The Fallen Nature

There is a part of me that revels in stories about the fall of prideful men. It is no small consolation to witness the cocky jock humbly serving the geeky goof he used to torment. This smugness is not vindictive, rather mere appreciation for any account that righteously scores one for the underdog. Not often told, however, are tales of humble men who rise to power and are then challenged to remain true to their character. Such narratives are discomforting. On one hand, we want humble men in higher positions so that their righteousness might be wielded against corruption, and yet we are aware, whether consciously or instinctually, that no man is righteous; no, not one. The setup creates apprehension; we fear for the humble man, worry he will fall. Pride is a powerful adversary. In the film Takva: A Man’s Fear of God, I found myself grow increasingly concerned for Muharrem, a simple man called to face this tempting power. 

Muharrem is a devout Muslim, a kind-hearted, submissive man who goes about his daily routine with a quiet peace that might be envied by some. Never an idle word is spoken as he works attentively, always with extreme deference to his employer or any superior for that matter. He is not the sort one would expect to find in a position of authority; it’s not in his character. It is this nature that the “noble master” of “the order” claims as a needed tool for the administration of the order’s financial affairs. “Worldly matters need a good heart, not a good mind. The devil easily takes hold of a lively mind. Being ordinary is what makes him extraordinary.” When Muharrem is charged with collecting rent and managing repairs of the order’s holdings – over 80 flats, shops and storage spaces – a new expression changes his face. It distorts his usual calm, drawing a line between his brows as they pinch together in what looks like worry, but is more likely the father of both worry and anxiety: fear. Oddly, the noble master secures the instillation of fear into Muharrem’s skull with a lug nut: “Remember, God is all-seeing, all knowing.” Hardly the “go in peace” dismissal that would buoy a servant as he goes about his charge. 

He wears his fear like a millstone around his neck, the weight sinking him before he can even step out onto the water. Though Muharrem accepts that his mission is one ordained by God, this ordination only adds to the pressure. He finds no comfort in being chosen, or confidence in God’s wise choice. Though God determined the change to occur, the enemy is steering Muharrem’s response – confusion and self-doubt, compounded by worry and anxiety – each state rooted in the stronghold of fear, antithetical to God. “I’m so scared of failing.” His words speak his downfall, for it is not fear of God, but fear itself that torments him with each change related to his new position.

The first change is not within Muharrem, but in those around him. When he first came into the order’s seminary, he moved around a group of students. As he leaves, they part for him to pass through. The second change is his place, moving from the back of the line to the front, second only to the noble master.  Now Muharrem’s employer, Mr. Ali, follows him. When they step through rings of “common” men in prayer, he follows the master to the center to pray alongside the other masters. Uncertain, he looks back at Mr. Ali who remains among the commoners. After the noble master requests that Muharrem be relieved of work after noon prayer, his title changes to Master Muharrem. It is now Mr. Ali’s turn to be uncertain, stumbling as he corrects himself, stopping mid-sentence in his usual request to fetch coffee. “Is it now a sin to send you for coffee?” 

When he is moved from his lifelong home into the seminary, he takes note of his new surroundings. Across from his bed is a small circular mirror, one that he faces the moment he sits up in bed. This shadow highlights a question that throbs throughout the film: what lies within us that threatens to become our undoing? So long as it remains unknown, we fear it. Only when we reflect on whatever “it” is can we learn its nature and come to peace with it. The mirror avails itself, but Muharrem sees only a piece of it – failure.  He doesn’t ask the next question: so what if I fail? He doesn’t even entertain the possibility. Denial drives each step of his walk, changing from the short distance between his old home and job, to a long, uphill journey across the city, into women’s homes (an job duty which creates great discomfort for Muharrem,) and into stores with mannequins dressed only in a bra and panties. It doesn’t take much to stir the beast within, especially if it has been beaten to sleep. When it wakes, it will be hungry, having hibernated so long.

As if foreseeing the potential downfall, the noble master offers Muharrem his second daughter for marriage, “to satisfy the bodily needs without sin.” At this point, however, Muharrem has taken about as much change as he can manage. His new wardrobe, watch, the very best pen, and obsidian prayer beads are symbols that even the Sheikh doesn’t touch. “I am not worthy of any of these.” A new car and driver with orders to “be at Master Muharrem’s disposal all day, except prayer times,” permanently sets the perpendicular line of trepidation between his eyebrows. Again, the millstone is tugged as a reminder, “We know that these things entrusted to you will not distract you and you will use them for good deeds.” The marriage proposal is just one more blessing of which he does not believe himself worthy. Instead, he sets himself against the flow, denying his own needs and excusing his resistance as dedication to God’s mission.

This pious stand is undermined when he discovers hypocrisy related to money matters. Brother Rauf is his internal adviser, facilitating his transition and advising his activities. He is the one who pours confusion into Muharrem’s cup of fear, already overflowing. Rauf explains the rationale behind accepting rent from a man who drinks. Though against Muslim law, “he pays his rent on time,” therefore it’s okay to accept money from a sinner. “It’s his sin, may God forgive him.” Muharrem then suggests sending money to the bank electronically rather than standing in line to pay the electric bills. Rauf refuses, arguing that the banks make an impure profit through interest. “Then I’d rather get in line. It’s not fair to the others. We should respect our fellow creatures.” Rauf pulls the millstone, “You are using your time for God, not your own self ... This is not just a task. It’s a religious duty.” Muharrem’s cocktail of confusion, worry and anxiety is sipped with distaste, but is consumed nonetheless.

By the time Muharrem is confronted by his first major challenge, he is already standing at the brink. He meets a family of five, the husband is sick; the mother is out of work and can’t pay rent. When he presents the situation to the noble master, he is given a push and begins his decent. He must choose between compromising on the rent, or sending a seminary student away, one whose tuition is, by suggestion, paid by the rent. Because the noble master will not take that sin upon himself, he passes it on to Muharrem.  “Know that this is the very reason you were chosen for this mission. These are highly delicate issues, Muharrem. Beware!” This warning comes too late, as Muharrem doesn’t realize he is already falling, not consciously anyway. His unconscious is screaming at him. His dreams, that were initially merely wet, become more and more bizarre. He tries to seek interpretation from the noble master but he has entered into seclusion for 40 days. Muharrem crouches in the corner, praying incessantly as he faces the threatening “it” that existed within from the beginning, only now it’s all tangled up in the rope carrying the millstone.

Walking back to his old job, he is greeted by a stranger. “Hello, my pious friend. Is something the matter?”  Muharrem speaks the problem in one word – “Nothing” – that empty place in a lively mind where fear dwells and leaves room only for empty companions. Guilt enters his thoughts, “I’ve told so many lies. I’ve deceived so many people.”  Shame settles on his shoulders, “What have I done? How could I have done it?” He becomes drunk with this poisoning mix, the enemy’s concoction served to kill softly. Muharrem tries to regurgitate his rage against his own sin on his apprentice, but ends up talking to himself. “You’re all confused now. But pull yourself together. I know how you feel, like you’re going mad ... the only thing good about sin is the chance to repent ... but it doesn’t work, it’s not possible. There is always the devil. Maybe what we call the devil is mankind itself.” His circular thinking makes him dizzy. In the chaos, he loses perspective. When his dreams blur into reality, he collapses in the rain, trembling, crying. Fallen.
 
We are the only species that groans when we grow; what tree ever complained upon unfolding new leaves in spring? Seedlings do not shiver in trepidation at the formation of new buds. If anything, nature is flamboyant; it seems to rejoice in each season, exalting “Look at God’s Glory in me!” Yet, it is easy to understand why humans typically resist change. Soothed by stasis, habitual in our habitat, we resent interruption, even by God himself. Yet, the shake up almost always serves to strip us down to our core, the essence of who we are, so we might face ourselves honestly. Though uncomfortable, sometimes even painful, we must be stripped bare to see our nakedness. Only in this humble state can we be moved to evolve towards fullness. God can do nothing with a prideful person; only the humble can be transformed and used for greater purpose. Though Muharrem was humble, he was full of fear. His fear perverted his humility, thus restricting his purposefulness as if he were prideful. I have a fear of the ocean; I recognize her power to both sustain and destroy life. It’s a healthy respect. If, however, I were to fall to my knees in fear and trepidation every time I came within a mile of her presence, I would never get a chance to see the sea. My excessive fear would hinder my experience of witnessing God’s majesty. Muharrem suffers from this sort of excess, a level of extremism that goes beyond stripping, it completely destroys because it is not meant to be part of who we are; quite the opposite, extreme fear – terror – eats away at the lining of sanity, corrupts our sense of self in relation to God. There is no mercy or forgiveness.  No hope.  This is not God.  

This is probably why this film disturbed me so much. Muharrem is too much like me; the God in our minds couldn’t possibly love us enough, or be as long-suffering as we need. Because our god is so small, we do what God does not. We punish ourselves according to what we believe we deserve. Not only is this bad theology, it is detrimental psychology. Muharrem allowed a simple season of change to turn into a monstrous, life-altering force to resist and fight against. I, too, tend to complicate simple matters. By applying my own idea of who I am (whether puffed up or self-effacing,) I set up the change to occur within my understanding and comfort, thus limiting its transformative power. It is not the task itself, but my mind that creates a problem where there is none. I think too much. It’s as if I refuse to accept anything unless I have fully broken it down into its separate compartments. When did it become so natural to break things down, rather than let things be? Why does it seem perfectly reasonable to steal the joy from spring? Here’s my reasoning: Yes, it’s a new season, but with all that bountiful blooming comes allergies, which require medication, which often have side effects. The change cannot be enacted unless it is managed. A complete set of directives must be itemized and put in order before making a move. Shall I blame my culture for making everything so methodically mechanical? To the contrary, the age of mechanization is global, and external. My torment is personal and comes from within.

Yet, surely, there must be some form of control, a switch that orders the flow. For is God not also a creator of order? A season doesn’t just come, it is preceded by another. Before anything can grow, the soil must be prepared, the seed planted and tended, balanced with sufficient water, heat, and fertilizer. Take any one of these elements out of order and the seed struggles to sprout, if at all. The operative word here is balance, and this is precisely what Muharrem could not find. Thus, rather than growing into his new season, he entered a period of regression, both psychologically and spiritually, which ultimately immobilizes him physically. Few people are ever lost in one dramatic pitch over a cliff, rather we approach the abyss inch by inch, a slight variance here, a compromise there, each seemingly inconsequential in and of themselves.  Still, even when we are aware of how terribly close we are to the edge, we might teeter there, hesitant to move either way in fear that our own breath will blow us over. This is Muharrem’s torment, his tension constant, haunted by the power of his own words  – “I’m so scared of failing.” This declaration speaks against him, becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy. It was not the change, but his fear of change that cast him into the abyss, a lesson we would all do well to learn sooner, rather than when it is too late.

Comments

Wow. This is a piece of great insight and great writing.