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The streets are empty, as they usually are at this hour. They were not always this empty, he recalls, and he remembers days when people would gather around here to sell and buy each other’s goods or simply exchange conversations. Families would hang out in front of their houses, with children playing and neighbours talking over a few cups of Adeni chai. He would greet as many of them as he could, and they would tell him that they were looking forward to seeing him at the mosque.
Likewise, he would tell them, because nothing could make him happier than knowing that people loved going there, and in no small part thanks to his voice, so renowned throughout the city, calling them to prayer.
Other days, gunshots were exchanged, fires shot, and screams heard. As much as it pains him, he is no stranger to seeing people dying on the very same streets. Bloodied and battered, and on several occasions there were faces he recognised. He feels anguish every time he thinks about it, though he is aware there is nothing he could have done. He is, after all, an ordinary man, who happened to be caught with flames at his feet just like most ordinary people in the country. A man of faith he may be, but he cannot help feeling slight anger in his heart at those responsible for the ruins his hometown has been turned into several times over.
Tonight, the streets are quiet, which should be a relief compared to the chaos he was used to, but he sees it as a different kind of eeriness. It is the twenty-first night of Ramadan, and normally he would encounter people making their way to the Aidrus Mosque, a place that has stood tall over turbulent times in Aden’s history and as such was deeply cherished by anyone who lived and breathed the city’s air. It is no longer the case, with the road leading to the mosque being quiet bar a handful of people walking around. Faces he recognises, but no longer knows the way he did months ago.
He still greets them, anyway, because it is only right to do so. They are still his people, after all, as different as they may be now. Part of him wonders if he does this simply to cope with his new surroundings by pretending that things still remain the same. They greet him back, all with the same uncanny smile that he does not know if he will ever get used to. Nonetheless, he appreciates them returning the greeting anyway.
“As-salamu alaykum, Abdul Kareem,” he hears another voice greeting him. This time it is a voice he recognises better than most, and it stops him in his tracks. He looks up, and sees an elderly woman standing on the pavement, still with a smile similar to the others’, but this one makes his heart ache more.
He knows Radhya well, or at least he did, from spending much of his younger years enjoying the bint al-sahn that she used to make and sell around his neighbourhood. Their families were close, as she had a son around Abdul Kareem’s age. He takes a deep breath as he thinks of Faisal, and the years they spent growing up together. The country changed as they grew, and their families’ bond was one of the only things that remained. They were still close many years later—so much that it was Abdul Kareem who washed Faisal’s body and buried him when the latter died in an attack a couple of years back, because Radhya would not trust anyone else with her beloved son.
“Wa-’alaykumu s-salam, ya khalti,” Abdul Kareem greets back, and he sees that Radhya is smiling at him. He should not be surprised, since they all smile at him anyway, but seeing Radhya do so is different. She had not smiled much, if at all, since Faisal’s death. To see her do so after everything that happened months ago is peculiar, to say the least, and that is what tells Abdul Kareem that, despite the familiar face and voice, she is no longer the person he used to know.
“Already going back to the mosque?” Radhya asks. “Have you had your iftar? How are the cats?”
Abdul Kareem smiles at the thought of his cats at home. “I went back home after Maghrib to have iftar and feed the cats so they are well, thank you. And yes, I’m going to the mosque. It’s almost Isha, after all,” he says.
“Good,” her smile grows wider. “We can’t wait to hear your voice again, habibi. It always makes us happy.”
There it is again—always we. Never I. One always talks on behalf of the others, never for themself. To hear her call him habibi on behalf of other people feels strange, and even more so whenever he remembers that they do it simply to make him feel good.
“Thank you, Khalti,” he nods his head in acknowledgement. “I’ll be on my way.”
He walks on, leaving Radhya and the others behind. As he does so, he cannot help but think about her and her grief upon losing Faisal. She is not the only people he knows that have lost their loved ones to violence in the past years, and he thinks of them. Their grief and their loss. Their sadness that he was so familiar with. He thinks about whether the new world is better for them, with grief and sadness all gone and replaced by perpetual serenity.
It is almost time, and he is already standing on the top of the minaret. From where he is, he can see the mosque’s surroundings. Only a handful of people are walking around, each step and movement so calculated and in sync that it does not feel quite human. It has been months, yet he is still not accustomed to it—he does not know if he ever will.
He takes a look at his watch. It is showing its age, but still functioning as sharp as ever. The reminder of the passage of time sends a pang across his heart, though at the same time urges him to go on somehow. It is a whole new world, an era that he never thought he would see in his lifetime, and he knows the only option is to keep going.
A faint memory flashes through his mind, one of his father gifting him the watch decades ago when he was a young boy. It was the older man’s pride and joy, one of the very few things that provided a small joy amid the constant disarray. Aden was being ransacked left, right, and centre, the whole country facing a future of uncertainty, and Abdul Kareem remembers his father wanting to give him a memento that signified better days ahead.
“For you,” he remembers his father saying as he handed him the watch, “to keep track of better days.”
Even at such a young age he was aware that the mere concept of better days was abstract, but he knew his father wanted him to hold on to it.
He looks at the time again. Only a minute left, and he whispers to himself, “Bismillahirrahmanirrahim.”
In the name of Allah, the Most Gracious and the Most Merciful.
No better sayings to start something with, Abdul Kareem thinks.
He faces the microphone that has been kept on all day for his convenience. He shudders at the thought—his convenience and no one else’s. Because right now he does it mostly for himself, and not for the good of his community. The very same community that has made it clear that they no longer require his service.
When the time comes, he looks over the eerily dim city. He has done it many times since the world changed, but this time everything feels different. He can feel tears forming in his eyes, and he makes no effort to contain them. He has sung the adhan since he was very young, and each time he always reminds himself to never take it for granted. Especially now, with the call being one of the only things that resemble solace to him, and he is still willing to do the best.
On better days, he thinks, people would repeat nearly all of his words in supplication. He cannot imagine them doing so now, though there is always a possibility of them doing it just so they can make him happy. It pains him, but he keeps going.
Slowly, he feels his voice starting to shake at the next part.
“Hayya…’alal falaah,” his voice breaks, the normally powerful tenor vocals trembling. He takes a deep breath before repeating, “Hayya ‘alal falaah.”
Hasten to salvation.
The words haunt him so, and tears are now running down his face. Salvation was what they promised when it all occurred, that it would get rid of all the world’s ills for good. Eternal peace and serenity, something that they know Abdul Kareem and so many other people in the country have dreamed of at least once. He grew up longing for it, having been so accustomed to witnessing atrocities. Now that they tell him that he has it, he finds himself asking so many questions.
What good is salvation, as they claim, if it also takes away everything we hold dear?
His faith. His community. His culture. All gone, absorbed into one omniscient hive mind. All stored as part of their database of memories, nothing more.
Still, he finishes impeccably, as he always does. The city is now silent, bar the sound of the evening breeze. He steps back from the microphone and looks over from the minaret, yet again trying to digest his new reality.
As he steps down the minaret, he says to himself, “Hasbunallah wanikmal wakil.”
Sufficient for us is the Almighty.
He does not have anything else to lean on.
He does not leave the mosque immediately after Isha and Taraweeh. Even during the prayers he made sure to recite longer verses, all so that he could spend longer time praying. Longer time of pouring his heart out to the universe and the Almighty. He sits down in the middle of the otherwise empty mosque, his Quran in hand.
Tonight is the supposed start of the Night of Power, something that he has learned about and observed for so many years. Normally he would gather here with other people, all seeking to observe the sacred night and find blessings. Tonight, unsurprisingly, he is alone. As strange as it feels, he already expected it. He does not like it, but he tries his best to get used to it.
He opens his Quran, already knowing which chapter he wants to devote himself to reading tonight. Once he finds it, he takes his time reciting every word, letting himself be absorbed by the verses and observing all their meaning.
The Night of Power is better than a thousand months.
He has heard that so many times over the years, and he still tries to convince himself that it is indeed the case. The night is sacred, he has read, because it is when the Almighty’s power dispels darkness and ignorance in every kind of affair. He cannot help but think about God’s role in his new world, how God might have a hand in uniting almost everyone into one omniscient hive mind, free of misery and full of bliss, as uncomfortable as it makes him feel. He wonders if the Almighty has something better planned, because surely everything happens for a reason as dictated by the Almighty? He does not know for sure, and he knows no one does. At times he feels that his faith is largely meaningless in this new world, but he also wonders whether it is actually meaningless at all—if God is indeed behind this.
Therein come down the Angels and the Spirit by God’s permission, on every errand.
He thinks about the people he meets every day, and what they have turned into. Something not quite human, but still oddly familiar. He does not know who they are, even though they know his name and life. They do every errand, everything to make him happy even when he makes it clear that they need not to do so. Sometimes he wonders if whatever is behind these people has indeed been sent by the Almighty, if they are among the so-called angels that he has read about so much yet never quite knows what they look like. He does not know, and he does not have anyone to ask about the matter, but something tells him that it does not matter, anyway, and that there are questions best left unanswered.
Peace! This until the rise of morn.
Peace is a word that always seems alien to him, and he knows that to be the case to most people in the city. A city born in pain, constantly struggling to stand tall. He saw many a night full of unrest, and one of his only comforts was knowing that in God’s words a new day full of light would eventually dawn. Where everything will be on a different plane, and the chequered nights and days of this world will be even less than a dream, he remembers reading.
Perhaps this is the different plane that has been promised, he thinks, his new reality being the start of a day full of light. Where peace is abundant and everyone is serene, a far cry from what their land was accustomed to. No violence, no killings, no hatred.
Yet he still thinks about everything else he held dear that this new world has taken from him. Not all of it tangible, but essential to him just the same. He cannot help but question God’s role in all of this, as much as it pains him to do so. Part of him feels ungrateful, but it also reminds him of his own humanity, no matter how frail. It is what makes him different from the others in the new world, and he intends to cling to it for as long as he can.
Still with teary eyes, he finally closes his Quran and stands up. He makes his way to the exit, thinking about his cats waiting at home—the only true family he has and cherishes now. The last bit of normalcy, the only reminder of the tiny bit of the old world that he longed for.
He knows that when he wakes up very early in the morning, this will all start again. There will be more questions, more contemplations, and more doubts. This is his new routine, his new reality.
As much faith as he still has, he cannot help but ask himself if it is strong enough to sustain everything.