The Hidden Wali of Asilah

by Peter Dziedzic (United States of America)

Making a local connection Morocco

After wandering the whitewashed alleys of Asilah on Morocco’s Atlantic coast for nearly an hour, I lost hope of finding the tomb of Sidi Monsour, the patron Sufi saint of the northern coast. In my effort to compile a modern pilgrim’s guide to the Sufi shrines of Morocco, the “country of saints” for Muslims around the world, I came in search of Sidi Monsour, an important wali, or a friend of God. Resting for a moment on the Portuguese-build ramparts, I watched as young men scoured the rocks below for mussels. I turned the corner and found a blue-rimmed dome rising from a rocky outcropping - Sidi Mansour. As I hurried along ramparts, an old and hunched man ascended and hobbled towards me, carrying a bag of couscous. I paused, and we exchanged greetings of peace. “As-Salaamu 'alaykum.” He threw the bag of couscous onto the rocks below, the tiny spheres of wheat scattering in the wind like hopeful seeds. “For the birds,” he said. “Ya sidi – Oh, sir - is this the tomb of Sidi Mansour?” I inquired. “I would like to visit. Is it possible?” “Of course – I am the guarding of this place. Come with me.” He took my hand and we made our way to the splintering, faded-blue door of the tomb. He drew a ring of rusting keys from the folds of his flowing jellaba and unlocked the door. We descended a flight of stone stairs and entered the resting place of Sidi Monsour. His tomb was wrapped in verdant cloth and the room smelled of mildew and perfume. We sat in the corner as the man recited a litany, or dhikr, with prayer beads. When he was finished, we spoke. His name was Ahmed, and he had spent several decades as the guardian of this shrine. When he learned about my work on the pilgrim’s guide, he smiled and reached for a wooden box beside the tomb. Ahmed withdrew a pile of yellowed papers, a dazzling assortment adorned with handwritten Arabic script - original prayers and poems graced the pages. Ahmed rocked as he recited from the pages. He pointed to a corner of the room and asked me to fetch something from the ledge: an inkwell with three hand-carved wooden quills. I brought it and he began a fresh page of text on the back of an ancient leaf of paper. It already bore a poem left unfinished several years ago. “The ink, it is from fish - the fish of this very sea,” he said as he motioned through the window to the lapping waves. With this inkwell and three worn wooden quills, he spent decades writing volumes of poetry in this very room with the blessing of Sidi Mansour’s presence. “From the page to your heart, sidi?” “Yes.” These were the texts he had memorized. The scraps of paper were merely the tools, the reminders. He could no longer read the pages, but the words blazed in his mind. Between his prayers at the local mosque, he spent his days at the shrine– reading, writing, praying, and welcoming pilgrims. He motioned to another box, under a pile of clothes, which contained hundreds of other pages – stacks of writings from decades past. There were several such boxes scattered across the sanctum. “The waves – what a beautiful dance!” he exclaimed after a moment of contemplation, “In all things is a reminder from your Lord. Do you not see? What is a single wave of this vast sea? It gathers, it crashes, and then it returns. All things return to unity.” We sat for some more time, absorbed in stories of the saints of Morocco, especially the life and miracles of Sidi Mansour. After an hour of stories and laughter, we faded into the stillness of dhikr, and I shared my intention to depart. Ahmed, with tearful eyes, gifted me a small text from the pile of worn pages – a collection of handwritten poems and prayers. “Take the blessing of Sidi Mansour with you, wherever you go.” We embraced, and Ahmed, the living and hidden wali of Asilah, remained seated in dhikr as I left, the warm sun and soft sound of Ahmed’s prayerful lips gracing my departure.