21 lines
6.8 KiB
Markdown
21 lines
6.8 KiB
Markdown
**Chapter 2: The Hanifs — Seekers of the True God**
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O my brother.
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Do not imagine that in that dark age every heart in Mecca lay sealed tight as stone. No. In the midst of a sea of burning charcoal, spots of fire still refused to die. They were the people called the *Hanif*. Not a faction meeting behind walls, not a political party with banners and officers. They were solitary souls, each seeking God with his own hands, his own tears, with no teacher bringing them a new holy book. They carried only *fitrah* — the original light God plants in every breast from birth. As our Prophet *shallallahu ‘alaihi wa sallam* said, in *Shahih al-Bukhari* and *Shahih Muslim*: *“Every child is born in a state of fitrah...”* These Hanif souls kept that fitrah faithfully, while their people soiled their own with the dust of idols and the stain of strong drink.
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Who, then, is the Hanif? O my brother, the word springs from a root meaning straight, leaning toward truth, never bending right or left. But you cannot learn it from a dictionary. You must look to Ibrahim, peace be upon him, father of prophets, whom the Qur‘an calls by a noble name: *“Ibrahim was not a Jew nor a Christian, but he was a hanif, a Muslim, and not of the polytheists.”* (Surah Ali ‘Imran: 67). Imagine, O my brother, Ibrahim leaving his father and his people not from hatred, but from love for the One God. He looked at the stars, then the moon, then the sun, and each time he asked, Is this my Lord? — and each time he turned away. Until at last his heart pierced through the layers of heaven and cried: *“I have turned my face toward the One who created the heavens and the earth, pure from association, and I am not of those who associate partners with Allah.”* (Surah Al-An‘am: 79). The Hanif is Ibrahim in the soul. The Hanif is the man who says, I will not be twisted by custom; I will not be enslaved by lineage; I want only the God who creates.
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In Mecca, before the sun of Islam rose, there was a lean man named Zayd bin ‘Amr bin Nufayl. He appears most often in the old accounts. He stood before the Ka‘bah while the people of Quraysh prostrated to Hubal, and cried out in a voice that shook from the heart: *“There is none worthy of worship but Allah; He has no partner!”* They laughed at him, called him mad. But Zayd did not care. He refused to eat meat sacrificed in the name of idols. He saved infant girls from earthen pits, paying ransom to fathers who would bury them alive, saying with tears in his eyes, *“Why do you kill her? Perhaps she will one day bear a son who exalts the name of Allah!”* He went to Syam (Syria) seeking the religion of Ibrahim, questioned the monks, and returned with a heart still unsatisfied. Zayd bin ‘Amr died before the Prophet Muhammad, *shallallahu ‘alaihi wa sallam*, was sent; they buried him in a steep valley, not far from where the caravans of Quraysh passed. But our Prophet, when he passed there later, would stop and say over his grave, *“He will be raised up alone as a nation unto himself.”* Such is the nobility of a Hanif in the eyes of heaven.
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But the road of the Hanif, O my brother, did not always run straight to its end. Some among them grew weary wandering the desert of ignorance, grew thirsty, and drank from the nearest pool, though it was not the purest. Utsman bin Huwairits, a man of Quraysh who also felt hollow, went to Roman lands and embraced the Nasrani (Christian) faith. Ubaidullah bin Jahsy followed, became a Nasrani, and even married Ummu Habibah — before both later met the light of Islam. Some drew near to the Yahudi (Jewish) faith. Why? Because those religions brought books, brought writing, brought the names of prophets. While in Mecca, Quraysh offered only lies and poems hung in contest on the Ka‘bah walls. The thirsty Hanif, O my brother, sometimes could not wait for the heavenly spring; they drank first from the earthly one. Yet their hearts kept searching. They still felt something missing. Like a man who eats fruit in a night of hunger — his stomach is full, but his soul is not at rest.
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And here lies the great wisdom. Hanif was no fixed school. Hanif was a *journey*. Some stopped halfway, some turned down a narrow alley, but their first step — turning their faces from idols — was a step recorded by Allah. For He looks not at the perfection of the road, but at the honesty of the traveller. *“Whoever does good, be it of the weight of a speck of dust, whether man or woman, while in a state of faith — for him is a goodly reward.”* (Surah An-Nisa‘: 97). So let us not scorn those who seek, though their path winds. The ones to weep for are those who do not seek at all — who sit upon gold and idols, thinking themselves complete.
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Among those Hanif embers, there was one name that did not merely feel dissatisfaction, but opened books, demanded knowledge, wrote in Hebrew script, read the Taurat (Torah) in its language, read the Injil (Gospel) in its pages. He was not content with the pulse of the heart alone; he wanted proof, he wanted tidings, he wanted a name. He heard that in those books there was prophecy of a final prophet, *ummi* (unlettered), who would be born in the Arab lands. And each time he read, his heart beat hard. Some called him Nasrani because he kept company with those books. Some called him a free Hanif because his heart refused to bow to church or synagogue. Whatever the name, O my brother, his heart was the heart of Ibrahim. His name was Waraqah bin Naufal. He was a Hanif, yes, but a Hanif dusted with the ink of books. A Hanif who not only felt the light, but wanted to distinguish light from false gleam.
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From this, O my brother, take the lesson. Allah never leaves the earth without a witness, though the witness be only a handful. In every age of darkness, hearts shine. But shining hearts alone are not enough. Zayd bin ‘Amr died before Islam came, though his fitrah was pure. Utsman bin Huwairits died in a foreign land with a religion that was not the religion of Ibrahim. The Hanif who relied on feeling alone sometimes strayed onto the wrong road. Whoever seeks pearls must dive. Whoever seeks truth must read, demand, distinguish. Do not be one who leans on emotion without knowledge, or knowledge without emotion. Waraqah was not such. He had a hungry heart, and he had books that served as maps. Therefore, when the Prophet emerged from the Cave of Hira with a trembling body, only Waraqah knew that voice at once. For he had waited — not with empty hope, but with proofs gathered in his breast.
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So let us now, O my brother, turn from the scattered embers across the plain, and walk toward one fire that burns brightest. Let us knock at the door of an old man from the clan of Banu Asad, who sits reading scripture in the quiet of a Meccan night. We will see how a man of Quraysh rose from an ocean of illiteracy, carrying a rare awakening, and waited for dawn with eyes still wide.
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Wallahu a‘lam. |