The 11th-12th century polymath, Abu Hamid Ghazali (known in the mediaeval Latin West as Algazel, and sometimes as Algazelus), is recognised as a monumental philosopher, jurist, logician and mystic of the Islamicate world.

While he has been censured in our times on what many leading scholars consider flimsy grounds, in terms of his impact on the vicissitudes of the intellectual history of both Muslim societies and the West, Ghazali is forever carved in the philosophical consciousness of the two worlds.

Indeed, contemporary cutting-edge research has demonstrated compelling and fascinating parallels between this Persian polymath and at least two major world philosophers: the16th -17th century father of modern philosophy Rene Descartes is one of them; David Hume, the Scottish empiricist of the 18th century is another. One recalls that the well-known Orientalist, Montgomery Watt, told us that Ghazali has been considered the greatest Muslim after the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH).

But, apart from philosophy which generally deals with abstract issues, Ghazali more or less defines the present-day traditional thinking of Muslims. He is part of a truly massive Arabic textual tradition, both classical and early modern and yet, with this historic bulk today’s Muslim societies are hardly familiar.

This enveloping darkness is because of the language dispossessions of these societies, for people here are largely unable to read classical Arabic now. It is a profound irony that competence in standard Arabic (and classical Persian, for that matter) is to be found way more in the academic culture of the industrialised West than in Dubai or Pakistan.

Apart from philosophy which deals with abstract issues, Ghazali more or less defines the present-day traditional thinking of Muslims.

I recall teaching Ali Hujweri’s (Data Ganj Bakhsh) famous Kashf al Mahjoob [Revelation of the Veiled] in the original Persian at Brown University, a prestigious Ivy League institution. Most of my students were American (not Iranian) and they read Persian.

Painfully, this is something I have not been able to do in a country such as Pakistan, with its Arabo-Persian milieu and its mind-boggling Data Darbar throngs. In fact, there is a multiplicity of ironies here, for by far the best English translation of the Kashf is by a British scholar, Reynold Nicholson, the indefatigable translator/ editor of Jalaluddin Rumi. I myself studied Arabic under Professor Wolfhart Heinrichs at Harvard University, who was German, yet celebrated as the best Arabic philologist at the time.

Ghazali’s Ihya Ulum al Deen [Revivification of Religious Sciences] is generally considered to be his magnum opus. This work — so it is reported by scholars — became the most cited work among Muslims after the Holy Quran and Hadith.

This grand work, which originally spanned 40 volumes, is divided into four parts, each containing 10 books. The first book of the first part on Ibaadaat [Acts of Worship] is the Book of Knowledge. This book has been translated into English more than once: by N.A. Faris and by Kenneth Honerkamp, the latter published by Fons Vitae.

Now, the sixth section of this book carries the title ‘On the Evils of Knowledge, and on Determining the Distinguishing Features of the Learned Men of the Hereafter and Those of the Teachers of Falsehood’. Then in the very beginning of this section Ghazali quotes a Hadith thus: “The Prophet said, ‘The most severely punished of all men on the day of Doom will be the learned men’” (followed by the qualifying clause ‘whom God has not blessed with His knowledge’).

Certainly, a Hadith with an identical thrust is to be found in authentic collections, for example, in Sunan Tirmidhi. Ghazali reinforces the point by another Hadith: “No man will be learned unless he puts knowledge into practice.”

All of this is insistently reminiscent of what is perhaps Faiz Ahmed Faiz’s most popular poem, ‘Laazim hai ke…’ [surely, we shall also see]. Let me reiterate that this terrifying, apocalyptic poem of Faiz is soaked in Quranic imagery. It borrows — sometimes verbatim — its imagery of the impending doom from the Holy Quran’s 18th chapter, Al Kahf [The Cave]; 90th chapter, Al Zalzala [The Earthquake]; and 101st chapter, Al Qaariah [The Striking Calamity].

The pronouncement of God making the mountains disappear — and mountains flying away like shreds of cotton wool and the repetitive sound of the shaking earth’s doom — all of this is creatively lifted by the poet from these Quranic chapters. And for the largely unknown title of this strikingly powerful poem of Faiz — And will abide the face of your Lord — it is part of a Quranic verse, the 27th verse of the supremely sonorous Al Rahman [The Most Merciful], a chapter with inimitable rhythmic movements.

Given the environment of Faiz’s poem, it is highly plausible that, following Ghazali’s account of the doomsday, he spoke about the Ahl-i-Hikam [People of Wisdom], that is, scholars, philosophers and learned men who did not practice what they preached. This expression has been a stumbling block, often read with wrong vocalisation as Ahl-i-Hakam.

‘Hakam’ means arbiter or umpire, and ‘people of the Umpire’ makes no sense as an Arabic expression, but ‘people of wisdom’ does. It has much plausibility given the Ghazalian twilight in which we live, and the force of Correct Hadith that Faiz, with his competence in Arabic, did recognise.

It seems that it is for this reason that the expression was vocalised in Faiz’s collection, Nuskha Haye Wafaa, with a zer (i-vowel) appearing under the he/ha and a zabar (a-vowel) appearing above the kaaf. And this was done during the lifetime of its creator.

The case must come to rest here. Those who do not know Arabic and the Arabic textual legacy can hardly appreciate Faiz’s facility with this language and its colossal legacy.

The columnist is Dean of the Institute of Liberal Arts at the University of Management and Technology, Lahore, and chairs the Arts and Humanities Reviews Panel of the Pakistan HEC

Published in Dawn, Books & Authors, March 20th, 2022