COVER STORY Standing Up for Islam
Muslims are fighting back—not just against the West but also against the militancy in their midst. A TIME Special Report on the diversity of Islam in Asia
Kabul, September 2002: We parked in a part of town that is bustling by day but nearly deserted at night. Walking down a narrow, darkened alley we passed a group of Afghan men. Ebadullah Ebadi, a surgeon by trade who was working as a fixer with TIME journalists, had been told he could bring photographer Ami Vitale and me here. Still, the men eyed us warily. We had come for a Sufi ceremony. Outlawed by the Taliban, the Sufis were again practicing openly their mystical brand of Islam—a ritualized attempt to communicate directly with God through music, song and dance, free of mediators, free of hierarchy. But, as we would learn, fundamentalist ex-rulers can shackle a community even after being driven from power.
Up a narrow stairway was a small landing. Lilting, rhythmic Afghan music wafted through the doorway. Several men were removing their shoes, preparing to enter. Others were leaving, digging through a pile of sandals to find their own. The finely dressed mixed with the ragged, the bearded and turbaned with the clean-shaven and bareheaded. There were smiles and stoic expressions in equal numbers. Until, that is, they saw Ami.
She was dressed respectfully, her head was covered by a scarf. Yet her presence instantly ignited an impassioned debate over whether or not she was welcome. Initially, the argument was kept quiet out of respect for the ritual under way inside. With each exchange, though, the volume rose, the frowns deepened and the gesticulating increased. Ebadi searched in vain for the man he had spoken to earlier. Though endlessly curious about Sufi life and practice, Ami, after looking on for about five minutes, decided to leave rather than be the cause of further discord. Ebadi, a native of Kabul but still a visitor to this place, agreed to drive her home.
I was beckoned into a long, stuffy room with peeling lime green paint on the walls and a collection of threadbare carpets on the floor. Believers sat facing the musicians, listening with their eyes closed and their heads rocking. The sounds were stirring—sitars, drums and a plaintive, poetic voice. Someone gave me a cup of tea. One man offered biscuits from his pocket, another insisted I share his candy. After two long songs—during which Ebadi returned—a tall, elderly man addressed the gathering. Thin and regal, he wore a cream salwar kameez and a turban. His angular face was accentuated by a long, white beard. "Tonight, I am filled with shame," he began, eyeing the crowd severely. "A visitor came to us and we turned her away." His voice was laced with both anger and contrition. "How could we act like this is our house? This is Allah's house. It was his will that she come here. In turning her away, we turned away the guest of Allah."
Later, another man approached Ebadi and apologetically explained that the disagreement over Ami was a lingering effect of Taliban rule, which had contemptuously excluded women from so much of public and religious life. For that, he said, he was truly sorry. Afghans have a new government, but sometimes regimes can be easier to change than prejudices.
