New Delhi: As a Jesuit-in-formation, I attended a course on Islam and Muslims in India. Our instructor, Jesuit Father Paul Jackson, opened the course asking us to write down on a sheet of paper what we thought and felt about Muslims. After a while, he asked us to tell the class, without any hesitation, what we had written down so that it could be written on the black board for all to see.
A whole lot of negative comments came up and filled the board, with the exception of a few positive comments. Then, the instructor asked us to think for a while and explain where we had got all these negative impressions and the few odd positive impressions from. To our surprise, we recognized almost all of our negative opinions came from the media and hearsay, while our few positive impressions came from our personal experiences with Muslims. This exercise left an indelible impact on my heart. An authentic knowing of others happens in personal relationships.
During the course, Father Jackson broadly gave us a broad account of the beliefs and practices of Indian Muslims, especially Muslims of Bihar, the state where he lived. His instruction was interspersed with personal sharing of his journey into the life of Bihar’s Muslims. He explained his key into the hearts of the Muslims of Bihar was his work of translation of the spiritual texts of a noted Sufi saint, Sharafuddin Maneri, affectionately called as Makhdum Sahib, who is buried in Bihar.
At the end of the course, I felt a deep desire to follow Fr. Jackson in the ‘Islamic apostolate’, working with Muslims. However, questions such as what would or must I do and how I would do with regard to this vocation were unclear. The only thing I knew for sure was that, following the Ignatian tradition, I must discern the will of God for my life.
An occasion arose for such discernment after around two years. By this time I had completed my initial preparation and was ready for regency, a period of a year or two for Jesuit-students (called scholastics) to work in a Jesuit parish or a college before beginning studies in theology. I was offered an exciting opportunity to work in a city, a city of dreams for many young people in the nineties. I was inclined to accept the offer.
But in an unexpected manner, in my prayer and reflection, it occurred to me that I would not be happy there. I was surprised at the ‘inner voice’, if I can dare to call that feeling that. I asked myself if the time had arrived to take the first step in the direction of following Father Jackson in the ‘Islamic apostolate’. I proposed to go to a small Muslim village, stay there, meet Muslims and learn Urdu, a language largely spoken by Muslims in large parts of northern India.
After discussing with his consulters, my Jesuit superior approved of my plan and decided to place me in a village called Rataul in western Uttar Pradesh, not far from Delhi. I felt peaceful.
At Rataul, Abdul Malik, a Muslim watch repairer, agreed to teach me Urdu for a small tuition fee. The arrangement was that I would meet him at his shop every morning at 10 for my class and he would teach me reading and writing Urdu for an hour while repairing watches—a multi-tasking of sorts. I appeared at the shop every day without fail for my lessons.
In a couple of weeks’ time, I could read the lessons of the fifth grade Urdu book. What is more interesting is that many people would sneak a look to see a strange character sitting in the shop, trying to read a simple Urdu text. They would politely inquire from my teacher who I was. Knowing that I was a Christian interested in learning Urdu, they appreciated my effort to learn their language.
As the days went by, the one hour learning session got stretched out usually till around lunch time. Besides reading my text and writing from it, I spent time with my teacher and the visitors to his shop in good conversation. As my Urdu pronunciation improved, I felt energized to read more. I read my Urdu aloud like a little child. I felt great joy. I felt as a proud student amid simple people. Our conversation, all in Urdu, touched upon many topics, including the situation of Muslims in India.
As the time arrived for my final departure from the village, many people turned up at the shop to wish me goodbye. I placed a little envelope in which I put my ‘tuition fee’ into the hands of my teacher. He promptly disapproved of my gesture and refused to accept the money. His words at that moment are still etched in my memory: ‘You came as a student and leave as my brother.’
Abdul Malik’s words moved me to tears. I feel privileged to be his brother.
Through meeting many Muslim brothers and sisters in Rataul, I learnt some of the fundamentals of Christian-Muslim dialogue. It was also a time for me to unlearn many prejudices and biases about Islam and Muslims that I had gathered by way of hearsay or from the media. In my interaction with Muslims in Rataul, I neither repressed those biases nor tamed them. Rather, I honestly recognized them at the same time as I opened myself to new and fresh experiences of knowing Islam and its adherents from Muslims themselves.
In an ambience of mutual respect, my teacher and I grew in trust for one another that made him call me his ‘brother’. By that he taught me that I must cross many human-made borders in order to build relationships and fraternity.
With my experience in Rataul, I felt eminently prepared for my next mission, in Baramulla, Kashmir.
Following my stay at Rataul, I was missioned to Baramulla, in Kashmir, as a Jesuit regent at St. Joseph’s School, which was then administered by the Delhi Jesuits. The school had just around three thousand students, both boys and girls, on its rolls. When I entered for the first time in one of the classrooms, a shattered window pane drew my attention. On enquiring, the children told me it had been broken during a cross-firing episode.
A few months earlier, they added, such things were a daily occurrence. Their explanation made me reflect on their hard life at a tender age. As the days went by, I learnt from the teachers and others at the school that it was the children who were the worst sufferers of the conflict in the region. They suffered terribly due to fear and insecurity.
In many ways the trauma had made the children lose faith in them and in others. For me, ‘the broken window pane’ became a symbol of shattered childhood in Kashmir. I allowed myself to get disturbed: it helped me get into the shoes of the children. The feeling of being one with them changed my thinking pattern and, consequently, my teaching. To put it concretely, I began to listen to the children, to their longings and aspirations. I followed every behavior of theirs carefully and considered these as statements about themselves. This helped me to understand them in an active context.
The children’s sufferings deeply moved me. Their life held a message for me. I experienced compassion towards them. I wanted to uphold their dignity through words of encouragement. I often prayed and contemplated Jesus’ words: “I have compassion for the crowd” (Mark 8:2), and “Let the children come to me” (Mark 10:14). I also began to realize that these Muslim brothers and sisters who suffered a great deal in a conflict zone like Kashmir are despised by many in the world, but they are objects of Divine love. Through reading and reflecting on Nostra Aetate, I learnt to think positively towards Muslims.
My regency year in Baramulla, I must say, was a period of grace for me, where I really began to love Muslims as part of my family. I came to believe that Jesus died for all and that He loves everyone, including Muslims. So, I deeply felt that there was a call for me too to love Muslims.
As I reflected on my experiences with the children as their teacher, I began to ask many questions about the Jesuit mission among Muslims as well as my own thinking and feelings towards Muslims. One of the first questions that surfaced in my heart was: If we Christians and Muslims worship the One God, as Nostra Aetate teaches, who are we actually to one another?
In the light of the Gospel, I recognized that we Muslims and Christians are brothers and sisters to each other and that belong to one family. I felt deeply surprised by my answer to my own question. I felt I was expanding in the freedom of a child of God towards others, especially my Muslim brothers and sisters.
I continued to meet with Muslims in their madrasas, mosques, and families. My journey into Islam took me to different places for higher studies, and later, I became a teacher of theology and Christian-Muslim Relations.
My experiences in Rataul and Kashmir, besides scores of many other wonderful meetings and contacts, taught me that the key to enter into dialogue with Muslims is a genuine desire to love Muslims. The ability and willingness to establish fraternal communication with Muslims from every walk of life will facilitate finding new paths and surprising openings where dialogue might otherwise be impossible.