Morshedi near Lattakia
My train to Lattakia was the first I'd taken since travelling in Bulgaria between Koprivshtsitsa and Veliko Tarnovo. This bus-heavy trajectory had never been my choice but was a reflection of the greater availability of buses in these regions.
So I was looking forward to standing up again and walking around on my means of transport. Hopefully, if the train was better than the Bulgarian one, I'd go to the buffet for a coffee and look longingly, as I like to, over land disappearing behind me. I'd read that the views between Aleppo and Lattakia are really good so this further stoked my anticipation.
Actually, although I found and sat in the buffet, and drank two typically thick coffees, I didn't pay much attention to the views. Instead I spent my time in the immoderately joyful company of Amon Fawsley. I noticed him shortly after sitting down in the buffet, waving me over. Almost from the beginning he interweaved hearty laughter into his discourse - the non-sardonic, golden type that speaks of other realms and warms the heart and provokes similar laughter from others. From me anyway.
A student of law in Aleppo he was on his way home to his village in the hills surrounding Lattakia. He played me a song, quite a trashy one, on his mobile phone. I couldn't help being impressed. My phone is three years old and can do nothing fancy except take uselessly poor pictures. He'd been reading about his studies when I joined him. He has to study legal terminology in English, which I found pretty impressive. He showed me his list of political definitions for concepts such as 'democracy' and 'absolutism', and 'socialism'. Fairly good I thought, accurate, well-balanced, not biased as I expected them to be. Before long he invited me to see his village, even to stay the night if I wanted. I thought why the hell not but told him I wanted to settle into a hotel first. His English wasn't that great but good enough. If all else failed he would revert to his charming catchphrase, uttered with a broad smile: 'I have no money, I have no land, I have no wife, but I have a beautiful life.' I don't know if this is original to him, but I thought it was brilliant. Is this what Alawi Shia Muslims are like, I wondered. Transcendentally happy, all the time. But when I asked him if he was Shia, he shrugged me off amiably and mysteriously said 'only Muslim'. Intriguing.
Eventually I found a suitable hostel run by a Tintin lover called Muhammad. He had a big map on his wall of the expanse of the Islamic world, which I thought conveyed an indeterminate degree of pride in his religion. For the first time on this trip I accepted the offer of a mattress on a roof, and after deflecting his entreaties to visit Saladin's castle made my way to Amon's village.
When I arrived I was treated to tea and a great meal with his extremely hospitable family, sitting under a tree in his garden. So it transpired, all the people in the village are members of his family. But this was not the only strange thing, since the whole village appeared to embrace the same religion too, one I'd never heard of before and have since found no reference to on the internet. I'd define it as a twentieth century, localised, Syrian offshoot of Shia Islam, but that's me categorising. An extremely young revelation, it has yet to find a written expression, so only lives in the oral memories and transmissions of those who personally knew the religion's central figures. The impression I was given, and the one I went away with, was that I was a witness to a religion in a similar phase of incohate development that Christianity went through before the first gospels were compiled.
I'll try and summarise it, as accurately as I can. Amon's father knew the most but his brother, Ahmed, whose English was very good, conveyed the details. They call themselves 'Morshedi' and accept the basic truth of Islam, that Muhammad was sent by God. Within that broad stance, like other shia they also believe that Ali, the fourth Caliph, was a wonderful man, far more than the Caliphs that preceded or followed him. This is where the similarities with Islam end, however.
A major point of departure is over the question of Jesus. It is a regrettably unknown fact that all Muslims accept the providential role of Jesus Christ. But although Muslims will say he was a great prophet, was born of a Virgin, and will return again to the world before the last Judgement, Muslims have always carved a deep line in the sand between themselves and Christians by insisting that Jesus was not divine, that he did not die on the cross, and so in consequence did not rise from the dead.
Ahmed, however, told me that Jesus was the Son of God. Moreover, he did indeed die in the manner Christian tradition says he did. He was right to think that by saying this he would pique my interest. I wondered if he meant he was uniquely divine, as the orthodox say, or divine in a sense that we are all divine, or at least potentially divine, as does panentheism and the New Age. The latter, so he told me, though one must always wonder to what extent western, abstruse theological categories hold water in the Levant. With one stroke he dismantled the traditional Muslim insistence (shared by Judaism) that an unbridgeable abyss separates man and God. Perhaps this was why these Morshedi are all such jolly splendid people. They are not ashamed to revel in their own divinity!
So I asked about the Resurrection, something I tend to think is a crucial article of the faith if the remarkable claims of the uniqueness of the Christian message are to be credited. Yes, this happened too. Really I wondered? I was sceptical. There was something about his spiritualised way of speaking that made me wonder if he was thinking of a spiritual resurrection, in the manner perhaps of the Gnostics.
So I was looking forward to standing up again and walking around on my means of transport. Hopefully, if the train was better than the Bulgarian one, I'd go to the buffet for a coffee and look longingly, as I like to, over land disappearing behind me. I'd read that the views between Aleppo and Lattakia are really good so this further stoked my anticipation.
Actually, although I found and sat in the buffet, and drank two typically thick coffees, I didn't pay much attention to the views. Instead I spent my time in the immoderately joyful company of Amon Fawsley. I noticed him shortly after sitting down in the buffet, waving me over. Almost from the beginning he interweaved hearty laughter into his discourse - the non-sardonic, golden type that speaks of other realms and warms the heart and provokes similar laughter from others. From me anyway.
A student of law in Aleppo he was on his way home to his village in the hills surrounding Lattakia. He played me a song, quite a trashy one, on his mobile phone. I couldn't help being impressed. My phone is three years old and can do nothing fancy except take uselessly poor pictures. He'd been reading about his studies when I joined him. He has to study legal terminology in English, which I found pretty impressive. He showed me his list of political definitions for concepts such as 'democracy' and 'absolutism', and 'socialism'. Fairly good I thought, accurate, well-balanced, not biased as I expected them to be. Before long he invited me to see his village, even to stay the night if I wanted. I thought why the hell not but told him I wanted to settle into a hotel first. His English wasn't that great but good enough. If all else failed he would revert to his charming catchphrase, uttered with a broad smile: 'I have no money, I have no land, I have no wife, but I have a beautiful life.' I don't know if this is original to him, but I thought it was brilliant. Is this what Alawi Shia Muslims are like, I wondered. Transcendentally happy, all the time. But when I asked him if he was Shia, he shrugged me off amiably and mysteriously said 'only Muslim'. Intriguing.
Eventually I found a suitable hostel run by a Tintin lover called Muhammad. He had a big map on his wall of the expanse of the Islamic world, which I thought conveyed an indeterminate degree of pride in his religion. For the first time on this trip I accepted the offer of a mattress on a roof, and after deflecting his entreaties to visit Saladin's castle made my way to Amon's village.
When I arrived I was treated to tea and a great meal with his extremely hospitable family, sitting under a tree in his garden. So it transpired, all the people in the village are members of his family. But this was not the only strange thing, since the whole village appeared to embrace the same religion too, one I'd never heard of before and have since found no reference to on the internet. I'd define it as a twentieth century, localised, Syrian offshoot of Shia Islam, but that's me categorising. An extremely young revelation, it has yet to find a written expression, so only lives in the oral memories and transmissions of those who personally knew the religion's central figures. The impression I was given, and the one I went away with, was that I was a witness to a religion in a similar phase of incohate development that Christianity went through before the first gospels were compiled.
I'll try and summarise it, as accurately as I can. Amon's father knew the most but his brother, Ahmed, whose English was very good, conveyed the details. They call themselves 'Morshedi' and accept the basic truth of Islam, that Muhammad was sent by God. Within that broad stance, like other shia they also believe that Ali, the fourth Caliph, was a wonderful man, far more than the Caliphs that preceded or followed him. This is where the similarities with Islam end, however.
A major point of departure is over the question of Jesus. It is a regrettably unknown fact that all Muslims accept the providential role of Jesus Christ. But although Muslims will say he was a great prophet, was born of a Virgin, and will return again to the world before the last Judgement, Muslims have always carved a deep line in the sand between themselves and Christians by insisting that Jesus was not divine, that he did not die on the cross, and so in consequence did not rise from the dead.
Ahmed, however, told me that Jesus was the Son of God. Moreover, he did indeed die in the manner Christian tradition says he did. He was right to think that by saying this he would pique my interest. I wondered if he meant he was uniquely divine, as the orthodox say, or divine in a sense that we are all divine, or at least potentially divine, as does panentheism and the New Age. The latter, so he told me, though one must always wonder to what extent western, abstruse theological categories hold water in the Levant. With one stroke he dismantled the traditional Muslim insistence (shared by Judaism) that an unbridgeable abyss separates man and God. Perhaps this was why these Morshedi are all such jolly splendid people. They are not ashamed to revel in their own divinity!
So I asked about the Resurrection, something I tend to think is a crucial article of the faith if the remarkable claims of the uniqueness of the Christian message are to be credited. Yes, this happened too. Really I wondered? I was sceptical. There was something about his spiritualised way of speaking that made me wonder if he was thinking of a spiritual resurrection, in the manner perhaps of the Gnostics.
Yes, I was right. Although I had to struggle to get Ahmed to see the difference between a physical and a spiritual resurrection, he eventually clarified that, yes, Jesus' physical body did not rise from the dead, but only his soul. But what did that matter he maintained? It's the soul that counts, so he said. All of us are eternal and will live on after we die and lose our physical containers. Fair enough, and all well and good, and perhaps he's right, but I was glad to clarify that Morshedi disagrees with orthodox Christian thought on the events of the third day. But never before had I heard Muslims agreeing as much as these did with Christianity.
For Muslims is what they are, at least in their own understanding, whatever other Muslims might think. Ahmed teasingly reproved me for Christians' failure to accept Muhammad as a prophet, as if it was my fault, which I found very funny. He told me how Jesus had prophesied the coming of Muhammad. I told him this was a matter of Muslim opinion, not something that Christians believe, otherwise they'd be Muslims. I think he may have taken the point, but if he did he didn't do so enthusiastically. He was such a lovely man I couldn't get frustrated with his unwillingness to accept that Christians don't accept Muslim accounts of the Christian revelation, as expressed in the Koran; but surely this is vital if Muslims are to understand Christians and do more than just talk at them, however graciously.
Seeking common ground, as is my wont, I asked about Abraham's son Ishmael, the alleged spiritual and ethnic ancestor of the Arabs. He didn't know that he plays a minor role in Genesis, as someone blessed by God who then disappears from a biblical story which then focuses only on the children of his half-brother, Isaac. I wanted to edge towards my tentative hypothesis that whereas the Bible is a book about and for Isaac's children (at least the Old Testament), the Koran, though it refers in some depth to the history of Isaac's children (through Jacob), is intended for Ishmael's, and that through this understanding of the intended readership of the two books, harmony and mutual respect and comprehension between the Abrahamic religions might be established. He seemed to go, very intrigued, with the idea but didn't see, I think, its holistic, hopefully curative consequences.
Morshedi, a specifically Syrian, home grown development, has no more than 400,000 followers. It has had three principal spokesmen. The first was born in 1922 or 1923, I forget. His role was to prepare the way for the second, the most important figure, whose teaching the third individual spent his life promoting among his followers in Northern Syria. Alas, I cannot tell you their names because I can’t remember them and Ahmed said they were too sacred to write down. Both the first and second gentlemen were killed by the Syrian Government, something which didn’t upset Ahmed at all. Indeed, he was keen to stress that Morshedi has no argument with the Government and doesn’t involve itself in politics at all. I’d wondered whether this might be because they live in the prosperous Alawi area of Syria and so share the same Shia background as the Government, but I let that one lie. The second man began preaching as a twenty two year old in the early 50s but could only preach for two years before he was killed by the Government. The third man took up the mantle and lived until 1997, when he mysteriously disappeared. They are willing to accept that he died but say that they don’t know what happened to him.
The message of Morshedi struck me as very agreeable. I hope I get it right. They believe that all people who have good hearts and are loving towards their fellow men are Sons of God. As for the rest these are to be respected and honoured and never mistreated. So wonderfully, they really seem to have transcended the age-old human fascination with dividing people up into intrinsically good and intrinsically bad factions, a fascination we too often maniacally cling to; as well as to have embraced Jesus’ noble doctrine of the love of enemies in the face of persecution. Still, perhaps it helps them specifically that they don’t face persecution, possibly because of their beneficent, tolerant feelings towards others, if not their lack of interest in politics. As to why gentleman one and gentleman two were killed by the authorities, however, this was not explained.
I still wasn’t exactly clear what they thought about Jesus, particularly in terms of the Second Coming. And here things get really strange, as well as divergent not only from Christianity but from Islam. Apparently, although Muslims believe that Jesus is to return, he is to do so not in Jerusalem but in Damascus, and not just anywhere in Damascus but through the ‘Jesus Minaret’ on the south eastern corner of the Great Ummayad Mosque. Curious as such an understanding may be, at least Muslims believe, however, that Jesus is to return literally, in the same physical form he embodied when he was taken up into heaven to escape crucifixion.
Morshedi disagrees with Muslims on both counts. Not in Damascus was Jesus fated to return but rather to their very own sacred region of Lattakia. And not in the same physical form either but in the body of another man (the physical body is not that important in Moshedi, after all). And finally - maybe you’ve guessed this - not in the future is this to happen, but it already has. Sure enough, in the person of gentleman number two! So much for his return being seen by every eye, as the New Testament suggests, but anyway.
One thing, however, Moshedi does agree with Islam about. When Jesus returns (or rather when he did) his role is/was to convert Christians to Islam (or in this case to Morshedi). So there it was all wrapped up and revealed. Ahmed wanted to convert me - a Christian obviously, since I was European - to his super new brand of Islam, and claiming Jesus’ Second Coming for their own was a central tactic in his plan. Ingenious, Sherlock.
Oh well, I shouldn’t be cynical. It’s normal for religions that aren’t Jewish to seek converts so this is hardly a crime; obviously, it was no noxious creed they wanted me to join. They don’t even demand much of your time in ritual worship. Not only do Morshedi Muslims have no mosques, they only gather for collective worship once a year in specially constructed buildings. I'm presuming this is because they have a highly interiorised, direct understanding of God’s relationship with the individual. And when they do gather, they engage in something that has been called a ‘festival of sweets’. I imagine this involves some kind of ritual enjoyment of Syria’s marvellous delicacies, but now I’m only speculating.
For Muslims is what they are, at least in their own understanding, whatever other Muslims might think. Ahmed teasingly reproved me for Christians' failure to accept Muhammad as a prophet, as if it was my fault, which I found very funny. He told me how Jesus had prophesied the coming of Muhammad. I told him this was a matter of Muslim opinion, not something that Christians believe, otherwise they'd be Muslims. I think he may have taken the point, but if he did he didn't do so enthusiastically. He was such a lovely man I couldn't get frustrated with his unwillingness to accept that Christians don't accept Muslim accounts of the Christian revelation, as expressed in the Koran; but surely this is vital if Muslims are to understand Christians and do more than just talk at them, however graciously.
Seeking common ground, as is my wont, I asked about Abraham's son Ishmael, the alleged spiritual and ethnic ancestor of the Arabs. He didn't know that he plays a minor role in Genesis, as someone blessed by God who then disappears from a biblical story which then focuses only on the children of his half-brother, Isaac. I wanted to edge towards my tentative hypothesis that whereas the Bible is a book about and for Isaac's children (at least the Old Testament), the Koran, though it refers in some depth to the history of Isaac's children (through Jacob), is intended for Ishmael's, and that through this understanding of the intended readership of the two books, harmony and mutual respect and comprehension between the Abrahamic religions might be established. He seemed to go, very intrigued, with the idea but didn't see, I think, its holistic, hopefully curative consequences.
Morshedi, a specifically Syrian, home grown development, has no more than 400,000 followers. It has had three principal spokesmen. The first was born in 1922 or 1923, I forget. His role was to prepare the way for the second, the most important figure, whose teaching the third individual spent his life promoting among his followers in Northern Syria. Alas, I cannot tell you their names because I can’t remember them and Ahmed said they were too sacred to write down. Both the first and second gentlemen were killed by the Syrian Government, something which didn’t upset Ahmed at all. Indeed, he was keen to stress that Morshedi has no argument with the Government and doesn’t involve itself in politics at all. I’d wondered whether this might be because they live in the prosperous Alawi area of Syria and so share the same Shia background as the Government, but I let that one lie. The second man began preaching as a twenty two year old in the early 50s but could only preach for two years before he was killed by the Government. The third man took up the mantle and lived until 1997, when he mysteriously disappeared. They are willing to accept that he died but say that they don’t know what happened to him.
The message of Morshedi struck me as very agreeable. I hope I get it right. They believe that all people who have good hearts and are loving towards their fellow men are Sons of God. As for the rest these are to be respected and honoured and never mistreated. So wonderfully, they really seem to have transcended the age-old human fascination with dividing people up into intrinsically good and intrinsically bad factions, a fascination we too often maniacally cling to; as well as to have embraced Jesus’ noble doctrine of the love of enemies in the face of persecution. Still, perhaps it helps them specifically that they don’t face persecution, possibly because of their beneficent, tolerant feelings towards others, if not their lack of interest in politics. As to why gentleman one and gentleman two were killed by the authorities, however, this was not explained.
I still wasn’t exactly clear what they thought about Jesus, particularly in terms of the Second Coming. And here things get really strange, as well as divergent not only from Christianity but from Islam. Apparently, although Muslims believe that Jesus is to return, he is to do so not in Jerusalem but in Damascus, and not just anywhere in Damascus but through the ‘Jesus Minaret’ on the south eastern corner of the Great Ummayad Mosque. Curious as such an understanding may be, at least Muslims believe, however, that Jesus is to return literally, in the same physical form he embodied when he was taken up into heaven to escape crucifixion.
Morshedi disagrees with Muslims on both counts. Not in Damascus was Jesus fated to return but rather to their very own sacred region of Lattakia. And not in the same physical form either but in the body of another man (the physical body is not that important in Moshedi, after all). And finally - maybe you’ve guessed this - not in the future is this to happen, but it already has. Sure enough, in the person of gentleman number two! So much for his return being seen by every eye, as the New Testament suggests, but anyway.
One thing, however, Moshedi does agree with Islam about. When Jesus returns (or rather when he did) his role is/was to convert Christians to Islam (or in this case to Morshedi). So there it was all wrapped up and revealed. Ahmed wanted to convert me - a Christian obviously, since I was European - to his super new brand of Islam, and claiming Jesus’ Second Coming for their own was a central tactic in his plan. Ingenious, Sherlock.
Oh well, I shouldn’t be cynical. It’s normal for religions that aren’t Jewish to seek converts so this is hardly a crime; obviously, it was no noxious creed they wanted me to join. They don’t even demand much of your time in ritual worship. Not only do Morshedi Muslims have no mosques, they only gather for collective worship once a year in specially constructed buildings. I'm presuming this is because they have a highly interiorised, direct understanding of God’s relationship with the individual. And when they do gather, they engage in something that has been called a ‘festival of sweets’. I imagine this involves some kind of ritual enjoyment of Syria’s marvellous delicacies, but now I’m only speculating.
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