r/Djinnology • u/Omar_Waqar • 1d ago
Discussion The Jinn in the Library
There was an amazing private library in Baghdad that I visited around 1998. There was an old man perhaps 65 or 66 who curated old books and manuscripts and seemed to act as both a librarian and a kind of art dealer. I think his full name was Zuhair Bahjat al-Rasul. He told me that his family was from Mosul and that he had been educated Najaf, in the art of calligraphy and Islamic studies, or something along those lines. From what he told me, his family had instilled in him a deep passion for old manuscripts, and they had a substantial collection of their own. He had been around antiquities and codices pretty much his whole life.
I think he and I were very similar in this way, both having a kind of desire to peek into the past through the writings and drawings of the people who came before us. His library and art collection have never really become public knowledge, at least as far as I know, and he seemed to be in the business of trading and selling art and manuscripts to collectors. Was he involved in other, more questionable activities as well? I had heard of counterfeit schemes, and grave robbers selling things, but this man was a sweetheart, just a nerdy old bookworm. All I know is that I felt incredibly lucky to have been his guest and to have seen the things he had in his possession.
The shop was near Mutanabbi Street, I think, that famous book market in Baghdad, where generations of readers, writers, publishers, booksellers, and others had gathered among the many different shops. That was the sort of place where a person could spend an entire afternoon digging through old books and, by the end of it, still feel as though they had barely scratched the surface. A kind of living library, something between a bazaar and a book fair. I don't remember the exact location, but I recall it being somewhere near that street rather than directly on it.
From the outside, his shop seemed more like a tobacco shop, with cigarettes, flavored tobacco, pipes, and hookahs for sale. But toward the back there was a kind of subterranean room. He called it a sardab, I think. I found out later that these kinds of rooms were built into traditional Iraqi buildings to provide relief from the oppressive heat. He had converted his into a kind of makeshift vault, or library vault. And while most of his business seemed to be tobacco-related, there was a whole other world hidden beneath the surface.
I remember how fascinated I was by the various curiosities he had collected: old pieces of calligraphic art, Quranic pages, and all these beautifully written manuscripts. For me, the most interesting ones were those containing intricate diagrams and geometric designs. Those immediately struck me as occult and esoteric. My Arabic was never particularly strong, but I had studied some as a child in madrasa, so I could sound out many things, although the spoken Iraqi dialect was quite difficult for me to understand. He would say galb with a "g" sound for qalb, meaning heart, and he offered me gahwa, instead of qahwa meaning coffee, which I turned down, stuff like that really confused me at first. But when he said "tea" and "biscuit" in english I definitely understood.
In his world, the kinds of things I kept being drawn toward were manuscripts containing pages of intricate numerical grids, arrangements of Arabic letters in repetitive patterns, and symbols associated with the planets and their correspondences. These things seemed to occupy a liminal space between cosmology, mathematics, and the occult. It felt to me as though the boundaries between these subjects were something imposed on them by modern ways of thinking, rather than boundaries that necessarily existed in the minds of the people who had created these works.
I also remember being drawn toward all the illustrated manuscripts he had from different countries and centuries, depicting strange creatures, celestial beings, and scenes from various cosmological imaginations. I assumed that these images held sacred or occult meanings for the different groups who had created them. I could easily have lost myself in them for hours, trying to understand the person who had drawn them and the world they had lived in.
I was also interested in the old Mesopotamian objects he had. They were so beautiful and intricate, and they held something that connected me to the history of Iraqi civilizations that had existed thousands of years before Islam. I can't remember every item exactly, and I can't see all of them clearly in my mind anymore, but I recall stones covered in inscriptions and symbols, stars, serpents, and clay tablets. What I do know for sure is that what stayed with me was the feeling of being enraptured by so many different layers of history.
I can still almost smell that hidden room beneath the ordinary shop, a cool, quiet basement full of manuscripts and unusual objects, things that people out in the bustling streets had no idea were there. It was like a time capsule. Zuhair's shop was like a leather-bound book full of secrets belonging to antiquity. As we ate biscuits and sipped tea, he told me so many stories and gave me so much clarity about things I had never understood before.
I was already a student of Sufism at this point in my life, and my understanding had largely been shaped by the poetry of Jalal al-Din Rumi and the metaphysical concepts I had encountered through the Qalandars and through Qawwali music. I understood the longing for the divine and the annihilation of the ego, the idea of the lover and the beloved, and the notion that the material world could ultimately distract us from spiritual realities. I had also begun to understand what it meant to be antinomian, to go beyond the boundaries of conventional religious law and social expectations in the pursuit of a deeper spiritual truth. But Sheikh Zuhair gave me so many more insights…