The Dungeon

The guide leads us down a dark hall into a chamber with no light or exit. The floor changes from cobble stone to a dark brownish hard clay-like material. A British man asks, "how many Africans came through this dungeon? The guide responds, "at least two million." That number reverberated through my body as I griminced at the shear magnitude of what happened in this place. All of my readings and presumptions of the slave dungeons did not prepare me for my first hand viewing.

The slave dungeon at Cape Coast, Ghana is the largest slave dungeon built in West Africa. It remained in operation for over 300 years in the business of human theft and destruction. The journey for captured Africans did not begin in the dungeon. Many Africans were captured in what is today called Nigeria. Captured Africans would be marched in chain links 300 miles to the coasts of Ghana. They were hearded with the care of unwanted cattle, beaten, unclean, their bloodied bodies forced on this death trek. The strong survived, the weak killed. On arrival in Ghana, they would receive their only washing. Covered in blood, urine and feces, dehydrated and near death, the survivors would be marched into a river, changing it's blueish-green color to one of brownish-red. The river is now referred to as "Blood River". If you survived the walk then you were 'welcomed' to the dungeon.

Words can't capture the emotions that attack your spirit the moment you step into the dungeon. A peculiar stinch addresses your nose as you hesistantly walk down into the male dungeon. You attempt to rationalize with yourself that the smell must be because the building is old but you quickly realize the worst. The floor which was once dirt and gravel is now a cement of compressed excrement, urine and blood. Captives were packed in like 'sardines' with no place to move. They were kept in rooms filled with bodily waste for months, were allowed limited movement and on occassion hearded into a small room with a single window to see the light of day.

I could go on. I could describe the women's quarters, who suffered in worst conditions and were subjected to rape and death if pregnant. This was a crime against humanity, the African and God that continued for 400 years. There is absolutely nothing humane about the dungeon...nothing. Our small, diverse tour group were mostly silent and introspective. We would ask pertinent questions followed by sighs of disbelief.

In each room I prayed. I prayed for the mother, the father, the son, the daughter. I prayed for every one of the 2 million Africans that were held here. I prayed for those that survived and those that didn't. I prayed for the families from which they were taken. As heavy as my heart had become, overwhelmed with emotion, as we arose from the dungeon into the clean African ocean air, I took a deep breath and thanked God. I thanked God for my ancestor who survived. My ancestor who survived the walk to "Blood River", who survived months in the dungeon, who survived the middle passage and 400 years of slavery in America.

We left the Cape Coast with a feeling of purpose. There's a reason for our being. It may not be for us to just exist in the comforts of our 'world' but to offer a contribution to make it better. At least that's what the ancestors told me as we drove off.

Ghana Jalsa

The two lane road is backed up like taxis in Times Square, "what is all this traffic?", I ask our driver, he responds, "Jalsa!" We continue to inch forward to arrive at a large white fence, Ghanain flags and a sea of people. The Khuddam stand post at the huge black gate, they verify our VIP then two young men open the doors to the campus. All I could manage was Allahu Akbar, 'God is Great', as my breath was taken away for what laid upon my eyes.

People who have witnessed this marvelous event, have always expressed such deep emotions in their descriptions. They would attempt to explain the magnitude, the spiritual energy, the sheer visual beauty but all fail to do it justice. As an African-American muslim, it is the most surreal feeling to be in the midst of African people celebrating Islam as it has been inherently passed down to them from the time of the Prophet of Islam. The order of the Khuddam as they go through their protocols like a well-trained military corps. The Ameer of Ghana greeting his guest in his formal african 'whites' with thousands more laced in african clothing, at a level of sharpness the american eye has never seen. Behind this buffet of order and beauty, the melodious sound of singers serenading praises to the Most High. Their African harmonies reminiscent of the most southern black gospel choirs. To justifiably explain this awe-inspiring event is virtually impossible.

As the Ameer and guests make their way to the front stage, cheers of 'Allahu Akbar', 'Oninche' and 'Onkwoso' are harmoniously song in response by a crowd large enough to fill a football stadium. The men raising their hands with bright smiles and the women waving handkerchiefs in the air all greet the stage-party. As the VIPs take the stage the singers return to lay another soul-stirring 'jam' on the crowd. They cheer, sing along, and are in complete joy as God is praised in their native tongues. It's an African 'tent' revival going on live!

The VIPs speak with passion of attending Ahmadiyya schools when they were young and to now holding government offices. They speak of the community work that is being done in Ghana; the schools, hospitals, farming, the good people, etc. A greeting from the President of the country is read by his representative. Then another song. The Ameer addresses the crowd and officially opens the Jalsa..then another and another song. The energy is unreal. I'm so excited I find myself cheering in song with the rest of my sisters and brothers as if my soul had returned home and remembered all of this.

Equality of men and women in Ghana is openly practiced. Men and women marquis' stand side-by-side giving both sexes equal view of the stage and activities. I can't explain the beauty in prayer when lines are formed in the designated areas but quickly overflow into the street and parking lot. No hesitation as prayer rugs are layed in unison covering the grounds. Finding some cover under a row of palm trees, shoulder-to-shoulder I stood linked with my African family...Allahu Akbar!

Each day goes on like the above, every moment we enjoy while hoping to decipher a way to package it all and bring home. Some things I choose not to disclose because it is so uniquely African, it's like a pureness that should never become tainted even by the least misunderstanding. In Ghana, we all are family, equal in every way. I've ofter imagined what Islam must have been like during the days of the Prophet...I no longer need to imagine but just remember this experience at the Ghana Jalsa.

I have to mention, having the honor to speak was like a dream. Nothing happens by chance and whatever reason God brought me to Ghana. I spoke just before the Ameer with the crowd at full attention. I spoke of my return being the answer of the prayers raised from the hulls of slave ships. I spoke on how the return to Africa has taken 400 years. I spoke of my Ummi, who has passed on. I thanked them...I thanked God. As I ended with a prayer for them and for Ghana, loud cheers and song rang throughout the campus. I became filled with emotion and thought of my Ummi and told her...thank you!

The Jalsa ended with the Ameer of Ghana delivering an inspirational, powerful speech. He spoke with bravado and conviction, inspiring the crowd with love and purpose. Deep into the night the cheers continued until the mahgrib and insha prayers were called. The 2011 Ghana Jalsa is over...now I can only think...how can I get back next year! Allahu Akbar!

Akwaaba - Welcome Home.

Among the backdrop of red clay dirt, a Saharan sand-dusted sky, hearty green bushes and trees, reside the most color-filled people of God’s earth. The people of Ghana, with their deep, rich, brown skin tones, adorned with bright, colorful, handmade batiks create a soul-stirring landscape that sings to your spirit…God is here.

Ghana, which is the name given to the former Gold Coast by Dr. Kwame Nkrumah is Arabic for independent. The name was given in 1957, when Ghana gained its independence from British colonization. I’ve been forever anxious to know what it would be like be in a place where everyone was Black like me. In a country that is independent of systemic racial oppression and white supremacy. I wondered what would be the psychological status of a people that have never known ‘willie lynch’. My inbred American complexes would have me to believe it would be like the old Tarzan movies full of bush and animals roaming. Or like the way the lady at the place who provided our shots, cautioned us of the numerous infectious diseases and not to eat fruit or anything indigenous or not stamped by the FDA. I even wondered would their be militants running the streets like in every African nation according to CNN…and oh yea, the monkeys…that is another story.

My anxiety grew as we crossed the great Atlantic, then the mighty Alps and finally the incomparable Sahara Desert. In flight, I pondered making this journey in the days of old. How many a soul lost attempting to cross this vast land. I thought of my brothers and sisters who have longed to make this journey, those who will one day and those who will not. I focused on the blessing presented to me and opened my soul to receive whatever good would be awaiting.

I clearly remember waking just at the moment we hit the land shores of Africa. From 25,000 feet it was just as magnificent a moment as I imagined. An excitement of energy resonated throughout my body as I attempted to contain my emotions…I’m flying over Africa. The land from where all of my historical and spiritual contexts were born. What an amazing feeling to return to the place where my ancestors lived since creation. I could almost hear the angels running to those souls, the souls that prayed in the hulls of slave ships and plantations, longing for their children to one day return home. ‘We’re here baby!’ I told my wife as we landed. The plane door opened to reveal a greeting of tropical ocean air and heat. I inhaled the air of my homeland and I prayed the angels to tell my direct ancestors, the ones whose blood run through my very veins, tell them…Hafiz is home. Now the story begins….