Listen to the audio version of this article featuring audio extracts of the poems mentioned in the text: Podcast Ep 33 KHAYAL DIARIES | My Ancestral Past: Visiting the Gilanis in Iran by Sana Gillani
This story begins in 1095, when the great scholar, teacher and saint, Shakyh Abdul Qadir al-Gilani, left his hometown in the province of Gilan, Persia, and ventured to Baghdad to further his studies in the sacred sciences.
He was the son of the pious Abu Salih Musa al-Hasani or “Jangidost” (one who loves God). His mother, Sayyida Ummul Khair Fatima, who I knew as “Bibi Nisa”, was also a pious saint with Prophetic lineage. Al Gilani settled in Baghdad, which at the time was under Seljuk rule and very much a centre of knowledge. He would become the eponymous founder of the Qadiri sufi tariqa, and would be remembered all over the Muslim world for centuries to come.
Al Gilani had many sons, who settled in different regions to spread their knowledge, becoming one of the most highly regarded and influential families wherever they went.
My ancestor, Musa Pak Shaheed, was a descendant of one of these sons. After a long journey through Syria, Iran and Afghanistan, Musa Pak eventually settled in Multan, Pakistan, during the reign of Shah Jahan. My father’s family have been in Pakistan for roughly 400 years, and our links to the Middle East and Persia have since been lost.
I embarked upon a journey to reconnect with this lost part of my lineage. I travelled to Iran with my husband, Abdul Hadi, and we dedicated a few precious days to visit the resting places of the mother and father of Shaykh Abdul Qadir al-Gilani.
Gilan is situated in the north-west region of Iran and meets the Caspian sea to its north. It is mostly acclaimed for its distinct cuisine, culture, its rain and its astonishing natural beauty. Gilan’s landscape is lush, green, fertile and mountainous and sees many, mostly domestic, tourists pass through each year.
My guide, Mr Nakshbandi, was the Iranian father of an old university friend of mine in Australia, who happened to be on holiday in the region at the same time as us. He would end up playing an integral role in the entire journey.
We were up bright and early and Mr Nakshbandi arrived promptly to pick us up from our hotel. Our first destination on this express roadtrip around Gilan was the mountainside village of Masouleh.
As we drove out of the city, surrounded by pristine natural beauty, Abdul Hadi and I agreed that this was the most heavenly landscape we had witnessed in all our travels. The sky was a flawless shade of blue, the road was framed by the lushest greenery and we marvelled at the view of the mountains on the horizon, illuminated by snow on their peaks.
The hill village of Masouleh is over 1000 years old and has a beautiful charm to it due in large part to the unusual way it has been constructed. The dwellings are stacked, one home atop another, with one person’s courtyard serving as another’s roof. I was delighted most by the view of the adorable mosque with its jade green dome and colourful minarets.
We walked through the pathways of the village, past tourist shops and cafes that hosted visitors and locals alike. They sat smoking qalian (hookah) and drinking cup after cup of tea.
Mr Nakshbandi was able to give us great insight into many things; he shared stories about his time growing up in Iran, pre and post-revolution and during the Iran-Iraq war. He also told us about his esteemed sufi tariqa., which, as it happened, at that time my husband Abdul Hadi was also a follower of through his own Shaykh. He was also familiar with the well-known uncle of Mr Nakshbandi, Shaykh Usman Siraj-Uddin. We were blessed to be able to hear stories about this noble family, including detailed accounts of Mr Nakshbandi’s childhood in the tariqa and the amazing spirit and dedication of his deceased mother.
After a peaceful drive through more villages, passing farms and plenty of quaint, red-roofed homes, we reached Sowm – e –Sara, the village and resting place of Shaykh Abdul Qadir al-Gilani’s blessed mother, Bibi Nisa. After obtaining directions from a string of locals on the street, we eventually reached the maqam.
The weight of what I was doing and its significance for me personally, did not become immediately apparent. I walked through the turquoise gates of the maqam, which looked like a small house sitting unassumingly between other homes in this village. Inside was one large room which hosted the tomb, and this was filled with older women sitting in one big circle around the grave.
As I entered, devotional chants were being sung loudly and heartily by these women. I felt a little out of place and self-conscious that the women may wonder who this strange visitor was. This sort of gathering was a regular occurrence at Bibi Nisa’s tomb, where she had prayers offered for her.
Though I couldn’t understand what the women were singing, I tried to connect and join in with their prayers through my heart. The men stayed outside until the women eventually stopped singing, then they came inside to make their ziyara (visit).
As I approached the gold gates that signified the resting place of Bibi Nisa, I thought about all the changes and transformations she would have witnessed from this location. I wondered what her resting place looked like a few hundred years ago, what kind of person she was, and what her reaction would be knowing that a distant descendant of hers had travelled to see her from faraway lands she would not have even known about.
I felt as though I had found a missing part of the tapestry that is my heritage. I was fulfilling something necessary for myself, and representing those in Bibi Nisa’s lineage who could not be there. I hoped that like any mother would welcome a daughter, she was happy to receive me too, unconditionally.
Bibi Nisa was known for her piety; in old age, she gave her son, Abd al-Qadir Gilani permission to seek sacred knowledge in Baghdad. Knowing she would most likely never see him again, she imparted the following advice: “O’ my beloved son! Let this advice, which I am about to give you be an important part of your life. Always speak the truth! Do not even think of lies.”
The young Shaykh replied, “My dear mother! I promise from my heart that I will always act upon your advice.” Bibi Nisa, embraced her son for the last time with the words: “Go! May Allah be with you. It is He who is your Helper and Protector.”
We left Bibi Nisa to share a generous meal with Mr Nakshbandi’s relatives. Here, we discussed the prospect of driving to the burial place of Seyed Saleh, the saint and father of Shaykh Abdul Qadir al-Gilani, and husband of Bibi Nisa, but one of the hosts informed us that it would entail a long drive up the mountain on rocky dirt roads with failing light. Resigned to the fact that it would now be too difficult to visit Seyed Saleh, we to made our way back to our hotel in Rasht.
I felt disappointed but knew this was probably the safest and most convenient option for Mr Nakshbandi- I did not want to put him out of his way. As we drove back, I was coming to terms with not being able to complete part of my mission in Gilan and reasoned that this must be Allah’s divine plan for me. As these thoughts were running through my mind, we happened to pass the road sign indicating the route up the mountain to Seyed Saleh’s maqam.
Mr Nakshbandi brought this to our attention and stopped by the road for us to take photos of the sign while he chatted to a few locals. Happy that we had at least come this far, I was ready to continue our journey back home, especially with Maghrib fast approaching, but Mr. Nakshbandi turned to us and asked, almost challenging, “Do you want to drive up to complete the ziyara?” I replied that it would be dark soon, and the car may struggle on the road. “It’ll be fine, inshaAllah,” he said, encouragingly.
I was unsure, but Abdul Hadi was more confident and thought it was at least worth a try. Something deep and intuitive in my heart tugged at me, warning that this opportunity may never come back to me. And so, in our humble sedan, and with dusk quickly approaching, we made our way up the mountain near Fuman, where Seyed Saleh’s maqam lies.
It was at this time that the full extent of Gilan’s natural beauty revealed itself to us. In the words of Syed Hossein Nasr on Autumn:
“Forests become a rainbow of shimmering hues
Yellows and purples and reds vie with the greens
In a geometry sublime, intricate beyond our ken
To create a symphony of endless beauty…”
It was just that. The sight was majestic. As the sun presented its final rays over the mountain for the day, the auburn afternoon light revealed the most beautiful array of autumnal colours. We were glued to our windows, in awe at the heights we were ascending and the immaculate views of the forest around us. It was a grand welcome to Sayed Saleh’s resting place, and what an honour, I thought, to have been given such a peaceful final abode in this troubled world of ours.
With these thoughts in mind, I had to ask Mr Nakshbandi, “Why is Seyed Saleh buried so far away from his wife, Bibi Nisa?”
He replied, “The sufi saints are known to flee from big cities and towns and seek solace in the calm of places like this, high up in the mountains.” The mountain we were travelling up certainly appeared to provide just that. It was like being as far as possible from the tribulations and corruption of the world, as if we were venturing into some serene, unworldly realm.
Along the route, there were signs of mountain life; simple structures for homes, cattle, and the odd car driving back down the mountain, acknowledging us as they passed and probably thinking we were mad for travelling up at this time of day.
Darkness fell as we ascended higher. Though I kept it to myself at the time, I felt a little nervous as the road got rockier and the night darker. Thinking how much further we had yet to travel to reach the maqam, not to mention that long way back down, I felt guilty for having troubled Mr Nakshbandi, though he seemed to be in good spirits, enjoying himself in our company.
Eventually we saw the green-lit outline of the maqam in the distance, and knew we were close. Since it was past maghrib, the door to the maqam would be closed and we wouldn’t be able to enter it. I was ok with this and certainly didn’t want to trouble the caretakers who had retired to their homes for the night.
Sayed Saleh left this temporal world when his son, Abdul Qadir al-Gilani, was still young, but it has been reported that he once had a dream in which he saw the Beloved Prophet ﷺ, who informed him: “O my son Abu Saleh, Allah, Most High has given you a child who is my beloved son and also the beloved of Allah. His ranking among the Awliya is akin to my rank among the Prophets.”
We walked up to the door of the little musallah (prayer space) encompassing his grave and offered our salam and prayers. It was all rather quick, and with little more reflection or activity, we jumped back into the car and made our way down the mountain.
“Ziyara qabool, inshaAllah”, announced Mr Nakshbandi, reassuringly. It would take me the trip down the mountain, and all the way back to Australia, to collect my thoughts on the journey we had undertaken. It was no doubt a blessing to visit the maqams of such notable individuals, and to connect with a part of my heritage. But I was just as fascinated with the way in which it had been facilitated; the father of a friend I had once made at university happened to have been present in the right place at the right time, and ended up playing an integral part in the process. He granted us an insight into a minority sufi community in Iran we otherwise would not have had.
Mr Nakshbandi delivered us safely back to our starting point, Rasht, and we prepared for an early journey to Mashhad the next day. After thanking him profusely and promising to stay in touch, we prepared for the rest of our journey and rested after the longest and most exhilarating day of our travels thus far.
But there was more of Iran yet to see.
