Old Age: Consoling Hopes

Old Age: Consoling Hopes

In this state, experiencing exile within exile and sorrow within sorrow, I searched for hope and light. Suddenly, īmān in Allah came to my aid.

It bestowed upon me such companionship that, even if my loneliness were a thousand times greater, its consolation would still suffice.

Truly, O my brothers and sisters who have reached old age! Since we have a Merciful Creator, there can be no true exile for us. Since He exists, everything exists for us. Since He exists, His angels exist as well. Thus, this world is not empty: deserted mountains and vast wildernesses are filled with the servants of Allah. And beyond His conscious servants, even stones and trees, when viewed in His light and for His sake, become familiar friends, speaking to us through the language of their state and bringing joy to our hearts.

Indeed, as numerous as the creatures in this universe and the letters of this great book of creation are the proofs and witnesses attesting to His existence. And as numerous as the organs, senses, provisions, and gifts through which living beings receive mercy, care, and sustenance are the proofs revealing His mercy. All these signs direct us toward our Merciful, Generous, Near, and Loving Creator, Maker, and Protector.

Before Him, our weakness and helplessness are our most acceptable means of intercession. And old age is the time when that weakness and helplessness reach their greatest degree. Therefore, rather than resent old age, which is an accepted means of intercession before Him, we should welcome it.

 

The Seventh Hope

One day, at the beginning of my old age, when the laughter of the Old Said was giving way to the tears of the New Said, the worldly people in Ankara, still believing me to be the Old Said, invited me there.

I arrived in late autumn and climbed the citadel of Ankara, which was older, more weathered, and more ruinous than I myself. It appeared to me as though the events of history had turned to stone.

The old age of the year—autumn—together with my own old age, the age of the citadel, the age of humanity, the decline of the glorious Ottoman Empire, the passing of the Caliphate, and the old age of the world, compelled me, from the heights of that citadel, to gaze back toward the valleys of the past and forward toward the mountains of the future, overwhelmed by sorrow and sensitivity.

Surrounded by these four or five darknesses of old age, I experienced in Ankara one of the darkest states of mind I had ever known. I searched for a light, a consolation, and a hope.

I looked to my right, toward the past, hoping to find consolation there. But the past appeared to me as a vast graveyard containing my father, my ancestors, and all the generations of humanity that had gone before me. Instead of consolation, it filled me with dread.