“That’s certainly interesting. I hope that you will be successful in showing Effendi something that’s really good; so, I have nothing against your project.” The boy exclaimed: “Thanks be to Allah! I’ll begin right away!” In joyful anticipation, he turned a somersault and shot out of the shop. After a few minutes of silence, Mustafa Bustani asked: “Now, what do you say to him? What a good lad! An artist, right?”
“Wait,” I answered. First, let’s see. Such judgments should be weighed and regarded closely. I’ve prayed for an extension of time. Tomorrow will be the next time I see him.”
This gave us the occasion to take our leave, so we parted company. It was close to noon, when the hottest time of day begins and one best spends time in the coolness of a room. When the heat was past, we hiked towards the Mount of Olives in order to walk towards Bethany, and then return back to Jerusalem via the sites of Bethphage and Kafr et Tur. We took a photograph; my wife almost never travels without a camera. Due to the fact that carrying photography gear on a tour requires so much time and trouble, I’m always concerned that dealing with such things can greatly interfere with my personal and natural mobility. Yet my wife loves to bring home souvenir-photos that make her happy when she reminisces later on. So today, she also took a couple of pictures in Bethany; I’ve included one of those, because it shows the remnants of the city’s stone wall. We climbed to the summit of the Mount of Olives, upon which there are places where you can see not only the mountains of East Jordan, but even a part of the Dead Sea. As we enjoyed this rich view, we talked about our visit with Mustafa Bustani. Contrasting his earlier, sad appearance, we knew that the years would actually pass quickly as he aged. The death of his wife had very deeply gripped him, which another Muslim might be capable of handling otherwise.
Add to this a second, almost equally deep sorrow and inner-soul-excitement which we were yet to discover. Up to this point, our attention had almost exclusively been directed to the East; we now turned to the West, to the city that lay before us. There in a secluded area near a carob bush, we saw a man sitting with his hands folded as if in prayer—staring motionless at the horizon. This was some time before the shadows of evening. We were compelled to look at him. When we came nearer, he stood up. It was our friend Mustafa Bustani. We mentioned how we had just been talking about him. However, he seemed to be self-conscious about our coincidental meeting. It was as if he were feeling caught in the act of doing something that no one was supposed to know about. His words, which shut down after our greeting, sounded as though he felt that he had a duty to apologize.
He told us how this place has been his favorite spot for some time, one which he visits daily as he looks towards the East. Instinctively, I had to think about his missing, banished brother who had disappeared in the East. We sat closely beside him and soon noticed that he thought it necessary to speak in a peculiar frame of mind which had an exceptionally soft-hearted undertone, one that gave the impression of emotional helplessness. In our enormously scene-gripping, surrounding locale, I didn’t pry further. In his psyche, he himself was used to doing a lot of soul-searching.
I was right, for he very soon directed the conversation to his previously mentioned favorite subject, to the connection of the visible and invisible world and to the biblical claim that there are in fact miracles. Regarding this, he confessed to us that a dream drove him to this conclusion, a dream that had been so certain and so clear that it seemed he was awake and not sleeping at all. This clarity had been so great and so convincing, that he had written down its exact date: the 15th day of the Month of Adar. Half-way apologizing and half-way questioning, he added that he would not take on too much by being preoccupied with his dreams. We assured him that all of us were greatly interested in everything that concerned him, especially in matters of his spiritual life.
“Effendi, you know that my brother was cast out because he had become a Christian, and that we all rejected his attempts to reconcile, for he had even married a Christian woman. Ever since, no one has heard from him. Later on, no one could find out where he went. The events that followed even extended to our family’s inheritance. He had the very same rights as I had. I became the sole heir; he was poor, poor as a beggar!”
I tried to soften the harshness by noting customary laws and governing families’ rights. He pointed this out to me: “You are a Christian and therefore think differently when you try to make me feel better. For a full year, I felt no sense of unfairness about what we had committed against him. After all, possessions and religion are different matters, right? As a believer, am I permitted to change the order of things whenever my wealth changes to poverty? No! Even for such a little thing as wanting to become a Christian and not remain a Muslim, one can be pushed out of the family’s circle of inheritance. However, this last thought did not come from me; rather, it came from my wife. In her heart, there lived a love and a kind-heartedness which were not present in me. Her graciousness began a difficult and heavy labor in me—but she succeeded. My hardness became softer, always more tender; and when the mother of my son passed away, she died as the victor. I promised her that I would search for my brother and share with him everything that I own. She thanked me, blessed me—then closed her eyes and departed.
He covered his face with his hands and became silent for a while as he tried to master his emotions; then, he continued: “In vain, I searched and searched. My brother had simply disappeared. Constantly, I thought about him and even more about my wife, whose death had taken even more away from me. Effendi, you probably know this already. This question came to me: ‘What if my brother had already died, and he and my wife had found each other on the other side of this life, where they now talked and looked below?’ I brooded over such thoughts. I awoke with these ideas, and I fell asleep with them.”
“On the 15th day of the month of Adar, I dreamed that I was on my knees, praying in the mosque. Opened before me was the First Kiblah of the Holy Koran. My brother appeared to me and led me forth, wanting to help me realize what he wanted to say to me: ‘I’m dead, but I live. You have not pardoned me, but I’ve forgiven you. I’ll send you my forgiveness. She approaches from the East. Daily, keep a look-out for her and restore again what you have perpetrated against me!’ His words resounded. Then, he disappeared. The Koran closed itself, and I awoke from the dream. This vision appeared to be so clear and so true to me, that I left my store for the entire day in order to ponder its meaning. Almost daily ever since, I am driven to come here as I look towards the East to see whether the dream is being fulfilled.”