She’s The Most Famous Sufi Woman In The World: Meet Rabia al-Adawiyya

According to the Sufi poet Fariduddin Attar, Rabia came from a poor family of four from Basra, Iraq. When her father died, she was auctioned as a slave for a few dirhams. Despite all, this she said:

O God, I am a stranger, without father or mother; I have been sold in bondage, and now my wrist is broken. But despite all this, I am not distressed about anything that has befallen me. I only wish you to be content, so that I might know if I have gained your satisfaction or not.

She remained completely devoted to God through prayer and complete remembrance through the difficult time of enslavement and poverty. It is said that when her master saw light around her during prayer, he could not confine her to slavery and set her free. Rabi’a withdrew herself from her previous life to go to the desert and become devoted to works of piety. Her complete affection for her religion and meditation, piety and patience is what she is remembered for today through sayings such as:

Oh God! If I worship You for fear of Hell, burn me in Hell, and if I worship You in hope of Paradise, exclude me from Paradise. But if I worship You for Your Own Sake, grudge me not Your everlasting Beauty.

Through her way of life, traditional gender roles and the status of wealth in society were being questioned. Her life as an independent, influential and intellectual woman showed that wealth and status are not acquired through financial resources, but rather through richness in spiritual value and control of the ego. One needs not to be a man or rich to therefore have a higher status in the eyes of God. Rabi’a led a life in which she had completely detached herself from all other desires but the love for God. She showed in this way that having this personal bond was something that both men and women are capable of striving for and that any man and woman can live this free path of life. It was her high-spiritedness with which she put man around her in her place, among which by rejecting many marriage proposals she received:

God can give me all you offer and even double it. It does not please me to be distracted from Him for a single moment. So farewell.

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Rabi’a al-Basri

 "I want to set fire to heaven with this flame and put out the fire of hell with this water so that people will cease to worship GOD for fear of hell or for temptation of heaven. One must love GOD as GOD is Love."

Rabi’a Al-Basri, the first female Sufi saint and poet in Islam, set forth the doctrine of “Divine Love.”  She was born in the early 8th century in the port city of Basra, present day Iraq, to a very poor but well respected family. She was named Rabi’a for her position as the fourth child in the family. Even though Rabi’a did not leave written evidence of her poetry, we are able to catch a glimpse of her poetry primarily through the works of Farid Al-din Attar, a Sufi saint and poet who compiled her poetry into writing, and Margaret Smith who wrote, “Rabi’a the Mystic” in 1928.

Rabi’a’s father, a Sufi and an ascetic himself, believed that the Prophet came to him in his dreams the night Rabi’a was born. The Prophet told Rabi’a’s father that his daughter was going to be a saint. The Prophet advised Rabi’a’s father to send a letter to the Amir, reminding him of his prayers and requesting a certain amount of money. The Amir responded positively, giving Rabia’s family a large sum of money and thanking him for the letter.

However, Rabi’a’s good fortune did not last long, as her parents died early in her life. Orphaned, she was sold into slavery. There are several accounts of the next stage of her life. It is believed that at one point in her time as a slave, she spoke to God after slipping and dislocating her wrists. She then committed herself to Him, fasting during the day and carrying out her tasks. Many believe that in the middle of the night, her owner witnessed her bowing in worship while a lamp hung above her head without support. This image, symbolizing that of a Muslim saint, was enough for him to free her from slavery. It is said that she then spent several years worshipping in the desert, and performed a pilgrimage to Mecca. She chose a life of celibacy, rejecting many marriage proposals. She also lived a life of asceticism, rejecting materialism and accepting a life of poverty. She was known for performing many miracles.

She is known for being the first woman Sufi saint who devoted herself entirely to God.  She made the greatest contribution of any woman towards the development of Sufism.

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"No religion is higher than humanity" - Abdul Sattar Edhi

Symbols of tolerance in India's Ajmer

It was sometime in the 1560s, a band of wandering minstrels was exhorting Moinuddin Chishti to be their guiding star, when the great Moghul emperor Akbar heard the strains of the melodious music … he knew he had to go to Ajmer.
From then on, every year, for years to come, Akbar wound his way to Ajmer in Rajasthan to pray at the shrine of the Sufi saint and distribute alms among the poor. Whether it was to celebrate a battle or pray for a son, the emperor looked to Moinuddin Chishti. Sometimes he would undertake the journey of 300km from Agra, other times from Fatehpur.

Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan's father did not want him to follow in his footsteps and become a qawwal (devotional singer). Instead, he saw visions of his son being a doctor. But Nusrat had other dreams — they painted another picture. The child did not understand why a white shrine appeared before him as he shut his eyes at night. His relative explained why, and Nusrat knew instantly his calling had come. In 1979, the mighty qawwal Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan from Pakistan realised his dream: he sang at the dargah (shrine) of Moinuddin Chishti.

In early 2011, Bollywood's emperor-in-waiting Shah Rukh Khan travelled to Ajmer. He asked nothing for himself because God had given him enough, but prayed for family and friends. A few weeks later, the emperor, Amitabh Bachchan, journeyed to Ajmer after a 40-year-old wish was fulfilled.

So what pulls one of history's greatest conquerors, one of qawwali's (genre of devotional music) finest exponents and two of Bollywood's biggest giants to Ajmer? What possibly could Akbar, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, Shah Rukh Khan and Amitabh Bachchan have in common? One craved for land, wealth and power, the other longed to be lost in the love of the Almighty through his song and the other two seek to enthrall millions around the world. But then again, what brings the billions of Muslims, Hindus and Christians of India each year to Ajmer?

Moinuddin Chishti was born in 1138-39 in Sistan in Persia. His parents died when he was 15 or 16. The boy inherited an orchard and a millstone to eke out a living, but he was drawn towards spirituality after meeting a dervish Ebrahim Qandoozi. The young Chishti set out to find a guide and was led to Osman Harouni, a scholar of great repute. He stayed with his teacher for many long years, mastering religious studies. And when the time was right, Harouni and Chishti left for Haj and then proceeded to Madinah. It was there that a longing was born to settle in Ajmer.

Rajasthan or Rajputana, as it was then known, was a treasure. Kings and conquerors desired Rajputana. But Chishti wanted nothing of kings and conquerors: he wanted to serve the poor, the hungry, the wretched, the unwanted, the widow, the orphan.
He settled on a hill close to Ana Sagar Lake. Chishti was about 50 then; Rajputana was ruled by the formidable Prithviraj Chauhan; the people of the barren land were suspicious of a fakir, who they did not know was a scholar, a philosopher, a man who had paid obeisance to the greatness of another Sufi, Abdul Qader Jeelani of Iraq. The plot had only begun to unfold.

History is full of stories of how Prithviraj Chauhan grew suspicious of this fakir, and even asked one of his councillors Ajai Pal, supposedly the master of magic, to neutralise him. The fakir won over both king and councillor — not through magic or violence but through his undeterred belief in peace. The path of non-violence and love was the essence of his thought. He was steadfast in his conviction that bringing happiness to the heart was the supreme prayer. No one would go hungry from his doorstep as food was prepared all day. Chishti himself fasted regularly and ate sparingly. And because of his complete devotion to the poor and hungry, he is called Garib Nawaz or ‘helper of the poor'.

Chishti's philosophy is simple: you must be as generous as the river, as warm as the sun and as hospitable as the earth. He set up the Chishti order in India, said to be founded by Abu Ishaq Shami of Syria who introduced Sufism to the town of Chisht, a little distance away from Herat in present Afghanistan
The Indian subcontinent in the 12th century was a cauldron of political tumult. The raids by Mahmud of Ghori, the resistance of the Rajputs and battle for Delhi — the land was turbulent. But Moinuddin Chishti spurned politics, had little time for king and courtier. His sole mission was to soothe human pain. The soul was to be fed through prayer, tolerance and love. Devotional music was an avenue to realise the Almighty. If there was no humanity, no compassion, no understanding, no consideration, there was no life.

Streams of people came to him every day, some looking for spiritual healing, some for emotional sustenance, and some were just plain hungry. Chishti sheltered them all: he healed wounds and fed empty stomachs. For about 40 years, he devoted himself to the people of Ajmer and surrounding areas, and as he grew old, the question was who would fill the void that would be left behind by this larger than life man. Delhi was to be the next stage. Another great Sufi and his favourite disciple — a courtier humoured by his kings, a man of words, a poet with a love of music — were to change the course of history.

Chishti passed away in 1230 and was buried in his prayer room. For centuries later kings, courtiers, leaders, people from all faiths have flocked to Chishti's grave in Ajmer. Two massive cauldrons were presented to his shrine — one by emperor Akbar and the other by his son and successor Jahangir. One of the cauldrons can cook 4,800kg of food, while the other 2,400kg. All the food (langar) is distributed among the poor. In 1911, the British government built a roof over the water tank to commemorate Queen Mary's visit to the shrine.

Qutbuddin Bakhtiyar Kaki of Delhi carried on the work of Chishti and he handed the baton over to Baba Farid or Ganjshakr of Pakpattan in Pakistan. Baba Farid believed in the same principles inculcated by Chishti, but as he spread tolerance, love and compassion among his people, he waited for someone to come.
Nizamuddin's affluent family was based in Bukhara, but they had to flee the land because of the constant Mongol raids that grew in ferocity and ruthlessness. They moved to Badaun in central India. Nizamuddin, born in 1238, lost his father when he was a boy and was brought up by his mother, Bibi Zulaikha, a deeply religious woman, who instilled piety in the child. They were impoverished — for days there would be nothing to eat. When Nizamuddin would return from school hungry, he would ask his mother what there was to eat. And she would reply: "Today, we are the guests of God." Nizamuddin knew then there was not a morsel at home.

And just as emperor Akbar had heard of Chishti after a band of minstrels was exhorting him, Nizamuddin heard of Baba Farid through one such singer. He knew he had to go to his master. And when the time was right, he travelled to Ajodhan to see Baba Farid. He stayed with him for months, imbibing the principles of tolerance, love of all human beings across all faiths and compassion. Nizamuddin healed the human heart. His principle was simple: if an enemy places thorns before you and you place thorns in his path, there will be thorns all around. There could be no room for hate.

Nizamuddin finally settled in Ghiyaspur in Delhi on the banks of the Jamuna River. Like Chishti, he led an austere life and propagated the purity of thought. The root of the word Sufi is traced to Safa — Arabic for purity. Some believe it means wisdom, while others say Suf was the woollen cloak worn by ascetics.
Food flowed aplenty as people gave generously. The kitchen of his home was busy through the day, feeding the poor and hungry. He, like Chishti fasted all day and ate very little. Food would not go down Nizamuddin's throat if someone had gone to sleep hungry. His days were spent in prayer and healing the hurt.
He abhorred the politics of Delhi and had little time for kings and emperors. Though several expressed their desire to see him, Nizamuddin would not entertain them. He wanted nothing of king and courtier, save for one: Amir Khusro.

Nizamuddin, like Chishti, Kaki and Baba Farid, believed in Sama, a Sufi practice of listening to music, as a form of prayer. The birth of Sama is credited to another great Sufi Rumi, who also lived in the 13th century. But Khusro was to give Nizamuddin something special — the qawwali. Derived from the Arabic word Qual meaning utterance of the Prophet, Khusro wrote Qawwali in Persian and Hindavi, languages spoken in India in the 13th century. Khusro spoke of divine love — where the lover longed for union with her maker. He once wrote of Chishti: My courtyard is blessed as my love has come home. If two lovers spend the monsoon together, the night is blessed for the bride. The monsoon in which my love doesn't come home, let that monsoon be set on fire.

Nizamuddin was indulgent towards Khusro, who made him his master at the age of eight. Of Turkish descent, Khusro served his political masters, but his heart was with Nizamuddin. Khusro was away in Bengal on a campaign when Nizamuddin passed away. On hearing the news, he rushed back to Delhi and went to his master's grave. Stricken by grief, he said: The fair maiden lies on a bed of roses; Her face covered with a lock of hair; Let us O' Khusro, return home, the dark dusk blankets the four corners of the world.

Such was the love between master and disciple that Khusro passed away of grief within six months of Nizamuddin's death in 1325. They are buried a few metres apart in a shrine in Delhi in an area named Nizamuddin, what was once called Ghiyaspur.
The picture was now complete. Nizamuddin and Khusro were testament to what Chishti professed — the complete love between human beings, no matter what difference there might be. Nizamuddin was an impoverished fakir, who spent day and night in prayer, in healing hearts, in shunning what kings and courtiers pined for — power. Khusro was a courtier who served king after king, and yet there was a primordial bond. There was a meeting point: the love of the Almighty and the love of humanity.
Both Chishti's and Nizamuddin's death anniversaries are celebrated as Urs [an Arabic word meaning wedding celebration] as there is no grief at death because the disciple is finally reunited with his maker. The lover's longing for the Almighty sees fruition. And that is ultimate joy, the Sufi's dream.

So why do the millions of Indians — Muslims, Hindus, Christians and Sikhs flock to Ajmer? Why do they stream into Nizamuddin's dargah? Why do the rich and the famous, leaders and politicians, make it a point to visit Chishti's grave? Do these shrines soothe troubled souls? Do these shrines fulfill dreams? Do these shrines answer prayers? Perhaps, they do. But what is certain is that the shrines are homes to humanity. The convictions and beliefs of two men born centuries ago are alive and provide refuge to the poor, the hungry, the wretched, the widow and the orphan. Eight centuries on, no one goes hungry from their doorsteps.
The lamps in the shrines will always glow because they are symbols of unity, of religious tolerance. They are symbols of kindness and compassion. They are testimony to hope.
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The day I met Abdul Sattar Edhi, a living saint

Alhamdulilah this man is a living saint and a true example of one that serves and pleases only Allah.






In the course of my duties as a reporter, I have met presidents, prime ministers and reigning monarchs.
Until meeting the Pakistani social worker Abdul Sattar Edhi, I had never met a saint. Within a few moments of shaking hands, I knew I was in the presence of moral and spiritual greatness.

Mr Edhi's life story is awesome, as I learnt when I spent two weeks working at one of his ambulance centres in Karachi.
The 82-year-old lives in the austerity that has been his hallmark all his life. He wears blue overalls and sports a Jinnah cap, so named because it was the head gear of Muhammad Ali Jinnah, the founder of Pakistan.

No Pakistani since Jinnah has commanded the same reverence, and our conversations were constantly interrupted as people came to pay their respects.
Mr Edhi told me that, 60 years ago, he stood on a street corner in Karachi and begged for money for an ambulance, raising enough to buy a battered old van. In it, he set out on countless life-saving missions.

Gradually, Mr Edhi set up centres all over Pakistan. He diversified into orphanages, homes for the mentally ill, drug rehabilitation centres and hostels for abandoned women. He fed the poor and buried the dead. His compassion was boundless.
He was born in 1928, when the British Empire was at its height, in Gujarat in what is now western India. But he and his family were forced to flee for their lives in 1947 when the division of India and creation of Pakistan inspired terrible communal tensions: millions were killed in mob violence and ethnic cleansing.
This was the moment Mr Edhi, finding himself penniless on the streets of Karachi, set out on his life's mission.

Just 20 years old, he volunteered to join a charity run by the Memons, the Islamic religious community to which his family belonged.
At first, Mr Edhi welcomed his duties; then he was appalled to discover that the charity's compassion was confined to Memons.

He confronted his employers, telling them that "humanitarian work loses its significance when you discriminate between the needy".
So he set up a small medical centre of his own, sleeping on the cement bench outside his shop so that even those who came late at night could be served.
But he also had to face the enmity of the Memons, and became convinced they were capable of having him killed. For safety, and in search of knowledge, he set out on an overland journey to Europe, begging all the way.
One morning, he awoke on a bench at Rome railway station to discover his shoes had been stolen. He was not bothered, considering them inessential.

Nevertheless, the next day an elderly lady gave him a pair of gumboots, two sizes too large, and Mr Edhi wobbled about in them for the remainder of his journey.
In London, he was a great admirer of the British welfare state, though he presciently noted its potential to encourage a culture of dependency. He was offered a job but refused, telling his benefactor: "I have to do something for the people in Pakistan."

On return from Europe, his destiny was set. There was no welfare state in Fifties Pakistan: he would fill the gap. This was a difficult period in his life. Shabby, bearded and with no obvious prospects, seven women in rapid succession turned down his offers of marriage. He resigned himself to chastity and threw all of his energy into work.

He would hurtle round the province of Sindh in his poor man's ambulance, collecting dead bodies, taking them to the police station, waiting for the death certificate and, if the bodies were not claimed, burying them himself.
Mr Edhi's autobiography, published in 1996, records that he recovered these stinking cadavers "from rivers, from inside wells, from road sides, accident sites and hospitals… When families forsook them, and authorities threw them away, I picked them up… Then I bathed and cared for each and every victim of circumstance."
There is a photograph of Mr Edhi from this formative time. It could be the face of a young revolutionary or poet: dark beard, piercing, passionate eyes. And it is indeed the case that parts of his profound and moving autobiography carry the same weight and integrity as great poetry or even scripture.

Mr Edhi discovered that many Pakistani women were killing their babies at birth, often because they were born outside marriage.
One newborn child was stoned to death outside a mosque on the orders of religious leaders. A furious Mr Edhi responded: "Who can declare an infant guilty when there is no concept of punishing the innocent?"
So Mr Edhi placed a little cradle outside every Edhi centre, beneath a placard imploring: "Do not commit another sin: leave your baby in our care." Mr Edhi has so far saved 35,000 babies and, in approximately half of these cases, found families to cherish them.

Once again, this practice brought him into conflict with religious leaders. They claimed that adopted children could not inherit their parents' wealth. Mr Edhi told them their objections contradicted the supreme idea of religion, declaring: "Beware of those who attribute petty instructions to God."
Over time, Mr Edhi came to exercise such a vast moral authority that Pakistan's corrupt politicians had to pay court. In 1982, General Zia announced the establishment of a shura (advisory council) to determine matters of state according to Islamic principles.

Mr Edhi was suspicious: "I represented the millions of downtrodden, and was aware that my presence gave the required credibility to an illegal rule."
Travelling to Rawalpindi to speak at the national assembly, he delivered a passionate denunciation of political corruption, telling an audience of MPs, including Zia himself: "The people have been neglected long enough.
"One day they shall rise like mad men and pull down these walls that keep their future captive. Mark my words and heed them before you find yourselves the prey instead of the predator."

Mr Edhi did not distinguish between politicians and criminals, asking: "Why should I condemn a declared dacoit [bandit] and not condemn the respectable villain who enjoys his spoils as if he achieved them by some noble means?"
This impartiality had its advantages. It meant that a truce would be declared when Mr Edhi and his ambulance arrived at the scene of gun battles between police and gangsters.

"They would cease fire," notes Mr Edhi in his autobiography, "until bodies were carried to the ambulance, the engine would start and shooting would resume."
Mr Edhi eventually found a wife, Bilquis, but his personal austerity was all but incompatible with married life. When the family went on Hajj, a vast overland journey in the ambulance, he forbade Bilquis to bring extra clothes, because he was determined to fill the vehicle with medical supplies.
Reaching Quetta in northern Baluchistan, with the temperature plunging, he relented enough to allow her to buy a Russian soldier's overcoat. Later on, when their children grew up, Mr Edhi would not find time to attend his daughter's marriage.
But Mr Edhi's epic achievement would not have been possible but for this inhuman single-mindedness. Today, the influence of the Edhi Foundation stretches far outside Pakistan and Mr Edhi has led relief missions across the Muslim world, providing aid at every international emergency from the Lebanon civil war in 1983 to the Bangladesh cyclone in 2007.

There are no horrors that Mr Edhi and his incredibly brave army of ambulance men have not witnessed, and the numerous lives they have saved.
The story of Mr Edhi coincides with the history of the Pakistan state. More than any other living figure, he articulates Jinnah's vision of a country which, while based on Islam, nevertheless offers a welcome for people of all faiths and sects. Indeed, the life of Mr Edhi provides a sad commentary on the betrayal of Jinnah's Pakistan by a self-interested political class.

One evening, as the sun set over Karachi, I asked Mr Edhi what future he foresaw. "Unless things change," he said, "I predict a revolution."

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