#41: Travelogue: Ansari

By Bilal Bikile

Phnom Penh, Cambodia. 2019.

My father insisted that I, upon my arrival to Cambodia, be diligent in finding a Muslim driver. My father, a taxicab owner, has been self-employed for a greater portion of his life and understands first-hand the benefits and struggles of such an occupation. The position exposes him to a variety of people who come with their own moral codes, quirks, beliefs, and differences, providing room for both debate and discord in an Islamophobic world. However, having a Muslim customer establishes a foundation of comfort and connection that is both genuine and reassuring. He appreciates anytime someone recommends his services for the sole reason that he is an honorable Muslim. The sense of community Islam creates places requirements upon individuals towards their Muslim brothers and sisters. It establishes an unmatched solidarity allowing one to rely upon their brother/sister, as much as or even more than they would their own blood. Comfort and brotherhood in the religion do not stem from a place of color, nationality, or interests, but solely on the fact that two people believe in the same, one God.

Cambodians primarily drive Tuk Tuks – not your average taxis or Ubers, as they, like many Southeast Asian and African countries, provide transportation using these three wheeled motorbike/car hybrid machines, with 2-3 seats in the back, a roof for shelter from the assaulting heat and pounding rains, four doored or door-less entryways depending on the driver’s styling of the vehicle and steering mechanisms quite similar to that of a bike or scooter. So when my father reminded me many times to find a driver, both before I left California, and over the phone in Phnom Penh, I repeatedly agreed that I would do so, with no real idea as to how I would go about it. But as is the case in many situations, Allah provides from where we know not.

*

   During my first week in Phnom Penh, I discovered Masjid Al-Serkal. Gifted by the Al-Serkal family of the United Arab Emirates, it was a grand building, with the finest Ottoman inspired architecture, palm trees and greenery at its exterior, aqua blue, white and cream tile design, and a massive interior, with azure and cream carpeting. Extravagant adornments and an elegant chandelier swung beneath the arc windowed dome. The masjid appeared out of place, for one must drive down crowded, bumpy city streets and trek through a dirt field before facing this monumental establishment. The donated construction of the masjid explained the apparent displacement of it, similar to the closed off housing units Cambodians and Chinese would build in the most run down areas of the city.

 Construction must begin somewhere, however. As in many ways, the emergence of this masjid served as a necessary catalyst, creating and fostering a cultural center, halal restaurants, Muslim owned businesses, and a thriving community within its vicinity. Still a fairly new addition to the city, the foreign aspect of the masjid also gave reason to the many Arabs and diversified crowds that would attend the prayers and Jumu’ah khutbahs. This became the place I would go to meet other Muslims, from India ,Somalia, Yemen and Bangladesh.

   My colleague, B, and I went to observe the masjid together on our lunch break one day. Looking especially touristy, sporting our 35-millimeter film cameras, backpacks, and what resembled floral button up shirts, we walked through the dirt field parking lot to the bottom of the marble staircase. Standing on tiles surrounded by grass, enamored by the beauty of this structure, and its abundance of green in such a polluted, mechanical city, the time for Dhuhr had just come in with the call of the athan, and people were beginning to arrive for the prayer. We stood outside taking turns shooting pictures of one another. 

   It had been my turn to take her portrait, and as I held the viewfinder to my eye, a Cambodian man, sporting a salmon colored cold towel over his head to combat the heat, an airy light blue button up shirt, loose fit khaki slacks and slippers, looked directly into my lens and walked into the frame. I set the camera down out of respect, to let it be known that he would not be in my picture. And as I set it down upon my chest, he looked at me, and we locked eyes. He wore an odd smirk on his face as he walked in the direction of the masjid foyer. I could not decipher the gesture, but simply let it be, as we were in a foreign environment, and odd happenings were bound to take place.

   B waited in the women’s musallah as I made wudu and joined the congregation in prayer. Upon finishing, I sat for a while, allowing the masjid to clear of people returning to their day jobs. And as it was Ramadan, I prayed some voluntary sunnah prayers so that I could enhance my number of good deeds for the day.

   I finished praying and turned up to an empty masjid, aside from one individual who remained, sitting at the very corner of the large brown exit doors. I approached the exit of this massive structure to slowly distinguish in the distance the man from my viewfinder with the salmon colored towel on his head.

   He stared at me with a look of confusion, skepticism, or intrigue – which look I could not tell. As I am not one to back down from a stare-off with strangers, I walked directly up to him, and said, “Assalamu alaikum” (Peace be upon you), and immediately, it seemed as if I had passed some kind of test as his true character embraced my being. His face lit up with the most beautiful smile as he replied, “Wa Alaykum as Salam brother!” (And peace be upon you).

   As we shook hands he did not let go, for he was sitting and I was standing above him. He then did what many ethnic elder men do, in that he pulled on my arm slowly and firmly enough to make me sit down beside him, literally strong-arming me into a conversation.

   He asked me where I was from, and so, naturally, we discussed California, the U.S, Trump – all the normal stuff news-watching foreigners talk about with Americans visiting their country. In the back of my mind I was aware of B, waiting for me to join her for lunch, but my conversation had seemed too important to escape. I did not go out seeking an acquaintance, nor did I arrive at the masjid with the intention of social interaction. All I wanted to do was pray.

*

   In the early years of Prophet Muhammad’s (ﷺ) prophethood, the people of Mecca became hostile and violent towards the Muslims. They did not support nor respect the concept of Islam for it directly contradicted the beliefs of their forefathers and they especially did not like that Muhammad (ﷺ) was preaching such a radical belief of monotheism to a polytheist society.

   Allah commanded Muhammad (ﷺ) through revelation and the Qur’an, that he and the Muslims take a chance at migration – for their safety, their religion, and to spread the message of Islam. This historical event, known as the hijrah, marks the beginning of the contemporary Islamic calendar. There was a small group of Muhammad’s (ﷺ) companions who went on this migration. And there was one follower, one of the first to accept this message of Islam, and a close companion to the Prophet Muhammad (ﷺ), who was named Bilal.

   Before becoming one of the most instrumental figures and leaders in Islam, Bilal-ibn-Rabah was an Abyssinian slave, who had been bought and freed by Abu Bakr, the closest companion of Muhammad (ﷺ) and father of Muhammad’s (ﷺ) wife, Aisha. He was freed after he was publicly tortured for believing in Allah. Bilal’s tyrannical master, Umayyah bin Khalaf, laid him out on the hot bare desert sand of Mecca, placing massive rocks onto his chest which would restrict his breathing. He would also humiliate him by tying rope around his neck and dragging him throughout the city of Mecca demanding that he renounce Islam, however, every time his master struck him, tortured, or applied more pressure on him, commanding him to leave his religion and accept polytheism, Bilal’s only response would be “Ahad un Ahad”, (one, only one (God)).

This man, an Abyssinian, which was the ancient name for the Habesha (from modern day Ethiopia), travelled alongside Muhammad (ﷺ) and the other followers. Upon safe arrival to the city of Medina, following the migration, the Muslims looked to settle with the help of the locals. And it was here, that they met the Ansaris, a group from Medina who willingly took them in, housed them and made sure of their safety during one of the harshest times for Muhammad (ﷺ) and the Muslims. These people became brothers and sisters to them, as they accepted Islam themselves and protected the Prophet Muhammad (ﷺ), as well as Bilal and the other companions.

*

   That day, in Masjid Al-Serkal, I sat with this brother, who in some ways, reminded me of my father. He was possibly in his late 40s, early 50s. I learned he was the father of multiple children, that he had a son close in age to me. He spent most of our conversation giving me advice that I did not exactly need, or so I thought. He made himself available to me, in the way Muslim brothers/sisters are supposed to, comforting the individual to let them know they have a support system aside from family if need be.

We spoke for at least 20 minutes, my colleague still outside, waiting, before I asked him for his name. When he told me, “Ansari,”I accepted it blindly without reflection. Yet, when I replied with the Arabic pronunciation of my name, ‘Bilal,’he reacted in such a way that initially threw me off. His eyes lit up in astonishment and he simply couldn’t believe what was happening before us. And when I could not seem to understand, he took my hand in his shaking it once again, placing his other hand to his chest eagerly explaining that his name was Ansari, and mine Bilal, just like the stories of the Prophet (ﷺ).

   Not only was this brother Cambodian, Muslim, and bearing the name of the people who supported the Prophet Muhammad (ﷺ) and his companions after hijrah, but he asked me where I was going as we got up to leave. He informed me he was a Tuk Tuk driver, the very head and founder of the Muslim Tuk Tuk driver initiative there in Phnom Penh. I simply could not believe it. Of the hundreds of men who walked into the masjid that day, this man was the busiest of them, yet was the one I was left alone with in this congested city. I exited the masjid that day with Ansari, who along with becoming my confidant, teacher, and friend, became my designated driver to any place I needed to go. Just like that, I stumbled across my very own Ansari, who took me in during my travels.

* 

   To this day, I have not met another man by the name Ansari besides him. He took the place of my family–my father, and my brothers–while I was away, for which I am grateful, as it is all too easy to stumble when one separates himself from those who who bear similar values and beliefs as oneself. He’d refer to me as Bilal Al-Habeshi, a nickname given to the Bilal of the Prophet’s (ﷺ) time. It became clear to me then why the Prophet (ﷺ) commanded we name our children after good people and things, for over time, they tend to grow into what that name and its origins always represented.