A Question from a Friend

By Aspen Lettice.

I came to Islam late. I was by now in my 40s, embarking on a break in my career as a nurse to do a PhD in another city. I had lived in London for a long time and enjoyed it, but work was becoming exhausting, and it was time for something different. For my final year, I moved into shared hospital accommodation to save money before my PhD and lived with a psychiatrist who liked a drink. On my last Sunday, as I sat reading in the kitchen with a cup of green tea, he came in and asked if I would like some prosecco. I said no, we chatted for a bit, and as soon as I had finished my tea, he poured me some prosecco. 

The next day, I stumbled upon Mufti Menk. I’m not even sure how I found him. But, I listened, and he made sense. Finally, a switch had been flipped. I had already thought about Islam. Since my arrival in London from Norfolk, it had been something that bubbled away in the background, but for some reason I’d never explored it further. The Muslims I met were always gentle, kind, straightforward, uncomplicated. My Muslim patients were humble, respectful, and appreciative of what I could do for them. 

I received my first Quran from a patient. I can’t even remember what I did for him, but I do remember our interaction wasn’t long. Apparently, he was pleased with my help and came back with a note and a beautiful Qur’an. My first Qur’an. I felt happy when he gave it to me, because I felt that it was a sign that I’d helped him, that I’d done some good. I didn’t expect to read it. But I knew that I had to keep it, and so with the only thing that I was taught in school about the Quran, I wrapped it in a scarf to protect it and I put it in a safe place.

By the time I left London, I’d shed most of my belongings, instruments, art and furniture. All the books I’d acquired over the years were given away, except this Qur’an. I simply had clothes, a kindle, and cooking stuff. I was going to need to move easily, and since I didn’t have a car – not having a great deal would make this much easier. This was in complete contrast to my previous life, where I’d spent ages accumulating stuff, anything and everything. Even degrees. A very successful old school friend asked years ago why I was always on a course: What was I avoiding? I was perplexed at the time. What did he mean? 

In my new city I took some time to acclimatise. My first impressions weren’t good. But I did see a sign for the Muslim chaplain in one of the university gardens, so I took a picture on my phone and emailed him when I got home, explaining my situation and that I was curious about Islam. I expected him to be an academic within the humanities department at the university, but when his reply came suggesting I come to his office to talk, I had a bit of a panic as I saw that he was a consultant surgeon. It felt a bit too close to home, and so I back peddled and made an excuse. 

But the chaplain was intuitively persistent, and so eventually we met, talked and now I am glad for his perseverance. We have spoken regularly since then and he has been a good friend to me, even organising my shahada. It turned out to be to be wonderful to have an ally in my building after all. Allah (swt) is the best of planners.

During my first year in the new city, I was living alone, doing my PhD and reading, listening and trying to learn as much as I could about Islam. I would listen to various podcasts on the way into work in the morning, and at any time I could. In fact, I felt as though I was spending more time on this, than on my PhD. The solitude and stillness enabled time to think, and the development of gratitude reframed things.

In a moment of procrastination, I came across an advert for a trip to Konya for new Muslims organised by Cambridge Central Mosque (CCM). I managed to get a place.  It felt like just the right time. Islam had given me a road map for living virtuously, it had freed me from all the attachments of this world and had opened my heart, but I was just at the beginning of my journey and needed some guidance. I embarked on my trip, both excited and with anticipation about what it would bring… 

We were a group of ten – seven women and three men – led by Genc who was serenely calm and unflustered by anything. Here was somebody that clearly embodied his faith and it was impressive. So relaxed was he that this turned out to be a great example, particularly as my career had set me on heightened alert, something that had unfortunately seeped into my personal life. I reflected and wondered if I could ever personify such calm.

So, with nine of us at various stages of our journey in Islam and with Genc, our leader, we proceeded to uncover the treasure in our hearts and experience the potential of what Konya would reveal. What we experienced there was like nothing I had encountered before. 

I was surprised to be woken by it in my hotel room by the adhan, for the first time. It was so loud! But it was wonderful to be woken up to pray in this authentic way. Everything was in such contrast to my new life in my now, not so new city.

Every day we learned and experienced something different, from the theological and mystical to the creative, all while visiting a variety of mosques to pray in. It was a beautiful experience to be part of a group, and Imam Ali Tos made certain that every minute was filled. 

We visited the Mevlana Museum, whose namesake was better known to me, at this time, as Rumi. Here we learned about Mevleviyeh, the 1001 days of suffering that dervishes complete to be granted the title “dede”. We learned how Rumi heard the name Allah (or huwa “He”) in everything, Al -lah, (Hu-wa), first noticing this when he heard a goldsmith tapping his hammer which led him to spin in jubilation, and ultimately to the Mevlevi Sufi order. Each step of a whirling dervish represents Al – lah/Hu - wa with the dervish acting as a conduit; their right hand held up to God, and their left hand dispersing His grace to Earth. 

We prayed in the beautiful Alâeddin Camii, one of the oldest Seljuk mosques, and the Aziziye Camii in the centre of Konya. We learned about the hadith of Jibril, Islamic jurisprudence, the history of the Quran and hadith, Sufism and much more. We visited the Konya Muftulugu, and spent time with artisans in Arabic calligraphy, tile making and book binding, experienced the whirling dervishes and incredibly, had a private audience at a Sufi evening re-enactment, illustrating the 1001 days of suffering, while in constant remembrance of huwa (He). 

The trip gave us exactly what was promised. A retreat, far beyond what I could have imagined: to experience the potential of an enlightened soul, polish our hearts, not to turn us into something we were not, but to take us back to who we were and to share that experience as a group.

Almost a year since this trip, and two years since my deep dive into what it means to live as a Muslim, I am returning to London to a new job, and new patients with the intention to maintain the remembrance and love of Allah in everything I do. As this blogpost reveals, the signs were everywhere if I dared to notice them.  

The retreat to Konya was a true blessing where I was able to feel the presence of the divine. My journey in Islam blossomed. And as Rumi said: “Whoever travels without a guide needs two-hundred years for a two-day journey”. I am forever grateful to the people along the way that have given me guidance. There are many roads that lead to God. Life no longer feels hollow, and I don’t need to fill it with stuff.  

And, finally, I can answer my friend who asked me all those years ago what it was that I was avoiding…