Читать книгу The Tragedy of Islam - Imam Mohammad Tawhidi - Страница 10

“Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar”: these are among the earliest sounds that I can remember as a small child. I would awake to my father calmly repeating these words during his prayers, meaning “God is the Greatest.” The living presence of God was with me from my earliest childhood memories. My father, Imam Abdolmuttalib Tawhidi, would make sure that I was awake at dawn to offer my morning prayers. I would stand behind my father and follow his lead in every part of the prayer. It was from my father that I learnt foundational beauty and peace.

I was brought up to love and respect all those around me regardless of the color of their skin, their ethnic origins, or the name by which they called God. I spent the early years of my life in Iran, in the Holy City of Qum. Every day I could look out upon the glorious architecture of this holy city, and the shrines of the descendants of Mohammad. The green gardens and the sparkling fountains all shaped my perceptions of the religion of my ancestors. This provided the physical backdrop for the first twelve years of my life. It was also where I was introduced to a mass of other races and cultures. Walking along the narrow and winding alleyways that meander between the great holy sites exposed me to different faces and a babble of different languages, as the faithful from Iran, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Lebanon and many other places came to make their devotions at the mosques and shrines.

My wise and gentle mother was and still is a strong influence in my life. I truly believe that she epitomizes the Arabian belief that “Heaven lies beneath the feet of your mothers.” Indeed, I had the luxury at that time of being her only child. The story of my birth wasn’t as pleasant as that of many children within my circle. As a refugee in Iran, I was detained immediately after birth due to my father being unable to afford the hospital bill. I was finally given to my mother several days after birth.

My enlightened father practices the tolerance which he preaches, and as I grew older my respect for him rose as I discovered the true horrors he had endured throughout his life. He was sentenced to death for his opposition to the tyrannical dictator Saddam Hussain. I now look back and praise the Lord that the sentence was not carried out. My family has a history of opposing tyrants. My renowned grandfather Shaikh Yasin al Rumaithi was considered the “Voice of the Faith.”* He was a eulogist who delivered sermons highlighting freedom. Three of his sons, Taha, Adil and Aqeel, were executed by Saddam’s regime, which left him with a heart condition until he died in 2005.

As I was growing up I heard my mother speak about how Saddam Hussain’s intelligence services had camped in her house, waiting for her activist brothers’ arrival so that they could imprison them. One day, the officers became impatient as my wanted uncles never returned home, so they resorted to arresting my uncle Amir, who was twelve at the time, along with my mother. As my twelve-year-old uncle stood in the interrogation room shivering in fear, not knowing what tragedies could pour upon him that night, he heard a loud sound – the sound of an Iraqi officer slapping my young mother across her face for no apparent reason at all.

My uncles however endured torture and pain under the regime of Saddam Hussain. Ahmad was only twenty-one when he was forced to join the war against Iran. He was severely tortured by Saddam’s army generals the moment he refused to abide by their inhumane orders to mass murder innocent Iranian civilians. He was then thrown into a prison cell, only to find that his brother had been thrown in there before him. My uncle Ahmad bled to death in the lap of my uncle Ra’ad.

Uncle Jasim suffered the most. He was a senior police officer during the time his brothers were wanted for rising against Saddam Hussain. He was forced to falsely testify against his own brothers and sign documents that supported their executions. It did not take long before it was his turn. He was also found guilty of assisting the opposition, whose crime it seems was helping the poor and protecting the innocent. The morning arrived when Jasim was dragged to court and forced to stand in front of a merciless judge with a history of harsh sentencing. The judge looked at my Uncle Jasim and said, “You have testified against yourself that you have been involved in conspiracies against the regime of Saddam Hussain.” My uncle responded by tearing his jail uniform open to reveal the evidence of torture on his body that he was subjected to when he refused to falsely testify against himself. His torture marks noticeably shocked even this judge. My uncle’s back had been ironed with a clothes iron. Out of shock or sympathy, the judge dismissed his case.

Jasim was the first person in my family to seek asylum in Australia, and Amir and my parents then followed through family sponsorships. Upon arrival in Western Australia, I was enrolled in a private Muslim school, the Australian Islamic College; with Muslim, Christian, Hindu, and Atheist teachers. I loved each one of them, and I considered school my second home. During my break times, I explored different cultures and I learnt words from different languages my friends would teach me. I was never a quiet boy to say the least. I was always outspoken and confident, perhaps one of my Scorpio characteristics.

Every Sunday my father and I would head out fishing, and I can safely say I was captivated by this pastime. I fell in love with the flow of the Murray and Swan rivers, and the tides of the rich Australian oceans. Fishing for me was not only a sport, it was also one of the things that taught me patience and appreciation. It was my favorite activity during the Holy Month of Ramadan, as time flew by quickly without feeling the long day of fasting!

With my father being a senior Islamic faith leader and my mother a student of Islam, I received an Islamic upbringing. I had memorized a large amount of the Holy Quran by the age of ten, including the second and largest chapter. I prayed five times a day and was taught to give charity to the poor. Alongside my daily attendance at a private Muslim school, I attended Saturday classes known as “Madrassah” at Al-Taqwa Mosque in Western Australia, where we were taught Islamic studies, and that Islam is the perfect way of life. My parents were proud of raising such a devout Muslim child.

My father concentrated on serving the Muslim community, and had a great passion to aid new arrivals to Australia, those who were genuine refugees. My father and his good friend Mr. Hosseini established Western Australia’s first Shia Muslim mosque. The building was originally a church named St. Mary’s Church and, out of my father’s respect for the Christian majority and his love for St. Mary, it was named St. Mary Mosque. A very long and detailed story lies behind this mosque and its demolition in 2017. All I will say at this stage is that St Mary Mosque played an essential role in my Islamic upbringing as a child living in Australia.