David Briars in Africa, Chapter 2: Resonance Above
For Sikh History Month.
February 16, 1866.
I find myself writing from a quiet corner beneath the awning of the mid-deck, the steady roll of the sea beneath me and the mingled scents of wood and seastained air all around me. It has only been a day since I left Ipswich, yet already things feel unfamiliar in the most welcome of ways. The followers of Waaqeffannaa aboard have welcomed me with a warmth I did not expect, though perhaps I ought to have. Among the many passengers aboard, I am one of very few not clothed in the white garb of the Oromo. My attire, the bana handed down through my family, sets me apart: a long kurta, loose trousers, heirloom kara at my wrist, and a tightly wound turban — simple, firm, and unadorned.
They rise early. I have watched them each morning greet the day with quiet reverence beneath the open sky. One man, an elder named Abba Tufan, explained that they do not pray to Waaqa, but with Him — a distinction that struck a chord with me. We were sitting on a rope bench as we discussed matters of faith with one another. Initially, I had asked him whether their morning prayer was fixed in a specific direction, as I had read before joining that the Oromo people also had many devout Oromo Muslims among them, besides the followers of Waaqeffannaa.
“No,” he said, “Waaqa is not found either here or there — Waaqa is everywhere. Why should we choose only one way or another only for ourselves to give thanks?”
“That reminds me of a teaching from my people,” I said, “Our leader, the Guru Granth Sahib, immediately speaks the phrase ‘Ik Onkar.’ It means ‘There is only One God,’ in the sense that this world, and everything within it, are always within Him and his domain. In my tongue we call this God Waheguru. We are all as children in Waheguru’s lap, and so we chant the name of truth in praise to Him.”
Abba Tufan nodded slowly, a smile forming through his heavy and grey beard. “You speak of these things like ‘Ik Onkar’ and ‘Waheguru’ as the name of truth,” he said. “We say ‘Waaqa Tokkicha’ to mean the same, ‘One God.’ Waaqa Tokkicha and Ik Onkar — one and the same, are they not?”
“Perhaps we tread side by side along the same spiritual path, separated by distance it seems, but never by heart,” I replied with a smirk. Indeed, I talked with him much more on matters of faith and found myself continually astounded at the staggering amount of common spiritual ground that could be found between us. In the end, he laughed and clapped me on the back, calling me dhala obboleessa — ‘child of my brother’ A warm title, one he has used often since.
Abba Tufan spoke of Ayyaana, unseen forces that guide and dwell in people, animals, trees, and rivers. Neither he nor I pretend to know the fullness of the mystery of creation, but the fact that God is found to be pervasive is agreed upon between us. The Oromians’ generosity is remarkable. I had brought with me dried fruits and biscuits from England, and found them quickly exchanged and traded for warm, spiced flatbreads baked on a small stone griddle they had brought aboard. A boy named Galchu gave me a carved gourd filled with cool, sweet water mixed with a herb I could not identify. Such a concoction cleared my head and settled my stomach in a way no tincture could. And I have rendered myself useful for their kindness in return, mending a torn prayer cloth for them with thread I keep in my satchel, sharpening a man’s knife with a small stone I once found in my youth and always kept in my pocket. Above all the things I have experienced thus far, I must say that I enjoy the laughter the most. The Oromo rarely talk over one another, nor seek to be first in a discussion. When one narrates, others listen with reverence, only nodding or humming low in agreement. When I offered to tell the tale of how I tricked a thief in Ipswich with his own handwriting, they listened with respect and good intent. In the quiet of evening, Abba Tufan gave me a few words in his tongue, and asked for some in mine. I told him Waheguru, and he repeated it, slowly, smiling. He offered back Waaqayyo, and we both sat, two believers with different words for the same silence. The sea still carries us onward, our journey having only just begun, and I feel less like a foreigner each hour. It is truly a wonderful thing.
To be continued…
