Reflections for a Sunday: Magic Spells, Djinn & Islam
“My story is of such marvel that if it were written with a needle on the corner of an eye, it would yet serve as a lesson to those who seek wisdom.” ~ The Arabian Nights
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You can listen to me read this essay here:
I decided to do something a bit different for this Sunday’s reflections. I have so many wonderful stories from my childhood travels with my family. This is one of my favorites, about visiting Fes at the age of 10. It relates to my series, The Egypt Files, about my recent experiences living in Luxor, Egypt. Much of my motivation for deciding to live in Luxor was based on my childhood memories.
I wanted so badly to understand that part of the world, and to understand Islam. I had no idea of the dangers I would face because of my desire for that knowledge. The truth is always much more complex than the propaganda we are fed by the media. In these stories, I am doing my best to share it.
I give thanks to my mom, Ruth Hunt, for the wonderful journals she kept of our travels in 1966-1967. Without them and the many conversations we had over the years, I could not be so accurate in my writing. Of course, I take some poetic license with the dialogue—I couldn’t possibly remember it all perfectly.
MAGIC SPELLS, DJINN & ISLAM
The gateway to the Medina is blue and green, the colors of Fez and Islam, patterned in tiles. In its shadow sat a man on a dirty mat, blind, with a horribly scarred face and without legs. He was, I supposed, an important beggar, to command such a place of prominence. I wondered what his story was but like so many of the tragedies surrounding me, I would never know. As we passed, he raised his cup beseechingly and Jon threw in a few coins. The old man's mouth opened like the gates of a cemetery, revealing broken tombstone teeth, and he called out the blessings of Allah upon our heads.
Our guide, a boy who couldn't have been much older than me, clucked in the usual disapproving manner, hurrying us on our way.
Once we passed through the gate and into the Medina, the blind man was forgotten in the sudden chaos of Talaa Kebira, the main thoroughfare of this 1,200-year-old city. Bumped, pushed, jostled, we found ourselves carried along in a roiling sea of djellaba-robed masses, mule carts, vendors and street urchins.
“You see how it is!” cried our guide triumphantly.
When he had approached us earlier, separating himself from a large group of boys, all vying to be our guide, he had assured us that without his help we would get lost, perhaps even robbed, or.... he left the rest unsaid, rolling expressive eyes for effect.
The boy hadn't exaggerated about the need for a guide. Without one, surely, we would have gotten lost. It was impossible to know which way to turn in such a confusing maze.
“Stay close,” Dad ordered.
The first thing I noticed, even more than the sites and the sounds, was the smell. If I close my eyes, I am back there once again.
Coriander, cumin, cinnamon, freshly baked bread, sweat, raw meat, urine, cigarette smoke and who knew what else, all converged in the tiny lanes teaming with bodies, the smells stewing endlessly in an overstuffed pot. 300,000 Muslims, or thereabouts, lived in this walled medieval city and it seemed they were all out shopping that day along the 9,000 plus streets. The Old Quarter was lined with shops, some mere cubicles barely big enough for the vendor to squat on a small mat, squashed between his wares, and smoking from the inevitable hookah. Bartering, gossiping, heads poking out from shadowy corners and arched doorways, everyone watched as we passed and tried to gain our attention. As usual, we stood out, especially since there weren't any other tourists in sight, only the occasional group of two or three unwashed hippies, who almost blended in with their earth-colored clothes and sandals, their long scraggly hair often held back in scarves.
Truly, we felt as if we had stepped back in time.
Our parents had given each of us a bit of money and Janna and I knew exactly what we wanted to buy. Magical lamps, like we'd read about in Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. We were determined to find the lamp that held a genie imprisoned inside.
There were plenty to choose from, a dazzling display of bright shiny oil lamps packed onto the shelves of some of the larger shops.
“Tourist traps,” said Janna disdainfully.
At last, her eyes fixed on a small lamp, old and dented, lying forlornly on its side in the midst of a sorry bunch of scattered trinkets. The vendor, a frail old man who scarcely seemed able to hold himself up on spindly legs, was so poor he had nothing but a mat on which to display his wares, set up in a spot where the walkway widened a bit. People stumbled over his trinkets, complaining loudly, and he was continually hobbling this way and that, retrieving his treasures and doing his best to yell insults back, his shaky voice no competition for the surrounding cacophony.
“That's the one!” Janna reached out to pick up the lamp.
The vendor looked hopeful and then ecstatically happy when Janna told him she wanted it. She was an angel sent from heaven, he declared. Janna didn't barter, just gave the man all the coins that she had.
As Janna was paying, I wandered to the entrance of the next alcove, where I saw a glass bottle on a shelf. It was about six inches high, the color of emeralds, thin and delicate with a swanlike neck. A cork stopper sealed the narrow opening.
So the genie can't get out! I thought excitedly.
A fine layer of dust covered the bottle, as if it had been waiting there, forgotten, for many years. Waiting for me! It had a history, that bottle. Perhaps a pirate had owned it once, and then a princess, or maybe a gypsy. Maybe the genie had been trapped inside for a thousand years, waiting for this moment when I would come and make it my slave!
I pointed the bottle out to Janna, and she gave it a critical glare. “You realize, if he's in there he'll be really mad. If you let him out, you won't be able to control him. He'll trick you into setting him free.”
I began to object but she interrupted me. “I can tell you right now, you'll do something stupid. I'll have to help you. If he's in there, you have to agree that we both own him.”
“No!” I cried. “The genie belongs to me. You made your choice, now I'm making mine.”
When the vendor saw me take the bottle off the shelf he immediately began haggling in French. I showed him all my dirham and he shook his head adamantly. When I began to walk away, he relented, complaining in a needling voice that I was a thief and he and his poor children and wife would starve because of my greedy insistence. But once the money was paid and I had the bottle, he was all smiles.
Without thinking, I started rubbing the dust off, anxious to see what it looked like in the sunlight.
Janna whacked me on the back of the head. “Stop!”
“Ow!” I cried, startled.
“Are you an idiot?” she hissed. “You want the genie to get out—here?” She gestured around the busy bazaar.
I couldn't believe my thoughtlessness.
“That's exactly what I was talking about! You just don't think! That bottle...there's something mysterious about it. You have to take care of it—keep it safe until we get back to the hotel!”
Shuddering at the thought of the disaster my sister had just diverted, I carefully placed the bottle inside my bag and we hurried to catch up with the others, who were inspecting a bigger shop a few feet ahead of us. We continued to walk through the tight, confusing lanes and I began to feel claustrophobic, wishing we could escape into the open.
Just when I was sure I would faint from the stifling air, our guide led us into a carpet shop, situated in a spacious old palace of seventy rooms. Our guide advised us to remove our shoes and we stepped with bare feet onto a sea of carpets, surrounded by mountains more piled high against the walls. From between narrow, delicate pillars, a sumptuous forest of carpets hung on hooks, rising all the way to the top of the room, where light filtered down in dusty rays.
Walking on this sea, surrounded by mountains and forests of infinite colors and intricate patterns, my claustrophobia disappeared, replaced with dizzy delight. The owner of the shop was a rotund little fellow who rolled across the room towards us, back and forth like a ball, extending both arms in greeting, beaming effusively and inviting us to sit on gigantic cushions in a sunken area at the center of the palace hall.
We had long since given up on trying to outsmart our guides and not be cheated by vendors. Once a guide was picked, we allowed him to lead us where he wanted, knowing we would usually end up in some store where the guide had an “understanding” with the merchant. In Fez, that meant a carpet shop. And this carpet shop must have been one of the best in Fez. We were impressed with the boy's connections and proud of ourselves for having chosen our guide so well—although, really, he had chosen us, which was usually how it worked.
We were brought warm mint tea, the tall glasses filled with fresh mint leaves. I was so hot and thirsty, so tired of walking through endless narrow, foul-smelling streets, that when I saw the glasses coming towards me, carried on a gold and silver inlaid tray by a man who was actually wearing a bright red Fez, I could hardly contain my eagerness to drink the contents.
The aroma was enticing, the leaves in the glass such a glorious color of green. Never having tasted mint tea, I took a first tentative sip. A delightful, tingly sensation flooded my body at the sweet, invigorating taste, and I downed the rest.
Carpet after carpet was brought out for Mom to view. While Dad bartered with the merchant for the price, I wandered off to explore. Jon was already climbing a rug mountain in one corner and jumping off, having a marvelous time. I climbed onto another of the mountains and lay down. When I opened my eyes again, I found myself staring up at the ornate ceiling, a golden light streaming down upon me. For a moment, I couldn't imagine where I was. I had fallen asleep in a palace, lying on a towering bed of carpets, like the princess and the pea. I sat up in a panic, wondering how long I had been asleep, but my family was still there, and I jumped off the carpets to join them.
Back at our hotel, we said good-bye to our guide, and he was quickly swallowed by the crowds, on to his next conquest. Janna and I barely had time to hide our treasures under our pillows before we were off again. Complaining that we were tired of walking, our parents found a cafe where we could sit outside and participate in the international pastime of people-watching. We felt much more comfortable sitting outside than in, since women were not allowed inside the cafes that were thick with the smoke of hookah pipes and cigarettes.
My parents struck up a conversation with a university professor who spoke excellent English, a slim, princely gentleman with long, expressive hands and wearing a dark suit, sandals and a knitted cap on his head. I thought it very bad fashion for a man to wear sandals with a suit. The knitted cap looked funny, too. But many of the men, even the ones who were well-to-do, wore sandals and caps.
“Ah, Fez!” he said, as if revealing a secret mantra. “To understand it, you must understand the mystery of the number five. And the construction of an onion.”
We were immediately intrigued. How could a city be explained by a number and an onion?
The professor took a puff from his hookah, then expansively offered it to Dad, saying, “Please?”
Dad declined—the very thought of my dad smoking such a thing was absurd. We were conservative evangelical Christians, after all, and my parents didn’t smoke or drink. The professor shrugged, took another puff and blew a smoke ring. I watched in fascination as it wobbled away, while he continued his explanation.
“You see, Fez is like an onion with five layers of peeling. At the center are the Mosques, the places of worship, of knowledge, and of enlightenment. Then you have the working places called souks. Then are the homes of the people. Then the walls that hold it all in. If the walls were not there the city would explode from so much life! Outside the walls are the gardens and cemeteries. The cemeteries we go to when life is over, and we go to the gardens to contemplate life and death. You understand? You sit in the garden, an outside place, and look inward or else up to the sky. It is a beautiful construction, don't you think?”
We agreed that it was. He observed us thoughtfully for a moment, as if contemplating whether we were enlightened enough to understand what he was about to say next. Then, he continued.
“You may ask, why five layers? Five is the sacred number. Five calls to prayer each day. As there are five pillars of Islam. Every neighborhood has a mosque, a school, a fountain, a bread oven and a hammam—the bath. Five! And there are five types of design. Marble, mosaics, cedar wood, plaster and calligraphic art. These you see on religious buildings.”
He leaned back again and took another puff. “So, we see the push and pull of life, shall we say. The baths are like heaven in the pleasure they give us, but also hell in the heat and burning of the fires. Where, we may ask, is the pleasure? Where is the pain? Both have a place, is it not so?”
As always, my dad took the opportunity to share his Christian faith and they had an animated discussion. I half listened, while watching the never-ending stream of interesting characters passing me by. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows, darkening the streets and engulfing the city in an aura of mystery, the hooded men and veiled women gliding like ghosts, their eyes large and black, darting looks at us and then away again.
At that moment, the Muezzin commenced his high, mournful call to prayer, the sound floating from the center of the city outwards in an undulating wave. The noise of the streets lessened but didn't stop entirely. It was amazing to see how many people stopped and pulled out mats as if from thin air, bowing down and praying toward Mecca as the Muezzin sang.
When the prayer ended, we walked with the professor through the streets to our car, past stone walls, closed gates and doors covered with strange writings and symbols. In our travels, I had passed by so many walls and doors, beyond which I could see nothing. I knew no one here. The people on the streets looked like ghosts to me, in their flowing robes, yet I knew that we were the ghosts, just passing through, not resting our feet firmly on the ground, not living and breathing and knowing any of the places we visited, only dreaming of what it must be.
From behind one of those high walls, we heard the sound of singing, although to us, it sounded more like wailing.
“Where we walk is sacred ground,” said the professor. “Here, they have many zaouias, where the Sufi brethren worship and sing. They are the most ancient and mystical of Islam's followers and move towards truth by love and devotion. Through song, they reach a high spiritual plane. This is how they show their devotion to God.”
The professor paused, listening for a moment, a rapturous expression on his face. “This is a very famous singer; you are lucky to hear it! When the Sufi sings, he is a drunken lover, giving all his devotion to the Beloved. It is beautiful, don't you think?”
I closed my eyes and for a moment, I almost heard beyond the strangeness of the sound to the joyful heart, as if the singer had fallen from the spirit world, filling the streets with wizardry. My parents politely said it sounded very nice. Jon tried desperately not to laugh. Janna and Davy wore strained expressions, and I supposed mine was the same. We didn't understand this music.
We got into our car along with the professor as he suggested we drive outside of the city to catch the last rays of sunset on the rooftops and the Atlas Mountains beyond.
We found a place to park and got out of the car. Across the hillsides, sparks of brightness began to appear. In wonder, we realized they were bonfires, surrounding the city like a jeweled necklace. Hundreds of shadowy figures were moving up the hills towards the fires.
“What’s happening?” we asked.
“Storytellers build the fires at sunset. People climb the hills after work and gather around the fires to listen to their favorite storyteller. They are like rock stars. We have a great love for stories.”
The sight was enchanting. Back home, there were hills behind our house. I imagined people climbing the hills to listen to storytellers, instead of watching television. I almost laughed at the thought. If I tried to explain to my friends that a story told on a hillside, lit by bonfires, was better than television, they'd probably think I'd lost my mind. And why wouldn't they? They weren't here at this moment, having this experience that only happened exactly like this, in this one place, at this one moment, unlike anywhere else in the world. They couldn't feel the ancient magic calling to them.
As I gazed across the hills at the fires, I thought of all the marvelous stories that were being told, the words rising to the starry heavens with the snapping flames, and it seemed such moments, happening all across the world in different countries and in different ways, were an important part of what balanced the good against the bad. These stories were like a million prayers, floating upwards and descending again upon the earth in blessings. We needed good like that in a world with so much suffering and hatred.
We drove back into the city, saying good-bye to the professor near the cafe where we had first met him.
Before leaving us, he gave a playful warning. “Walking the streets at night, beware the hidden world of spirits and Djinns.”
“Djinns, is that like genies?” Jon asked, wide-eyed and eager.
The professor looked down at him, his own eyes shining strangely in the moonlight. “Powerful, magical creatures created through smoke and fire. They take mortals as servants, as lovers, even as food. It is said that King Solomon bound 70 Djinn for his service, by using a ring as a Talisman.”
I could sense my parents’ disapproval, but Dad didn’t argue the point.
For me on the other hand, I couldn’t help but feel excited. I glanced at Janna and saw she felt the same. Wow, we had been right! Djinns! Talismans!
Before I could think about the consequences, I blurted out, “My sister and I bought a lamp and a bottle. Are they Talismans? We thought maybe one of them might have a genie inside. Is that what you're talking about? Do they really exist?”
I held my breath, waiting to hear what the professor would say. Here was an educated man, talking about storybook stuff as if it was real!
“Of course they exist,” he answered gravely. “But you must be very careful. Do not play with these powers. Bad things can happen to those who are not experienced in such things.”
Dad looked from me to Janna, in displeasure. “Where are these, Talismans?”
“At the hotel,” I said, realizing my dreadful mistake.
I could feel Janna's anger smoldering. We'd been so close to something incredible happening—to possessing a Djinn! And I'd ruined everything. The professor knew about these things, he did! But I would never have the chance to speak more with him.
I knew I was in trouble. We were a Christian family. My dad and the professor did not agree on many things. But on this they did. It was dangerous to dabble in magic in dark places.
We said good-bye to the professor, and he bowed politely and walked away. I turned back for one last glimpse, but he had vanished.
I never got to rub the bottle to see if a genie would appear, nor did Janna get to rub her lamp. My parents took away our Talismans and disposed of them. And we had to endure a lecture on the evils of sorcery and how we shouldn't try to call up demons. I didn’t understand such things at the time. In the West, we don’t really. I only learned more about it when I lived in Luxor, Egypt a few years ago. I think now, more and more people are coming to realize that evil is real, and we are in a battle against it.
We left Morocco, sailing across the sea once again, through Spain, back towards our castle home in the Swiss village near Lausanne. The farther north we went, the colder and drearier it became. We traveled on terrible country roads and through cities that looked gray compared to the bright wonder of Fez.
At 2 am, March 30, we drove through the castle gates. In our absence, snowstorms and avalanches had imprisoned the village in an icy pall of winter. Like the White Witch had done to Narnia, I thought, wondering if a spell had been cast and the winter would never end.
I thought back with longing to the sun-drenched orchards, the splashing fountains and lush gardens, the taste of mint tea on a hot dusty day. How quickly the world could change. In the twinkling of an eye, the Bible said! And so, it was true.
On cold nights sitting by the fire in the castle living room, I thought of the fires on the hillsides surrounding Fez and of stories rising to the star-filled sky. I thought of the strange, wailing Sufi music and of mysterious hooded figures gliding through the shadows, of heavy smoke-rings wobbling past me and of the professor's dark, knowing eyes.
Had King Solomon really bound 70 Djinn to his service, using a ring as a Talisman? Had there really been a Djinn inside my bottle waiting for me to claim it?
There are reasons why such stories are told. They are not just made-up nonsense. We in our modern world think we are so much cleverer than those who came before us. We now believe in “facts” and “science”. But the more we deny the wisdom of our forefathers, the more we become confused and cannot tell the difference between truth and falsehood.
Many might not understand the connection between dark magic of ancient cultures and the sorcery of artificial intelligence, the quest for immortality and transhumanism. Spells are being cast and because people do not believe in such things any longer, they are falling for it.
I know many people will not accept what I’m saying, but it is better to have your eyes wide open than to fall into a trance.
‘Therefore, this is what the Sovereign LORD says: I am against your magic charms with which you ensnare people like birds, and I will tear them from your arms; I will set free the people that you ensnare like birds.” ~ Ezekiel 13:20
I’m glad I lived in Luxor as an adult and learned about Islam. It’s because of my experiences that I am able to write with authority about what it’s like to live under Sharia Law. There is much beauty in the stories, like the five layers of the onion. But stories are very different from day-to-day life. Much as I loved Luxor for so many magical reasons, when I found out the truth beneath the facade, I could no longer endure it.
If we lose our connection to reality—if we refuse to even see when it is right in front of us—then we become pawns in the hands of sorcerers, imprisoned by their spells, and we no longer understand anything.
Thank you for reading and for listening. God Bless!
“For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.” Ephesians 6:12
Wonderful story, wonderful family. Thank you.