. 

Photo credits: All the paintings are from artists at deviantart and if the artist wants I'll remove them from the blog.