Narratives

These are narratives, not general rulings. What you read are personal, lived experiences. None of these accounts is intended to serve as a universal law, a repeatable formula, or a standard by which others should be judged. Each experience occurred within its own specific context of time, circumstances, intention, and inner state, and should not be regarded as a definitive model for everyone.

Narrative 1:

An Awakening

A narrative from a female physician

(Obstetrics and Gynecology Specialist)

I was born into a relatively religious

family. From my teenage years, my

questions and concerns about God,

meaning, and the purpose of life went

beyond what I found in my family’s

teachings. I read religious books and

attended every religious gathering I

heard about; but to be honest, I often

returned with a feeling that my time

had been wasted.

I was left with a multitude of

questions, unknowns, and at times

misunderstandings.26

When I entered university, my path

changed. I found God in the wonders

of the respiratory system, in blood

circulation, in digestion, in the cell

and the molecule. This scientific

understanding filled part of my inner

emptiness. Upon entering my

specialty training, I saw God at the

moment of childbirth—at that

astonishing boundary between

nonexistence and existence.

Everything was going well until my

twenty-six-year-old brother passed

away.

And I was left with an overwhelming

sense of ingratitude…

Left with heavy grief, and a feeling of 27

estrangement from God.

Left with a bereaved mother,

surrounded by handfuls of

psychiatric medications.

We lived on, exhausted by

everything and resentful toward

God—if it can even be called living.

Breathing itself was painful for us.

There was no hope of returning to a

normal life.

Due to not eating, not drinking, and

complete inactivity, my mother

developed a blood clot in her leg and

was hospitalized for nearly a month

in extremely critical condition in the

intensive care unit. The clot would

not resolve at all, and the fear that it 28

might travel to her heart or brain

wore all of us down.

My mother longed for death, and I

longed to see her stand upright again.

After several months, I returned to

my workplace; but I was present only

physically. I could not even speak

with patients. I was incapable of

doing anything useful.

Eight years later, entirely by

chance, I saw one of my closest

friends from high school and

university at the hospital. She was

unaware of my situation. I told her

everything. When I think about it

today, it feels as though she was our

guardian angel.29

When I heard her suggestion, I

replied:

“I personally do not accept such

places and see no need for them, but

for my mother… out of sheer

desperation, I will take her. Perhaps

some help—however small—can be

found.”

For my mother, I was willing to give

up everything I had, just so I would

no longer hear her bitter cries.

At last, the long-awaited day

arrived, and I took my mother—by

force—to an introductory gathering

of the Qadiri Kasnazani path. The

words were simple—perhaps far

simpler than everything I had read 30

and heard over the years. Yet this

time, I did not feel that my time was

being wasted. Tears flowed from my

eyes involuntarily, although I

attributed them to my own

depression.

When we returned home, for the

first time, my mother felt better—

better than on all the occasions I had

taken her to psychiatrists, whose

effects never lasted more than a few

hours.

This time, hope took root in my

heart.

Gradually, under the pretext of

accompanying my mother, I myself

and other members of our family 31

began attending these gatherings as

well. My mother’s depression slowly

subsided, her medications were

discontinued, and a sense of calm

settled within her—one that the

passage of time itself had never been

able to grant her.

And this was only the beginning of

the journey…

Although the tranquility that had

taken shape within my mother was

astonishing to me, I still carried a

hidden resistance within myself. My

ever-cautious intellect was unwilling

to surrender easily. Yet something in

my mother’s behavior, in her gaze, in

the way she breathed, was gradually 32

drawing me toward this path—

without my willing it, without my

having made any decision.

But further trials still lay ahead.

Not long afterward, an ordeal more

severe than before struck our family.

An extremely heavy object, weighing

several tons, fell onto my father’s

foot. The bones of his toes were

nearly crushed; no intact vein, nerve,

tendon, or muscle remained. Surgery

was performed, but when the cast was

removed, the toes had turned black.

We consulted several highly skilled

physicians. All were unanimous in

their conclusion:

Amputation of the toes.33

As a physician, I knew the risk of

infection was high, and that if the

amputation was not performed today,

we might be forced to amputate at a

higher level tomorrow. Yet I did not

consent—by no means. Not out of

stubbornness, but from something

deeper within. An inner feeling told

me that there was still another way.

This time, it was no longer only for

my mother;

I myself, with less doubt than before,

went to the place that had been

drawing me for some time. I attended

the dhikr gathering. My heart told

me: do not doubt—this is where you

are meant to be.34

And my father’s foot…

In a strange way, and contrary to all

medical predictions, it healed. No

infection developed, and there was no

need for amputation of the toes. This

event was the second serious

awakening—a jolt that I could no

longer pass by so easily.

Gradually, my husband also began

attending these gatherings with me.

At first, he was unwilling, but he came

at my insistence. Some time later, he

underwent routine checkups. The

results were unbelievable:

The tests were normal.

For years, he had suffered from

autoimmune thyroid disease 35

(Hashimoto’s) and had been on

medication—a condition that,

medically speaking, does not resolve.

This was the third medical miracle in

our family.

It was as though God wanted to

awaken me—

but in my own language, in a way I

could understand.

And it was as though I myself had

been sunk in a deep sleep for years.

Some time later, one of our closest

relatives—a fourteen-year-old girl—

underwent tests as part of a routine

checkup.

One of her blood markers was

elevated, a worrying sign. Further 36

evaluations and a CT scan raised the

possibility of liposarcoma:

a soft-tissue cancer in the chest—an

illness that responds neither to

chemotherapy nor to radiotherapy.

The mass had involved nearly her

entire chest.

Seeing her face and her mother’s

brought tears to my eyes

involuntarily.

I said to myself: O God, what wisdom

is this? How can so many calamities

occur in my life?

This time, I was truly exhausted.

And once again, my heart led me to

the same place:

prayer, supplication, and pleading.37

The attending surgeon—one of the

most distinguished specialists in this

field—was hesitant. He said, “I don’t

know whether it is operable or not.”

Seeing my condition and that of the

child’s mother, and after much

pleading, he decided to proceed with

the surgery.

On the day of the operation, I

sought intercession through the

Sheikh of the path. I pleaded from

the depths of my heart. We no longer

had the strength to endure another

wave of stress.

The mass weighed three and a half

kilograms. The surgery was

extremely difficult and prolonged. 38

The surgeon later told my husband

that throughout his entire medical

career, he had never performed an

operation this demanding.

During the surgery, the left phrenic

nerve was severed, and the nerve on

the right side was damaged. This

meant a high likelihood that the child

would become permanently

dependent on a ventilator. For two

days in the ICU, she lay unconscious,

breathing with the help of a machine.

Her mother and I spent those two

days in anguish behind the ICU

doors.

Yet despite all the anxiety, my heart

remained hopeful.39

After two days, the breathing tube

was removed.

To our disbelief, she began breathing

easily on her own.

In the follow-up imaging, the

diaphragm muscle was in its normal

position. There were no signs of

nerve severance or paralysis—despite

the fact that, medically speaking, the

nerve had been embedded within the

mass and had been cut.

The pathology report arrived:

Lipoma.

A large fatty mass, along with the

thymus gland.

Her mother and I could hardly

contain our joy.40

One month later, our dear one is

well—completely well. And to be

honest, the state of my own heart is

even better than hers.

When I look back today, I see that

God nudged me again and again to

help me find my own path. Perhaps

no one but God knows what this path truly ¹so; but I know with certainty that God Himself is present among those who walk it.

All I know is that this gathering is a place where my heart finds peace. I encountered many closed doors before reaching here; but now I understand that without those efforts and those pains, I might never have awakened from my sleep. In this gathering, I am awake. And when I am here, the state of my heart and my soul is good—very good.