Journey to Timbuktu: Parts 1 to 12 by Imam Zaid Shakir

Journey to Timbuktu Part One

For the last several yeas I had the great honor and pleasure of assisting Islamic Relief on a variety of fundraising projects. Those efforts assisted Muslims challenged by various disasters and calamities I places ranging from Darfur to Muzzafabad, Pakistan, to Gaza. For the past two years, I had been discussing a trip with Islamic Relief to Africa with Naeem Muhammad, one of Islamic Relief’s key operatives in the United States, but probably more famously known as a member of the Muslim musical group, Native Deen. That was after I had learned of the work Islamic Relief was doing in that vast continent. What had impressed me most about that work was its proactive nature. As opposed to responding to a crisis, Islamic Relief was working to help people develop the infrastructure to help themselves. This involved digging wells for clean drinking water, irrigation and sanitation, building schools, clinics and other vitally needed services.

A little over a month ago, that trip began to turn into a reality. Naeem called and informed me that the trip had been approved and we would be setting off for a journey that would culminate in visit to the historical city of Timbuktu. In the meantime, I had other obligations, the fulfillment of which would make a trip overseas very challenging. It would also mean that I would miss a dear friend’s wedding. However, before me was the opportunity of a lifetime. So I would have to strain myself to make sure the trip went forward.

As the day of departure, March 1, 2009, approached, I had many pressing matters to take care of. The most demanding and difficult was a ten day trip to Canada that would include a couple of back-to-back two-day seminars in Toronto, followed by a week venturing to London, Ontario, Ottawa, Montreal, and then back to Toronto, for an appreciation dinner for the volunteers and supporters of the Reviving the Islamic Spirit Conference (RIS), the annual winter gathering in Toronto, Canada that is setting the standard for Muslim conferences in North America (in my estimation). That trip went off fine. I was able to fulfill all of my obligations, even though the first four days involved me having to work through a severe stomach virus that resulted in an equally severe bout with diarrhea that left me dangerously dehydrated. After four days of steadily deteriorating health, I was seen by a doctor, one of the Muslim brothers who were gracious enough to come to my hotel room and prescribe a regime of medicines and electrolyte solutions to rehydrate my pruning body.

Unfortunately, I did not return to the States until less than a week from the date of departure for Africa. There was still a lot to do to get ready, including a trip to a chiropractor to adjust my aching lower back, which I injured rotating all four of my car tires manually, to prepare for a snowstorm I believed I would have to drive through my way from California to New Mexico, where I would be spending the first couple months of my year-long Sabbatical. The bending and twisting to remove and then replace four tires, with a short lug wrench helped to prove to me once and for all that I am no longer twenty years old. Still I probably could have survived if the strain on the back was not further aggravated by sitting in the car for almost twenty hours.

Having accomplished the visit to the chiropractor, my first in over two years —riding my bike and walking around the streets of Oakland and Berkeley, California, had drastically reduced the time I was spending sitting in a car and the result was that the back problems that initially led me to seek out a chiropractor had totally disappeared. On Saturday afternoon, February 27, 2009, after a day of leisurely packing and spending a few mellow moments chatting with my most generous hosts in New Mexico, I departed from Taos to the International airport, the Sunport, of Albuquerque, New Mexico

Saturday night we spend in the house of a family friend from Abiqui, New Mexico. They had recently purchased a house in Albuquerque that was being used by their son during his tenure as an undergraduate student at the university of New Mexico. We had not seen him for few years and he had matured nicely. He received us in grand fashion and cooked us a wonderful meal consisting of a wonderful homemade vegetable soup and hummous. After several hours of solid sleep, and the morning (Fajr) prayer he drove us to the “Sunport” for our 7:10 departure.

Journey to Timbuktu Part Two

The check-in at the airport was uneventful. However, as soon as we boarded the plane there was a bit of a problem. Due to a mechanical problem of an unspecified nature, the plane’s departure was being delayed and we sat on the runway for over an hour. When we finally took off we did not realize that the two hours we had to connect to our Air Maroc flight to Casablanca, from where we would fly on to Bamako, Mali, had been reduced to forty-five minutes. Once we got in the air the flight was very productive. I measure the productivity of a flight in terms of the time I am able to read. Because I was able to get a good night’s sleep the previous night, I was fresh and read for almost the entire flight. I was able to complete my Hizb of the Qur’an, and then to finish Greg Mortenson’s bestseller, “Three Cups of Tea,” an enthralling volume detailing the struggles and triumphs he experienced building schools in the mountainous regions of northern Pakistan. It is interesting that I was reading Mortenson’s work as I was about to embark on a trip to 
Africa to assist in the humanitarian work being engaged in by Islamic Relief.

As we landed at JFK Airport in New York, the plane could not pull up to the gate, as the earlier delay had caused a problem in the arrivals schedule and the plane would have to wait for a vacant gate. This led to me reviewing my itinerary and discovering that we had half and hour to connect with the Air Maroc flight a couple of frantic phone calls from Naeem Muhammad, Islamic Relief’s point person for this trip, did not help. We finally got to the gate. I dispatched my wife to the Air Maroc counter, located in Terminal One to attempt to buy some time as I waited for our bags at the American Airlines baggage claim located in Terminal Eight. When she arrived there she discovered that the flight had been closed out —and was even leaving a bit early to escape a blizzard that was bearing down on New York. Had the flight been delayed it would not have helped our situation as I would wait well over half an hour for our bags to come out.

Fortunately for us, Naeem had arranged another flight for us on KLM later that night, a ten o’clock departure. We would fly to Amsterdam and from there to Casablanca where we would unite with the other members of our party. The only problem with that later flight is that the snow had started to fall and as a result we realized we might not be able to leave that night as the airport might be closed down due to the heavy snow. We surmised that if we did not leave Sunday night we would probably miss the trip altogether as the group would have departed to there destinations in the field and flights to Bamako might not occur on a daily basis.

That flight finally boarded around midnight. After another delay of about an hour to deice the wings and the fuselage, we departed. We flew on to Amsterdam, and then via Air Maroc to Casablanca. Arriving in Casablanca, we were united with the other members of our party, enjoyed a wonderful meal in the house of Belkacem a Moroccan American worker for Islamic Relief whose family home is in Casablanca. Returning to the airport, we would soon depart for Bamako and begin one of the greatest journeys I would ever undertake in what has been a lifetime of travel.

Journey to Timbuktu Part Three

The flight from Casablanca to Bamako was routine. I was able to do a little reading. However, since we left close to midnight, drowsiness eventually rendered my attempts to continue reading futile, and I slept the latter part of the journey. The flight was longer than I had anticipated; a fact that gave me an indication of just how deeply into the African continent we would descend. Upon finally arriving at the Bamako Airport, we were greeted by staff members from the Mali Islamic Relief office and taken to a comfortable hotel near the American Embassy to pass the couple of hours remaining that night. The only noteworthy part of the trip was traversing a bridge over the Niger River, which even at night, during the height of the dry season, is clearly a great and expansive mass of water.

After Fajr and a light breakfast, we immediately set out to tour some of the sites where Islamic Relief was doing work in the south of Mali. Our first stop was the village of Diena. Reaching it required a journey of at least one and a half hours, the latter half on a dusty dirt road that passed through scattered villages occupying rich farmland, dotted with lush mango trees, and exhibiting the parched evidence of a land beginning to feel the effects of a long gone rainy season.

Nothing in my imagination could have prepared me for the reception we received. The entire village had turned out to greet us, men, women, and children, troops of dancers, drummers, and the hunters of the village sporting their assortment of mostly ancient rifles and single barrel shotguns, which they periodically fired as part of a somewhat broken and intermittent twenty-one gun salute hailing our arrival into the village.

This overwhelming show of appreciation was occasioned by the inauguration of a maternity clinic that had been built by Islamic Relief in conjunction with the Unity Center of Canton, Michigan. The clinic was a clean, presentable facility that includes an office, a delivery room, a recovery room, a small maternity ward, and an adjacent sanitary restroom facility. Both of those facilities are about twenty meters from a well that was also provided by Islamic Relief. In addition to the reception, which included the villagers accompanying us to a covered seating area, there were several speeches lauding the work of Islamic Relief in the area. There were addresses delivered by the major, the village chief, and one of the local Islamic Relief officials. I was also urged to say a few words and took the opportunity express a desire on all of our parts (members of our delegation from the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom) to see that the work of Islamic Relief in the area is not only sustained but expanded.

The maternity center was opened just in the time to greet the birth of a young boy at 4:00am that morning. The infant, being the first child born in the new center was fittingly given the name Adam. I was asked to make a du’a for the baby and prayed that Allah bless him with a long and productive life as a servant of God, the Muslims and humanity at large.

Our second visit was to the village of Zelabougou, where Islamic Relief has recently built a primary school and a sanitary restroom facility. We were there to attend the inauguration of the school. The reception in this village was livelier than the one we had received earlier in the day at Diena. The streets were lined for about two hundred meters with the people of the village. Some of the dancers wore masks and costumes, which served to accentuate their riveting performance. One of the masked dancers flipped his way to me and handed me an official letter of reception from the leaders of the village. He would later give Imam Talib Abdul Rashid, a well-known Muslim leader from Harlem, New York, and the Vice Amir of MANA, The Muslim Alliance in North America, a personal, close-up demonstration of his dancing and flipping prowess, by flipping from a squatting position inside of a circle which he drew immediately in front of the Imam.

The hunters, who were more numerous than those at the Diena, fired their guns at random intervals, insuring that had the vibrant crowd wanted to be inattentive they would not have been allowed to be so. We were again led to a covered seating area where we were addressed by not only local leaders, elders and officials, but also by members of the national government. I was again asked to say a few words, and stressed the importance of education and its role in ensuring the continued relevance of Islamic teachings. The entire affair was filmed by the state television network of Mali.

On our way back to the hotel, we stopped at the field office of Islamic Relief in the village of Ouelessebougou. There we enjoyed a delicious meal of chicken and French-fries before heading back to the hotel. As we rode back to the hotel, I was impressed by the dignity of the people we had met. They were poor, no doubt. However, they were honorable and dignified. They were not asking for handouts, just a helping hand. We would see further evidence of this spirit in the coming days. It is inconceivable that in a world where white-collar thieves such as Bernard Madoff can pocket tens of billions of ill-gotten dollars, we cannot find the funds to meaningfully address the needs of the world’s poorest people. However, this is no time to complain; it is time to work and we have to all work harder to ensure a more equitable world.

Journey to Timbuktu Part Four

The next day, Wednesday, March 4, 2009, was a day of travel as we moved out on a journey to the northern parts of the country that would culminate at Timbuktu. The bustle of the roadside markets that seem to be omnipresent in Bamako thinned into lonely vendors, and eventually disappeared. One of the most notable things we saw on the outskirts of Bamako was a large housing project that is being financed by Hugo Chavez and the government of Venezuela. This effort to assist one of the world’s poorest countries by the Venezuelan leader is exceeded by the efforts of the Libyan strongman, Muammar al-Gaddafi. The Libyans have built several large mosques in Bamako, housing, and have even financed a massive administrative center, intended to house several government ministries. Unfortunately, that unfinished project has turned into a cash cow for the Malians, according to some locals. The more money the Libyans send, the longer it takes to complete the project as the money disappears with little progress towards finalizing the construction. It is interesting that two individuals who have been demonized in the States (Gaddafi is currently on the good guy list) are seen as heroes by many in Africa.

This part of our journey was a study in the topography of southern Mali. The vegetation grew less dense as we moved further north. The lush groves of mango trees grew smaller until eventually melting into a few isolated plants. The villages gradually became smaller and spaced further apart from each other. Most of this part of the journey was on a paved road and we moved along at a rapid clip. In the car, the conversation was lively as Hafsa Hasan, Islamic Relief’s young Canadian chief fundraiser, asked questions of myself and Imam Talib ranging from the history of Islam in America, to the collapse of the Islamic medieval trading system, to a listing of our 10 favorite books. I remember mentioning among my favorites, The Autobiography of Malcolm X, Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee, Servants of Allah (by Sylvianne Diouf), The Souls of Black Folk, and seven or eight others as the list expanded past the ten requested titles.

Reflecting on the poverty of the country, I recalled as a child going barefoot out of necessity. There were times when the lone pair of shoes I had were reserved for church and school, the one dollar sneakers were no longer fit to be worn and I would play out doors barefoot, a situation that resulted in occasional cuts, and nightly foot scrubbings to remove the accumulated grim of an active day outside in the dirt. I also remember days eating grits three meals a days, or less frequently during really hard times. Like Imam Talib, I recalled the times when friends in the neighborhood would be afflicted with ringworms or lice, afflictions we would notice occurring so frequently during the trip we were undertaking. The point of mentioning this is to emphasize that these are treatable maladies that were once common here in the United States. Even malaria was common in the southeastern United States until the Second World War. If such afflictions and scourges can be eliminated here in the United States, they can be eliminated in Mali and elsewhere in the developing world with a concerted and determined effort. It is also a reminder that there are poor people in the United States, and we have to be aware of their needs also.

As we made our way towards our hotel in the town of ‘Sevare, we decided to make a slight detour to visit the Great Mosque at Djenne. The mosque there is the largest adobe mosque in the world and is a symbol of the grandeur of Islam in Africa at the height of power of the great West African Islamic
Empires. However, one of the four cars in our caravan was experiencing trouble. Hence, the entire expedition was slowed down. A visit to Djenne would also require crossing the Niger by ferry, another time-consuming process. Hence, we would not be able to witness the Great Mosque during the daylight hours. As we waited for the ferry in the dusk of the declining day, we were surrounded by young female merchants who were selling very beautiful handmade necklaces. The tenacity of the vendors combined with the attractiveness of their wares led several members of our party to make purchases. We eventually were able to convince a ferry operator to extend his day by taking us across the river and waiting for us to return after a brief visit to the mosque.

Although we arrived at the mosque just after the Adhan of ‘Isha, we were able to see the silhouette of the mosque, grandly highlighted against the moonlit sky. Many of the details of the external architecture were made visible by the lights of the surrounding town. Praying in the dusty interior of the mosque was one of the highlights of the trip. We all agreed on that. Placing our heads in the dirt that had greeted the humble prostrations of so many generations of deeply spiritual individuals, sitting to briefly mention Allah’s exalted names in places where devout Muslims, some of whom would be uprooted from their homes and transported to a far-off land in chains, had sat, were experiences that immediately impacted my heart in an indelible way. Now, I had been blessed to return to this land as a Muslim. The experience reminded me of a poem I had written in 1976, a year before I became a Muslim. I do not recall the poem in its entirety but part of it reads:

First you made me into a Christian,
but how can a Christian smile,
when the bones of his lost brothers
lie beneath the Niger and the Nile.

Take me home to my lost brothers,
Take me home to my lost smile,
Take me home where I can find them,
Along the Niger and the Nile…

Approaching Djenne, we lamented not arriving during the daytime, in order to get better pictures of the mosque. However, after our brief nighttime visit, which culminated with a tour of the mosque and then the Imam making a passionate prayer for us, it seemed a fitting fate that we should visit at this time. This part of Mali has been described as a mysterious place and the nature of our visit reinforced that description for us. Upon re-crossing the Niger, we moved on to Sevare for another delicious Malian meal, highlighted by a dessert of locally grown papayas smothered in fresh lime juice, and a few hours of precious sleep.

Journey to Timbuktu Part Five

Early the next morning, Thursday, March 5, 2009, we departed for the Town of Gossi, the location of the Islamic Relief Regional Office in the Northern part of the country. As we ventured ever farther from Bamako, the terrain became more and more arid. However, the harsh environ had a distinct beauty, which accentuated by increasingly high mountains and stark rock formations, reminded me of hills and deserts of New Mexico. With the scattered adobe villages we were passing along the way, this part of Mali was no less enchanting than Mexico. The original “Land of Enchantment.”

We reached Gossi around mid-morning. We were received by one of the Islamic Relief workers in the northern part of the country. He led us to a roadside restaurant, a simple structure composed of wooden beams and a thatched roof. We had a breakfast of freshly roasted meat, thick but soft whole wheat bread, and fried eggs. After that brief interlude, we were taken to the office of the mayor and the regional authorities. After the formalities involved in the introduction, we were given an angry and frustrated description of the neglect the region was receiving from not only the central government, but also how many of the NGOs that had been working in the region were leaving. One of the officials, a vey noble Taureg man, described how owing to a lack of vegetation, two thirds of the cattle in the area had perished. Little did those officials realize, Islamic Relief had discussed closing their operations in this part of the country. The organization’s offices in Europe that had been financing those projects had been hard hit by the economic downturn and could no longer raise the funds for continued operation.

One of the reasons for our trip was to help raise the money in North America. In addition to examining the various projects, we were recording promotional material to assist in that effort. The prospect of our success had led to the continuation of the various projects, some of which we will shortly describe. After making a commitment to do our best to assist the people of the town, we proceeded to view one of the projects in the area, the Muslim Women’s Garden Plot. This plot, run exclusively by women, is part of an effort to empower females. The women, with the aid of a pump provided by Islamic Relief, were cultivating several acres of land, benefitting directly from the assortment of vegetables being raised there, and then selling the balance in the local marketplace. The money being earned was then used to purchase essentials for their families; items that would otherwise be unaffordable. They were also renting the pump to other gardens and benefitting from that income.

The garden, situated along the bank of a wide lake, was truly wonderful. The women were growing lettuce, cabbage, eggplant, melons, carrots, onions, cotton, and other produce. On a nearby patch of land, which we did not visit, several varieties of fruit trees were being cultivated. The pride in their accomplishments, and the appreciation for the assistance of Islamic Relief were engraved on their faces as deeply as the stunning lines defining the rock formations we had passed earlier in the day. However, as we talked with them a sadder reality became clear to us. They spoke of the ravages of malaria and typhoid; the debilitating effect of both scarlet and yellow fever, and the difficulty involved in transporting their sick to a hospital. Their words interrupted the bucolic scene created by the rich land, the expansive lake, and the bright blue sky, like a sudden thunderstorm descending upon a quiet summer outing. Again, we promised to do what we could to help.

As we were leaving town, we stopped at another garden where the women were watering their struggling plants by hand. Unlike the women of the first garden, the women here, who were clear from a different ethnic group, had no pump. The effect of the lack of a pump to assist their effort was clear. They were able to cultivate less land, and the land under cultivation yielded far less than the first garden we had visited. Even though their project had been started by another organization, all of the members of our party pledged to by them a pump also. Even though I am skipping ahead in the story here, on the last day of our visit, hours before our flight out of the country, we fulfilled that promise and chipped in enough money, $950, to purchase that pump. Al-Hamdulillah!

Journey to Timbuktu Part Six

Early in the afternoon we left for Rharous, a town even further to the north. Our caravan had grown by one car as some of the Islamic Relief officials from Gossi were joining us for the trip to Rharous and then onward to Timbuktu. Until now, we had been traveling on paved roads. Now we found ourselves off-road bouncing over sandy humps, tires spinning in deep sand-filled gullies, similar to the way a vehicle might move through twelve inches of newly fallen snow. Our driver being the most experienced, and our car being the strongest, we took the lead and quickly moved far ahead of the two of the other cars. Little did we know, one of those cars would become stuck in the sand. After a couple of hours, we stopped in a vast open plain, literally in the middle of nowhere, to wait for the others to catch up. After a wait of about an hour they finally caught up. They informed us of the car that had been stuck in the sand; how the men had unwrapped their turbans and twisted them together to make a rope that was used to tow the stuck car out of the thick dunes. That car was experiencing mechanical problems and would have to be abandoned in the desert.

As we were waiting for the cars that had lagged behind, one of the most incredible experiences of our trip occurred. As I mentioned, we were in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by giant termite mounds, some of them at least ten feet tall. The vegetation was scattered desert scrubs. A trail that was beaten into the sand by the hooves of camels, still the most reliable means of transportation in these parts, was the only sign of human activity. As we stood outside of our car stretching and enjoying the cool breeze of the declining desert day, we saw a distant figure approaching us. As he drew closer, we noticed that he was carrying two staffs, one noticeably longer than the other. When he finally reached us we learned that he was an old man as shriveled and emaciated as the old, pruned-up water skin he was carrying. He evoked the description of the traveler described in one of the prophetic hadiths, “…dust-covered, disheveled hair, having traveled a long way.” He signaled that he needed water, which we readily provided. He squatted and proceeded to empty half of a large bottle of into his parched body. He then indicated that he had a headache, most likely brought on by sunstroke, a sure consequence of the unforgiving midday desert sun. We offered him half a bottle of aspirin. He took two and deposited the rest in a little pouch dangling at his side. He fervently thanked us, praised Allah with equal resolve, and then as mysteriously as he had appeared, he slowly walked off into the desert and soon disappeared. When we related the story to Belcasem Nadi, a member of our delegation who hails from Morocco, but now lives in the United States, he opined that the man was in reality an angel, sent by Allah to test of generosity. No one present, still struck by the mysterious aura of the desert visitor, was inclined to disagree.

After distributing the supplies and passengers of the broken down car among the other three remaining vehicles, we continued onwards. After ten kilometers, we approached another village. It was a sparsely populated outpost, close to a lake, that would probably be dry in a couple of months before being replenished by the much anticipated summer rains. We were welcomed into the walled courtyard of a hospital where we performed our Asr prayer in the rapidly disappearing light of the waning day. The in men charge of the hospital, a well-built structure, informed us of the sad reality hidden behind its colorful concrete walls. The government had built the facility, but had no money to run or staff it. Hence, it was as bare as the desert expanses we had traversed during this particular afternoon. No doctors, no nurses, no medicine, no patients, and most critically, no water. The Islamic Relief official with us, discussed the feasibility of building a deep, small bore well in the area, a vital first step in rendering the facility viable. Were that well to be built, it would provide 11,000 people scattered around the area with a source of clean drinking water. Perhaps someone reading these words can step forward and finance such a project.

In the dusk of twilight we set off on the final leg of our journey to Rharous. We arrived some time after ‘Isha. We prayed our Magrib and Isha prayers and then enjoyed yet another splendid meal that had been prepared for us by the staff of the large Islamic Relief compound located in Rharous. This meal was unique in two ways. First of all, it was being enjoyed in the open air, the roofless courtyard of the facility. The cool desert air and the canopy of stars afforded our “restaurant” a charming ambience. The meal was also enhanced by a large bottle of thick, molasses-like desert honey, which proved the perfect compliment for bread accompanying the meal. Exhausted, satiated, and enveloped by the now cold air of the surrounding desert, with the serene timelessness of the River Niger flowing in the dark a few hundred yards beyond us, as we would learn from the rooftop in the morning, we all collapsed into a deep and rejuvenating slumber.

Journey to Timbuktu Part Seven

Early the next morning we awakened for the morning prayer in the courtyard of the center. After praying, I ascended to the rooftop to take in the surrounding. Looking around I was treated to a spectacular view. As I mentioned previously, the mighty Niger River was a few hundred yards north of our building. The desert landscape was highlighted by the orange-hued sand which flowed up to the horizon where it met the bright blue sky. The neatly arranged adobe houses combined with the breathtaking surroundings bestowed upon the place an almost surreal beauty. I thought to myself, “If scenes this beautiful exist in this world, how beautiful will Paradise be?” After a hurried breakfast of fresh bread, honey, and the remnants of a goat that had been cooked the previous day, we left to visit the regional health center in Rharous.

The health center here, unlike the on we had visited the previous day, was well-staffed, bustling, filled with patients. The patients were suffering from a variety of maladies as we would subsequently learn, most commonly malaria. The chief doctor was a serious gentleman who was trained in Moscow. He had formerly worked in Timbuktu and had just recently been reassigned to this medical center. He took us for a tour of the facility. Most of the patients were children. In fact, the child patients had taken over the women’s wards in addition to the rooms designated for their treatment. Most of the rooms were also crowded with family members, some of whom were enjoying a late breakfast on the floor of the room their children were being treated in.

Most of the patients we saw were suffering from malaria, a disease that is particularly devastating to children and pregnant women. One young teenage girl was particularly affected. She was receiving serum through an IV tube and lay debilitated on the bed, unable to move. There were other patients, also suffering from malaria, who were much younger than her. The government of Mali has initiated a program to help protect mothers and children from the disease. However, they lack the resources to adequately cover the entire population. When we later visited the pharmacy of the hospital, the doctor told us that they had run completely out of malaria medicine. One of the reasons we had undertaken this trip, in addition to creating he promotional material needed to help raise the money to save the projects Islamic Relief had undertaken in Mali, was to initiate an anti-malaria campaign in some of the hardest hit areas of the country. This effort on the part of Islamic Relief is part of a wider campaign being undertaken by many major NGOs towards meeting one of the Millennial Development Goals, ridding the world of malaria by 2015.

All was not gloomy in the hospital. After touring the rooms, the almost bare laboratory, and the sparely stocked pharmacy, we met in the lobby of the facility which had filled with the beaming faces of healthy children, whose laughter complimented the chatter of their mothers and few male family members to create a joyous atmosphere. They had gathered to participate in a program initiated by Islamic Relief. This incentive-based program rewarded all of the mothers who had followed the 9-shot vaccination program of the clinic, and had kept their child’s shot record to prove it, with a new set of clothes for the children. This day was designated for the distribution of those clothes. A few of us were chosen to hand out some of the clothes. It was a very joyous occasion. However, it was not free of drama, as one of the attendees was trying to convince the doctor, unsuccessfully, that she had been diligent in following the vaccination program, but had left her shot card at home.

Afterwards we met with the doctor and he outlined form us some of the healthcare challenges faced by the center. In addition to the lack of ample supplies and medicine, the great distances between the villages of this desert region made communication and transportation exceedingly difficult. Even if ample medicine was present getting it to the people of the district was difficult. One of the villages in the district was 200 kilometers from Rharous. He reminded us that one of our cars had broken down traversing the unpaved roads of the region, and supply cars and ambulances, even if they were available would be exposed to the strains that had so taxed our vehicle. Getting people out of the villages to receive emergency treatment was likewise an extremely arduous task.

After departing from the hospital we went to visit what I call WDSR, Desert Radio. This radio station, whose signal could be picked up in a surrounding radius of over 100 kilometers, was the primary means of information and education for the people in the region. It had been built with funds provided by Islamic Relief and was a vital lifeline. The programming was almost exclusively informational and educational. I delivered a live Arabic address, Imam Talib Abdul Rashid said a few words over the air, and the people of the region were treated to a few excerpts of some Native Deen songs, courtesy of Naeem Muhammad who presented the staff with a few copies of the groups latest CD, I Am Not Afraid To Stand Alone.” The lead DJ at the station was a charismatic figure named Muhammad. He had learned a little English from an American aid worker who had stayed in the area for a month. I told him that if the gentleman had stayed a year he would be fluent in English, a veritable Shakespeare. He kept us smiling with his “Funkadelic” sunglasses, his “bopping” stride that would allow him to easily blend in on the streets of Harlem or Baltimore, and his hilarious imitation of an American rap singer, hand gestures and all.

After visiting the radio station we set out for Serere where we would visit a school and a very impressive sorghum farm. The school, the first in this particular area was a simple structure constructed of a few tree branches and thatched walls and a thatched roof. Inside was a small detached black board, and about forty dust covered disheveled students. Who despite their obvious poverty were very eager to learn. The major of the settlement told us that they people of the area realized the importance of education and had started this humble school until they had the resources to build a sounder more presentable structure. As we sat there, I reflected on the massive, well-endowed schools of many areas of the United States where students were literally running away from schools that were equipped with running water, toilet facilities, gyms, cafeterias, libraries, etc. I am writing these words from New Mexico. A couple of days ago I heard a news story that was mentioning efforts to combat the state’s dropout rate of 46%. A staggering 46% of all eligible students in New Mexico do not graduate. As sad and disconcerting as that news is, New Mexico’s dropout rate is the second highest in the country. There is another state with an even higher rate. Here, along the banks of the Niger River, students were spending most of the day sitting on a dirt floor, in a building with no real walls or roof desperately thirsting for the keys to knowledge, understanding the power it bequeaths to its possessors. May Allah bless us to be more thankful for the resources and opportunities He has blessed us with; for as many are learning during the current economic downturn, the blessings we enjoy can be taken away in an instant.

The sorghum farm was by far the greatest project Islamic Relief has undertaken here in Mali. As we drove up a band of green on both sides of the road almost covered the horizon. As we approach I though to myself that this must be the work of some major western government. I would learn that Islamic Relief, by providing a large pump and major irrigation ditch, had facilitated an irrigation scheme that had helped the local people to literally make the desert bloom. It had also instilled the farmers working the land with a sense of pride, dignity and self-respect, which was visible in everything they did, the way they walked, talked, and worked. As we inspected the project, the workers would walk up to the paved irrigation ditch, perform ablutions and pray. My wife would later tell me that one of the women, who had their own agricultural project going, which included a booming dried tomato business, had told her that this project had not only helped to alleviate poverty in the area, it had also united the various tribes and made them proud to be Muslim. What an incredible return for a small investment!

After the visit to the farm, and a nice lunch with the workers, we continued up the road for a brief while to the crossing on the banks of the Niger where we would cross the river for the final leg of the journey that would take us to Timbuktu. In the late afternoon sun, like countless travelers who preceded us to this spot, under the watchful gaze of a towering tree that dominated the horizon, we prayed the Asr Salat. As we prayed the rejuvenating breeze, blowing from across the river, told stories that only the ears standing at that spot could understand. We listened intently as it spoke of the human stories of triumph and tragedy, promise and pain, loss and gain that had unfolded on these banks deep in the heart of Africa.

The ferries that were available could only accommodate two cars at a time. I leaped aboard the first one with Usama, a young Algerian who had migrated to Britain at the age of twelve with his family, fleeing the orgy of violence that had transformed the promise of progressive Islamic governance in his native land into a dark night of senseless killing that would see upwards to 200,000 people perish. When we attained to the distant shore he discovered that his glasses were missing. I advised him to recite Sura Duha, which mentions variations of the word wajada (to find) several times, along with the Fatiha. He recited these chapters from the Qur’an, and set off up river with a lone driver, the boat had returned further down river from the original point of departure, to seek his glasses. After about twenty minutes he returned with the spectacles nestled on his beaming face. He had an incredible story to tell. When they returned to the spot we had prayed in, one of the children, noticing them looking for something, informed the driver that after the group departed a man from the adjacent village had picked up some glasses and left for the village. When they reached the village, they found themselves in the midst of a joyous wedding celebration. One of the celebrants, sporting Usama’s prescription glasses, saw their eyes fall upon him, stood up walked towards them and surrendered the glasses. Apparently, he had no malicious intent when he took the glasses. He probably thought he would never see the strangers again and therefore decided to augment his outfit. Luckily for him, Usama returned, for the strong prescription would have likely ruined his eyes.

Having crossed the river, we were now on the bumpy road to Timbuktu. As the desert sun set, we entered upon a stretch of paved road the rewards a vehicle that has survived the demanding trek across the desert with a smooth entry into the city that was a gift of Islam to the people of these harsh desert environs.

Journey to Timbuktu Part Eight

Timbuktu is believed to have been founded early in the 12th Century AD. Its name gives us insight into its origins. Tim, in the language of the Tuareg people, means well. Buktu is a female name. Hence, Timbuktu means the place of Buktu’s well. The city is named after the woman who discovered water there. Located far enough from the Niger River to significantly reduce the danger of malaria and other mosquito-borne pestilences, the city gradually became a center of trade and learning as it stood at the crossroads of the trans-Saharan and West African trade routes, particularly those centered around salt and gold; and at the center of the domains of the many African peoples who had accepted Islam. Those people, Fulani, Hausa, Tuareg, Mandinka, Bambara, Songhai, and others peacefully coexisted —along with Arabs and Berbers, who migrated to the city from the Hijaz, Egypt, and Morocco— within the city and all added to the rich legacy of the mystical and mythical place.

Consistent with the ascent of many other Islamic centers of learning, as the city’s wealth increased so to did its renown as a center of learning and scholarship. At the height of its fame, the city’s Sankore University would host to over 25,000 students. These students would not only be the beneficiaries of book learning, but also of an elaborate mentorship program, that placed each student under the personal care and tutelage of and established scholar. This system led to the production of scholars that attained a level unknown in other places. When Abd al-Rahman al-Tamimi, an accomplished scholar from the Hijaz visited the city in the 15th Century, he realized that he was unqualified to join the city’s scholarly community. He thus devoted himself to several years of study before migrating permanently to the city. Unfortunately, as the economic significance of the city declined, so to did its intellectual stature. However, the wealth of manuscripts found in the city to this very day gives a silent testimony to the vibrant intellectual life that was once found in there.

We arrived in the city of between Magrib and Isha (the time of the Evening and Night Prayers). After settling into our rooms at he Hendrina Khan Hotel, a simple but clean establishment named in honor of the wife of the Pakistani scientist Abdul Quadeer Khan, who had visited Timbuktu on several occasions. We converged in the cafeteria for another delicious Malian meal. We made plans to pray Fajr at the Grand Mosque of Timbuktu, the next morning. As we had generally been running late when we tried to meet to go visit a particular site, we agreed that the cars would leave at 5:00am and that anyone not present in the lobby at that time would be left behind.

As agreed upon, we departed promptly at 5:00am. The brief ride to the mosque gave little insight into the architecture of the city, as the darkness of the retreating night was still strong enough to hide any buildings that were not in the immediate vicinity of the dim street lights. We suddenly found ourselves before the Grand Mosque. Not as imposing as the mosque at Djenne, it still inspired awe as we entered and walked between the adobe pillars that had stood as we were witnessing them for centuries. Most of the mosque was engulfed in an elaborate network of wooden scaffolds, as it was being renovated and restored to it former glory by a massive project being financed by the Agha Khan Foundation —a fact we would learn later that morning in a meeting with the Imam of the mosque, who is also head of the Council of Islamic Scholars in Timbuktu.

I asked myself why none of the Sunni governments of the oil-rich Middle East had not come forward to undertake such a worthy project? I remember how as a student in Washington DC in the mid-1980s the Government of Kuwait had donated ten million dollars to help rebuild the Wolf Trap Farm amphitheater after that center had been destroyed by fire. Apparently, facilitating the ability of Americans to enjoy a good concert during a sweltering summer’s night in the Washington DC area is more important than working to preserve the cultural and religious heritage of this Ummah. This neglect of Africa on the part of the wealthy Sunni governments is similarly visible in the efforts to preserve and digitalize the city’s massive collection of decaying manuscripts. The most significant efforts in that regard have been undertaken by Northwest University, under the leadership of the late Professor John Huntwick, and the government of South Africa after the former president of that country, Thabo Mbeki visited the city and realized that those manuscripts constitute an invaluable part of the history and heritage of Africa, nay, of humanity, and he vowed to build a center dedicated to their preservation. That center is nearly finished. However, much more has to be done if the full richness of that heritage is to be preserved. As we visited some of the manuscript libraries later that day, we saw first hand the damage that the elements, and voracious worms and other insects had done to many of the volumes. It is ironic that none of the Arab governments has done anything significant for the city, except cart a portion of the manuscripts off to their own libraries, when most of that literary heritage has been recorded in the Arabic language. Allah’s help is sought.

After Fajr, we met the Imam of the Mosque and talked informally with him. A kind man, whose countenance radiates both dignity and serenity, he shared a few words with us about the history of the city and the mosque. However, we would learn much more in a scheduled visit with him later that morning. As we made our way back to the hotel, the dawning morning light revealed more of the city. Humble adobe dwellings were interspersed with the tents of desert people who had settled in the city after the expanding desert had swallowed the pastures that had once supported their life as nomadic cattlemen. Sand was everywhere. Even many of the streets were paved with a thick layer of sand that challenged lighter weight cars that lacked four-wheel drive. Although it was clear that this was no longer a city whose exterior form would qualify it for world-renown, it still contains a secret in its spirit, and a handful of buildings that spoke of its past glory.

Journey to Timbuktu Part Nine

After returning to the hotel, we ironed fresh clothing in preparation for a formal visit to with the Imam of the Grand Mosque. Even our drivers and guides had doffed their mundane western garb in favor of beautiful traditional garments. The time passed quickly and before we knew it we had eaten a light breakfast and found ourselves in the beautiful home of the Imam of the Grand Mosque. The room we were escorted into could have well been located in Egypt, Syria, Turkey, Iran or Pakistan. Low couches followed the entire contour of the rectangular room. The unpainted neat adobe walls were decorated with Islamic art and calligraphy pieces, and the floor was adorned with a beautiful collection of mats and rugs. The room spoke of a rich Islamic heritage that was as universal as the wider Islamic realm that Timbuktu was once connected to.

Our conversation with the Imam was brief but enlightening. He summarized for us the history of the city and the prominent role that Islam had always played in it. He also spoke of the pernicious influence of the French occupation of the city and the destruction of its Arabic intellectual heritage. He mentioned how he himself was far more conversant in French than in Arabic. After a brief visit he led us to the Grand Mosque for a tour of its precincts. He explained to us how the Agha Khan Foundation, to its immense credit, was underwriting the renovation of the mosque and had provided a blank check to do whatever was necessary to restore it to its former glory. To facilitate that objective, some of the world’s leading experts in adobe and Saharan architecture had been brought in. As a consequence of their work, the original foundation of the mosque, which had been built over when Mansa Kan Kan Musa rebuilt the mosque around 1324, had been discovered. The Imam showed us a part of that original foundation. Those experts had also discovered the original design that had been imprinted on the adobe pillars of the mosque, in addition to an Arabesque design that had surrounded the Mihrab. The renovated structure will feature all of those artistic embellishments.

The Imam took our leave as he had to meet another delegation. However, we would soon return to his house for a meeting with the Council of Imams and Religious Scholars. Departing for the mosque we went to visit the Ahmad Baba Center. Named after a luminary who is considered to be the greatest scholar the city has produced, the center is home to thousands of manuscripts. Ahmad Baba had attained such a high degree of knowledge that during his exile to Morocco (1594-1607) the Qadis and Muftis of Fez, Meknes, and Marrakesh would attend his lessons. We were given a tour of the center and were amazed by the variety of manuscripts and the depth of the scholarship they bore witness to. I was struck by the fact that many of the books were copies of texts that were very well-known in the Arab heartland of Islam. It was quite clear that Timbuktu at the height of its glory was well-integrated into an expansive Islamic realm that stretch from al-Andalus (Islamic Spain) in the West to China in the East.

It is interesting the Ibn Battuta the great Moroccan scholar and explorer who had traversed that realm during the first half of the 14th Century AD, actually visited Mali and Timbuktu in 1354. He was impressed by the diligence of the Malian Muslims I observing the congregational prayer, especially the Jumu’ah, and their devotion to the memorization and study of the Qur’an. The realm that Ibn Battuta visited was devastated by the bubonic plague. Had it not been for the plague that ravaged the entire length of that realm, and the rich system of trade it made possible, we Muslims may well have maintained our economic supremacy and possessed the finance capital necessary to both endow the research institutions needed for science and technological competitiveness, and to underwrite great exploration expeditions, such as those undertaken by the Europeans. Those expeditions would lead to the discovery of America, and her vast storehouses of gold and silver, and a sea route eastward to India and China. Both of these developments, coming less than two centuries after the devastation of the plague, would finalize the economic demise of the Muslims. That economic demise would gradually submerge Timbuktu in its wake.

It is a shame that high tech facilities with the elaborate air conditioning, humidity and light controls that are so essential for the preservation of ancient manuscripts are thus far lacking in Timbuktu. Perhaps the Muslims of America can contribute to the building of such a center. The curator of the Ahmad Baba Center was an intelligent, gracious and charismatic man who in many ways was a perfect embodiment of his city. From the Ahmad Baba Center we went to visit another manuscript library before returning to the Imam’s house to meet the senior and junior scholars of Timbuktu. This would be one of the highlights of the visit.

Journey to Timbuktu Part Ten

After returning to the Imam’s house, we were seated in the room we had previously occupied. However, now the room was illuminated with the light beaming from the faces of religious scholars, both young and old. The senior scholars were all adorned with the blue gowns that are the hallmark of scholars throughout the realm of the west Africa and the western Sahara region. They also were handsomely adorned with stately turbans, all meticulously wrapped in a common fashion. The younger scholars were all wearing Arab style thawbs of various colors. None were dressed in the traditional blue. As we began our session of discussion and questions and answers, it was clear that the older scholars, as demonstrated by the Imam of Timbuktu earlier, were more comfortable speaking French than Arabic, with the exception of two or three who did not know French. As for the younger scholars all of them having studied in Arab countries, —Egypt, Morocco, Libya, Tunis, or Saudi Arabia, were more conversant in Arabic.

However as we became more deeply immersed in a stimulating conversation it was clear that there was a deep sense of solidarity between the two groups characterized by mutual respect and love. I remarked on this perception and one of the younger scholars replied that this the way of Timbuktu, he would reiterate, “These older scholars are our teachers and we will never disrespect them.” To see such harmony was a real joy. In many countries, there is a clear tension between the older more traditionally trained scholars, and the younger scholars or students of knowledge who educated outside of the country.

As our discussion progressed it was clear that there was one thing all of the scholars were in agreement on: the need for a training school that would train students to a respectable level in Arabic and the religious sciences. Such a school, they felt, was necessary in order to reverse the ignorance of the religion that had descended over the Sahel in general. Graduates of such a school will be able to go to towns and villages far and wide in order to teach the people. We all agreed that it was a laudable idea. I mentioned how the recently freed slaves in the American South in the aftermath f the civil war were large illiterate and how a campaign to build a network of teacher’s colleges through out the Southern United States was one of the major steps in the elimination of that illiteracy within a generation. We promised to look into ways we could help these noble scholars build their schools. May Allah grace us with the uplifting winds of Divine Providence.

After the meeting with Imams, we went to the Sankore Mosque for the Dhuhr prayer. This is a beautiful adobe mosque, smaller but in much better shape than the Grand Mosque, which as we mentioned is currently being renovated. After the prayer the Imam of the mosque gave us a brief tour. He directed to an area in the mosque where he mentioned that prayers were answered. I made sure to pray there. Such a claim could not be baseless. Generations of pious and even saintly men had prayed there, and their words experiences, the traces which gave the mosque a distinct, yet unseen aura, have been passed down through successive generations. Being a recipient of their news was a great honor. May Allah accept all of our prayers.

I reflected deeply on the fact that it is certain that Ahmad Baba prayed in that spot. Mansa Kan Kan Musa likely prayed in that spot. His half brother Abu Bakr the Second, the Emperor of Mali before him, a man who had led an armada of two thousand ships out into the Atlantic, heading towards the Americas, never to return, probably prayed in that spot. Ibrahim Abdur Rahman, the Prince Among Slaves, who had studied in Timbuktu during his youth, is sure to have prayed in that spot. Now I was here in Timbuktu, in the naturally air conditioned shade of the Sankore Mosque praying in that spot. Again, May Allah accept all of our prayers wherever we may be.

During our tour of the mosque, several members of our group squeezed through the narrow passage and ascended the aging stairs leading to the top of the minaret. From that vantage point they were able to take many fascinating pictures of the surrounding town. It was very gracious of the Imam to allow those who ascended to the top this honor, for neither the stairs nor the roof was designed to bear their collective weight. After their descent, the Imam and several of his colleagues chatted with us for a brief while before we boarded the bus to return to the hotel for lunch and a brief nap. Our day though was far from over.

Journey to Timbuktu Part Eleven

After a brief lunch and a quick nap our group gathered for a meeting with the Governor of Timbuktu. We had been scheduled to meet with him earlier that day. However, the schedule was too tight for us. He had also been busy, called away from his office attending to some business. Our paths had briefly crossed at the home of the Imam of Timbuktu during our meeting with the scholars of the city. The Governor had stopped by briefly to pay his respects to the assembled Imams and to greet us.

He is a well-groomed stately gentleman who was formerly a Colonel in the Malian Army. His gentle demeanor barely hides a serious and sternness that led a member of our party to comment that he appeared to be the kind of person you did not want to cross. We sat before him in the cool, shaded courtyard of the Hendrina Khan Hotel and listened intently as he slowly began to give us a lesson on the history of the city in halting English. When he realized that a French translator was available he quickly switched to French and the details of his presentation became a lot richer. Much of what he presented had been mentioned earlier by the Imam at his house. He did present us some details about his own life and how he ascended to the governorship of Timbuktu. He kindly offered his good offices to us and urged us to continue the great work being undertaken by Islamic Relief, which he mentioned government officials were well aware of.

After his departure, we prepared for dinner and a trip to one of the larger cemeteries in the city. We were told that one hundred sixty saints were buried there, so we decided to go there and pay our respects. After dinner, and Magrib and Isha prayers, we set out for the visit to the cemetery. Upon arriving during the dark of night we found a well lit, walled burial ground that could well have been in Cairo or Damascus. We stopped and issued the greeting of our Prophet, peace upon him, for the deceased, “Peace upon you, inhabitants of the home of believers. God-willing we will soon be joining you.” We then prayed and left. Upon returning to our car we were informed that we were at the wrong cemetery. So we proceeded to the right one and repeated the litany we had engaged in at the previous one. As we stood there beneath the African sky, our feet slightly depressed into the every present sand, the souls of the generations of righteous believers who surrounded us seemed to be calling out to us across the expanse of time that separated us. They seemed to be welcoming us home on the one hand, and urging us to return to our homes in the western lands to let the people there know of Islam and its beauty. It is ironic that although some of our ancestors were brought to America in chains, it is the only home we have. The spirits of the mothers and fathers, brothers, sisters of those slaves who had been so violently torn from their homes and families seemed to be urging us to stake our claim in that strange land of so many contradictions.

The serenity and depth of the moment was interrupted for me. Some meat that had been left out in the sun too long the previous day caught up with me, and I was overcome by nausea. I moved to the side for a violent fit of vomiting, the aftermath of which I was able to completely cover in the sand before returning to the other members of our group to catch the final part of the prayer that was being recited by Imam Talib Abdul Rashid. We returned solemnly to our hotel. Most of the group probably slept a few hours, but I was up all night afflicted by fits of vomiting and diarrhea. Despite the trauma of that night, and the lack of sleep, I actually felt much better in the morning. We got up early and prayed Fajr. I skipped the breakfast. Before 6:00am we were on the road heading back to Bamako. As the mosques, homes and markets of Timbuktu faded into the distance behind us, I could not help but think how blessed I was. I had been to a place most people cannot even dream of going. I had met righteous people who carried the heritage of the Prophets, peace upon them, in their hearts, and I had visited places that owed their existence solely to Islam. All Praise is for Allah!

Journey to Timbuktu Part Twelve

The journey back to Bamako from Timbuktu was via the Bambara Maude, which would make it several hours shorter than the journey preceding our arrival. The trip to Gossi had taken us north of Timbuktu, so that leg of the trip had already been eliminated as we made our way south to Bamako. The trip back was very quiet. Imam Talia had heroically struggled with the rigors of the journey despite being challenged by his diabetes. Our eating scheduled had been irregular throughout the journey. The breakfasts and dinners were fairly regular. However, lunches and snacks were intermittent. This fact, combined with the late nights and early mornings combined to lead to the Imam sleeping most of the way back. The other members of the team riding in the car with me were rendered silent for other reasons. Perhaps they were reflecting on the momentousness of the visit to Timbuktu. As for me, the uneasiness that persisted in my stomach discouraged much conversation. Hence, the mood was perfect for contemplation.

As we traversed the sandy road back through the inhospitable desert, then the mountainous regions and finally the more populous and densely wooded areas of the southern part of the country, my mind was alive with reflections. The beauty of the land was already calling me back for future visits. The dignity and grace of the people was etched into my consciousness, we did not encounter a single beggar. Even the destitute children we had met throughout our journey would try to sell us something, salt, jewelry, tapioca powder, as opposed to begging from us. None of the adults we had met had asked for a handout, just a helping hand to overcome some challenges that they were being divinely tested them with. I recalled a recent survey that had found the people in Mali the most optimistic people on earth. People with faith will always be people of hope. However, I was aware that the hope the people we had met entertained, and others we had yet to meet, was not foolish or baseless optimism. It was genuine hope fostered by the mercy of God that had spared them the genocidal catastrophes that had afflicted so many in other parts of Africa. It was a realistic hope cultivated by the ability of so many people to eke out an existence from oftentimes miserly terrain. It was a deep hope nurtured by a belief that as surely as the rains eventually come to give life to the parched earth, a better day lies ahead.

I asked myself, “What will we do to justify that hope?” “Will we work to share the bounties we have been given so copiously, or will we squander them without working to ensure that part of their benefit accrues to others?” “Will our hearts be moved by the scenes of the struggling masses of humanity, or will we turn off their plight like it is a troubling television program that has intruded too deeply into that isolated space surrounding our oftentimes empty lives?” As I was entertaining such thoughts, we pulled up at a fairly large Qur’an school in the middle of the desert. It was located in a walled compound. One of the principals of the school was fluent in Arabic, so we had a brief conversation. It was a joy to find someone in this particular region who was conversant in Arabic. I reflected on how Arabic was once the lingua franca of all educated people in this region. Now that unifying language was French. The extensive effects of French influence throughout the region were telling. The pervasiveness of that influence would not be so disturbing were it not so pernicious. In addition to the military incursions that had claimed hundreds of thousands of lives throughout North and West Africa, millions if we include the Algerian War of Independence, the French had disrupted entrenched cultural patterns, and siphoned off billions of dollars in economic resources.

Eventually, we found ourselves back on a paved road. After a few hours we were back at the Mopti Hotel in Severe. We had stayed there a few nights earlier. During the daytime, it appeared a different place. As we awaited the arrival of the other cars in our caravan, we learned that another vehicle had broken down and would have to be left behind for needed repairs. The driver was in the process of renting a substitute car. This developing situation would not only delay our trip, it led me to reflect once again on the difficulties and expenses needed to get medicine and other vital supplies to people living in the remote and scattered villages located in the desert expanses of the northern parts of the country.

We took advantage of the opportunity to pray our Dhuhr and Asr prayers behind the hotel in a mosque used by the workers. This little mosque was a patch of earth demarcated by a boundary of stones, which separated it from the adjoining earth. Such simplicity served as a stark reminder of the bare essentials that are sometimes hidden from us by the layers of junk and stuff that we have been deluded into believing are essential for our existence. As a few of us crammed into that no-frills mosque, it was too small to accommodate us all, the serenity that enveloped us was no less riveting than what I had experienced in Blue Mosque of Turkey, the Umayyad Mosque in Damascus, or the Sankore Mosque in Timbuktu. Allah’s remembrance is rooted in the heart, and sometimes simple things can enliven our hearts in the profoundest of ways.

We eventually got back on the road. However, our trip delayed by several hours, we decided to eat at a roadside restaurant. It was actually an “Italian” restaurant. The pasta was wonderful, served African-style. There were several Europeans eating in the restaurant. They stared curiously as our eclectic group found a space near the entrance of the restaurant to offer our Magrib and Isha prayers, in combination. It is interesting how some people are amazed by overt signs of Islam in an overwhelmingly Muslim country.

We arrived in Bamako well after midnight. Mercifully, some of the events we had scheduled for the morning were cancelled allowing us to sleep a couple of extra hours after Fajr. The hotel we were in has a beautiful courtyard highlighted by a massive banana tree. We had a light breakfast before hitting the road again. Our first stop was the Islamic Relief office located less than a mile from the hotel. When we arrived, we received terrible news that would be the low point of our trip. The Islamic Relief Office had been robbed during our absence. Several of the key officers had traveled with us. Apparently, the thieves were under the impression that our delegation had brought an infusion of cash for the local operations. They had tied up one of the guards and then headed straight for the finance office. The thieves managed to abscond with some petty cash and a couple of computers. Unfortunately, such lowlife elements are to be found in every society. May Allah spare us their wickedness.

Our sadness upon hearing the news of the robbery was compounded by the news that we had missed the Mawlid, the celebration of the Prophet’s birth, peace upon him. The night prior to our arrival the mosques of Bamako had been alive with speeches and songs relating the virtue of our beloved Prophet, peace upon him, and the incumbency of us following him and adhering to his sunnah. We had also missed the Mawlid in Timbuktu, where the entire city shuts down in festive commemoration. I had promised to myself that my next visit to Mali would be during the time of the Mawlid.

Hence, it was with heavy hearts and dampened spirits we departed for our next destination, the village of Simidji where we inspected a couple of large diameter wells that Islamic Relief had dug. The large wells were a source of potable water for the village. However, some of the villagers mentioned that a deepwater well was needed for during the rainy season the water in the large diameter well would become very chalky and undrinkable. Our visit to this village was brief because our late start had placed us off schedule. Since we had to fly out later that night we could not afford to try to make up the time we had missed in any one location. Our next stop was the village of Dienfing. Our visit there would be the highlight of this particular day.

Islamic Relief has several projects in this village, about an hour outside of Bamako. We would visit a primary school, a well, widows and orphans, a maternity center, and a shea butter project. The village is surrounded by mango trees and distinguished by neatly arranged bundles of wood. That wood, used for building, cooking, and the production of charcoal, provides a source of steady income for the local people. However, it is a major contributor to the deforestation that is plaguing the wooded areas of Southern Mali.

At the school our spirits were lifted. This particular school had been funded in part by the British Embassy, along with Islamic Relief. It was a good investment as a large number of students were accommodated in a spacious, clean environment conducive to sound education. The students themselves were clean and well-dressed. They were “bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.” Their eagerness to learn was inspiring, as it shone on their faces.

From the school we went to visit some of the widows and orphans. Islamic Relief believes that orphans should be kept with their families. Hence, its orphan sponsorship programs involve the children staying with their mothers or other relatives. This is a more natural arrangement and it also allows other family members to benefit from the wraparound services that the sponsorship program provides. The widows were very happy with the sponsorship program as it not only helps to meet medical, food and clothing expenses for the members of the orphans family, it also provides funds to help the women rebuild their adobe homes when the mud walls are washed away during the rainy season. One of the sad parts of these visits would be revealed later when my wife related that one of the women had lost her husband from an infection that developed as a result of a cavity in one of his teeth. Such stories reminded us of how the simplest medical care can save so many lives in this part of the world.

We also visited the shea butter “factories.” In reality, these were home-based cottage industries that involved shelling, grinding and then processing the shea nuts that abound in this part of Mali. The edible nuts are a source of nutrition as well as income. Unfortunately, we learned that people involved in the production of shea butter were being paid virtually nothing. A large western company was buying up the product at an extremely low price. One of the projects being proposed by Islamic Relief workers in this area was unionizing the shea workers and setting up an actual factory to process the nuts and then marketing the butter at a fair price. This could actually be a profitable venture for some enterprising members of our community here in North America, given the tremendous popularity that shea butter is enjoying here in the West.

The last project we visited in this village was a beautiful maternity clinic similar to the one we had inaugurated the previous week in Diena. The only noticeable difference is that this clinic had been built, but it had not been equipped. Its new walls, fresh paint, and airy interior were calling out for all of the trapping that made the clinic in Diena such a major success. I inquired and learned that for eight thousand dollars the clinic could be fully stocked with medicine, and for an additional twelve thousand dollars it could be equipped with beds, a generator, a well and solar panels. Perhaps one of the readers of this article can come forward to undertake this tremendously valuable and highly appreciated work. One of the highlights of the visit to this clinic was having all of the students who had trailed us there from the school along with their teachers gathered around as I recited a poem I had written in 1976. I felt it was eerily fitting as we sat on the steps of the empty clinic. It is entitled, “Some People.”

Some People

Some people in our world today waste more food than they eat,
while others in the same old world don’t have enough to eat.

Some people who have most of all take pills that make them high,
while others can’t afford medicine and watch their children die.

Some people need big fancy cars an image they must keep,
while others lack both house and home and sleep at night in streets.

Some people are dissatisfied and strike for more cash money,
while others eat from garbage cans, they know not milk or honey.

Some people in our world today can dream and wonder why,
some people in our world today can only wait to die.

From Dienfing we went to the Islamic Relief field office in Ouelessebougou. The office is a neat building with a garden of mango and papaya trees in the front courtyard. We prayed there and then enjoyed a simple but nourishing meal of freshly slaughtered goat and thick, fresh bread. The goat had actually been given to us as a gift from the people of Zelabougou, when we visited there several days earlier. It was so fresh that steam was still rising from the pieces of meat as we hastily devoured it.

From the field office we returned to Bamako to visit one of the Islamic Relief projects in the city itself. The project we visited was a health clinic, named the Center of Hope. This center had formerly been located in one of the wealthier areas of the city, near the American embassy. However, it was difficult for the poor people in the more densely populated neighborhoods to reach, as it was not on a bus route and the taxi fare was exorbitant. It had recently been moved to a poor neighborhood where its services could be more accessible. One of the main focuses of the center is combating malaria. In addition to medicines, the center strives to educate people about sanitation practices that can help to cut down on the breeding of the mosquitoes that transmit the parasites that causes that debilitating affliction. The director of the center gave us a tour of the facilities and explained the focus on serving some of the poorest residents of the city.

We had one more stop before going to the airport for our flight back to Casablanca and then onward to the United States, Britain, and Canada. We had been invited to dinner by the Director of Islamic Relief in Mali. He is a Moroccan. Islamic Relief has a policy that the head of operations in any country cannot be a native of that country. This measure is designed to eliminate nepotism and favoritism in allocating projects, both of which could quickly undermine the efficacy and integrity of the organization in the eyes of the local people. This policy is one of the reasons that Islamic Relief has evolved into such an effective and reputable organization.

The dinner was a classical Moroccan feast, replete with the wide array of appetizers and soup (Harira) that characterize the Moroccan cuisine. The appetizers were followed by the ta’jine chicken and the couscous. The conversation was even more delicious than the meal. Among the quests were members of the Moroccan diplomatic corps in Mali. These were seasoned diplomats and highly educated individuals. They were cognizant of the challenges confronting developmental and relief work in Africa. They shared with us valuable insights that can only be gained through experience.

Perhaps the most interesting guest, as far as I was concerned, was a Moroccan named Khalid al-Hijazi. He had worked in Africa for many years for a Kuwait-based charity organization. He was currently working as head of a large orphanage in Bamako. He had formerly worked in Darfur, the south of Sudan, and Rwanda, among other places and possessed a firsthand insider’s perspective on those gut-wrenching conflicts. A charismatic and deeply principled individual, he freely shared gems of wisdom that one would be hard-pressed to find anywhere on earth. Like many of the members of our delegation he expressed his disappointment with the anemic support the wealthy Muslim states had afforded to their Muslim brothers and sisters in Africa. He has seen how far a little bit of money and goodwill can go in communities similar to those we had visited. This gathering was truly a fitting end to our journey.

From the director’s house we hastened to the Islamic Relief compound to gather our goods and head to the airport. Arriving at the compound, we found that the guards were still dismayed by the robbery and there was a somber air hovering over the place. However, we had no time to dwell on what had transpired as the night was getting old and our flight awaited us. Quickly loading our gear into the land cruisers we departed. Soon we were soaring, high above the savannas, jungles, deserts, deltas, hills, and rivers of West Africa. That still mysterious land has many stories to tell. Graciously, she had shared some of them with us.

Imam Zaid Shakir