The long and winding road

Peering into the heart of a born-again Muslim
Raja Petra Kamarudin

The long and winding road.
That leads to your door.
Will never disappear.
I’ve seen that road before.
It always leads me here.
Leads me to your door.

The wild and windy night.
That the rain washed away.
Has left a pool of tears.
Crying for the day.
Why leave me standing here.
Let me know the way.

Many times I’ve been alone.
And many times I’ve cried.
Anyway you’ll never know.
The many ways I’ve tried.

But still they lead me back.
To the long and winding road.
You left me standing here.
A long, long time ago.
Don’t leave me waiting here.
Lead me to your door.

But still they lead me back.
To the long and winding road.
You left me standing here.
A long, long time ago.
Don’t leave me waiting here.
Lead me to your door.

The words of wisdom from Paul McCartney leave a feeling of restlessness in my heart. Life is a long and winding road. But where is this road leading to? I know I was placed on the face of this earth for a purpose. But what is this purpose? And who placed me here? I have no answers. And the restlessness continues. I will search. I will seek. I will find myself. But where? Where does one start in the search for the answers to life?

I slip into unconsciousness as sleep overwhelms me. Tomorrow is another day. Today is a day lost. And what is lost can never be replaced. But one cannot cry over what has passed. One must look to what the future can offer. But what is the future to one who knows not what the present is?

The journey of life is a long and winding road. It is an unknown journey. One never knows where the journey must start. And one will never know when and where the journey will end. But what awaits us along this journey? Life is such sweet sorrow. If only we can enjoy more sweet than suffer sorrow. Life would then be wonderful. But there are no guarantees in life. We have to take life as it comes; the hard knocks, the pain, and the sorrow. But pain and sorrow should not translate to misery. Misery is for those who give up on life.

Months pass…no…years pass. The world says, “Go”. The grave says, “Come”. Suboh (dawn) has long passed. Zohor (lunchtime) too has left me. It is coming close to asar (teatime). Soon asar will be long gone and magrib (dusk) will be upon me. Once magrib disappears and I enter into ishak (night), it will be time to bid this world farewell. But I am not ready to leave. There is so much I have not done. So much I have not seen. So much I have not discovered about myself.

Time flies so slowly when you are waiting; waiting for death to come claim you. I fill the emptiness in my heart with the thrill of the game of chance. I drown my loneliness in the bottle. The bottle is my companion, the cards my comrade. I find solace amidst the treasures of my heart.

My neighbour comes a calling. “I see you so engrossed in your game,” he says. “You seem at peace with your cards. I too would like to feel the thrill and pleasure that radiates your face and shines like the nur (light) of day.”

“We are playing poker,” I inform my neighbour. “Poker is not a game of chance. It is a game of skill.”

“Can you teach me to be as skilled as you?” My neighbour excitedly plonks himself in the chair facing me. He removes his skull cap and puts it in his pocket. He places the Koran in his hand on the table. Now we have a complete foursome.

The cards are shuffled and dished out. I painfully teach my neighbour the rudiments of poker. Surprisingly he catches on very fast. We continue playing as the hours pass by unnoticed. The call of prayer blares through the dusk sky. “It is asar,” he says. “Can you please excuse me? I need to go and get ready for my prayers.”

“Hold on,” I say, “You have won. Don’t forget to take your money.”

“No, that’s okay,” he replies. “I just wanted to learn how to play poker. I don’t want the money. I did not play for the money.”

“But it’s yours. What do you want me to do with it?”

“Never mind. Share it out amongst the three of you.”

My neighbour drops by many more times after that. We sit and talk. We play cards. We discuss life. We debate mankind. Soon we develop a bond. When he is out of town I miss his company. I yearn for his wisdom. I am hooked on his logic. The cards no longer offer me the attraction it used to. I no longer find solace in the bottle. I find I am now addicted to knowledge, my neighbour’s knowledge.

He invites me to his home. “I am having a few friends over tonight,” he informs me. “We shall be discussing and debating all sorts of issues. I know you will find it stimulating. Do come and join us tonight.”

I readily say, “Yes.” I am exhilarated. Now I will have more companions with whom I can share what is aching in my heart. We discuss many things. We discuss life. We discuss death. We discuss Islam.

Islam? Yes, Islam. A matter that is totally alien to me. I do not participate. I cannot participate. I know nothing about Islam to be able to participate. They sense my discomfort. They are aware of my jahil (ignorance). They know I feel so small. I wish the earth would open up and swallow me. Help me out of my misery. I feel ridiculous sitting amongst those who certainly are not my peers.

But they do not ridicule me. I feel no inferiority. I am taken as an equal. They talk to me with respect. They address me with honour. They are not above me. I am not below them.

We are comrades. We are peers. We are equal. Our knowledge does not divide us. Our opposing views do not antagonise us. The discussion progresses into debate. The debate heats up into disagreements. Quotations are bandied about. References to Prophet Muhammad’s sayings and the Koran’s revelations are raised. Disagreements temper into agreements. An amicable end to all views is achieved.

I am not a spectator. I am a participant. My views are sought. Me? My views? Why me? I am not learned in Islam. What can I offer that they do not already know more than me? How do I partake when I am a lost soul searching for that long, winding road that is so elusive?

I long for knowledge. I wish to engage. I want to contribute to the discussion of life and death, and the long and winding road that leads from life to death.

I search. I seek. I read. I learn. I no longer have time for poker. Time is too precious. Life is too short. The bottle no longer offers me solace. It clouds my thoughts. It distracts me from my vision. It deviate me from my mission.

I have been a victim of dakwah. My neighbour, my poker partner who would not take his winnings, has helped me find that road, that long and winding road that so eluded me.

I have performed jihad. I am a mujahideen. I have jihad against temptation. I have jihad against ignorance. I have jihad against arrogance. And I have won the ultimate jihad every Muslim should embark upon, the jihad against yourself.

Al Fatihah. Show us the straight way; the way of those on whom Thou hast bestowed Thy Grace, those whose (portion) is not wrath, and who go not astray.

The long and winding road.
That leads to your door.
Will never disappear.
I’ve seen that road before.
It always leads me here.
Leads me to your door.

The wild and windy night.
That the rain washed away.
Has left a pool of tears.
Crying for the day.
Why leave me standing here.
Let me know the way.

Many times I’ve been alone.
And many times I’ve cried.
Anyway you’ll never know.
The many ways I’ve tried.

But still they lead me back.
To the long and winding road.
You left me standing here.
A long, long time ago.
Don’t leave me waiting here.
Lead me to your door.

But still they lead me back.
To the long and winding road.
You left me standing here.
A long, long time ago.
Don’t leave me waiting here.
Lead me to your door.