Sitting on the dock.

Originally completed on 24th December 2022.

My interpretation: This piece is loosely inspired by the song sitting on the dock of the bay by Ottis Redding and the book voices by Ursula K LeGuin.

Setting: In the 10th century, the Maldives thrived as a Buddhist archipelago, its islands dotted with stupas and monasteries. The Maldivians revered the ocean, both as a life-giver and a capricious force, while their society thrived on trade routes linking Arabia, India, and Southeast Asia.

Catalysts of Change:

Trade and Cultural Exchange: Muslim merchants from Oman and Gujarat became frequent visitors, introducing not only spices and textiles but also stories of Islamic teachings. Their emphasis on egalitarian principles and communal solidarity intrigued local traders, who began adopting Arabic customs and script for record-keeping.

The Scholar-Princess: A pivotal figure emerged in Princess Aisha, daughter of King Dharmasena. Educated in Buddhist philosophy, she grew curious about the Quran after dialogues with a Persian trader, Rahim. He shared Sufi poetry that resonated with her belief in compassion, leading her to secretly convert. Her influence subtly shifted courtly attitudes.

Crisis and Revelation: A prolonged monsoon failure caused crop devastation. Buddhist monks prayed for rain, but desperation grew. Rahim’s community, practicing structured water conservation (inspired by qanats), shared resources with all islanders. Their resilience and the timely arrival of aid from Muslim allies in Hormuz deepened the king’s respect.

The Council of Waves: Aisha orchestrated a debate between Buddhist monks and Islamic scholars. The Sufi mystic Al-Farid spoke of Tawhid (oneness of God) mirroring the Buddhist concept of interdependence, while monk Ananda conceded that both traditions sought harmony. This philosophical bridge eased tensions.

Royal Decree: Moved by his daughter’s conviction and the merchants’ aid, King Dharmasena embraced Islam, declaring it the state faith in 1044 CE. He emphasized unity, retaining local customs like island guardianship (fandita) within Islamic practice. Monasteries were peacefully repurposed as mosques, their coral stone reused for minarets.

Legacy: Conversion was gradual, blending Maldivian identity with Islamic tenets. The archipelago became a hub of Sufi-Buddhist syncretism, celebrated in festivals honoring the ocean’s bounty. Today, the Maldives’ flag’s crescent moon nods not only to Islam but also to its lunar Buddhist heritage, symbolizing a seamless tide of change.

I don’t know the the sequence of it. Was it the fenfoah ruh? I am not sure. What seems evident now is that Yameen is out to change Male’ into something else that it wasn’t. Not with a vision for what it could be. But a vision for what it shouldn’t be: as it was before, evolving more or less with time and what it entails. This is an overhaul. Perhaps in the name of tharaggee. Getting rid of Lonuziyaaraiy kolhu is the last vestige of Old Male’ that remains.

The trees are gone. The trees that took years to grow, for strength to build, inside, the trees that slowly and steadily became a part of our mental geography of home, are gone. The mosques are going to be taken away. The mosques that decades of prayer and routine, belief and soul, are taken away. Yameen is shifting Maumoon’s structures around, from here to there, neither that relevant. The park is a joke. The park that was closed off for royalty for so long, then opened up, almost a metaphor for democracy now being replaced with these awful, plastic lights, these nausea of a place, I don’t know what to say

Yameen seems willing to be branded a madman to carry this out. I don’t know if he believes in sihuru or worse, but it seems like we’ve sat by and let him make an authoritarian nightmare out of Male’, while calling him a madman. A place bereft of memory or joy, just us now existing and walking and talking within a creation of baaghee envisioned tharaggee. A loveless boy who grew up in a mutant world now erasing all love for everyone else. Petty almost, perhaps. Or evil, the spread of lovelessness.  

My friend says he feels sorry for Yameen. He says Yameen was neglected and bullied by Maumoon and his father before that. Yes. i feel almost sorry for him also. but then I don’t have enough understanding in my repertoire of meaning - of being bullied or neglected - to reach that level of empathy. so i have to try to imagine that is how he has been made. But he is a sentient human being capable of intelligent thought and ability to be self-conscious and understand the meaning of his actions. And if god is love, Yameen lacks both.

My other friend says Yameenakee bodu vageh. Dhen thibeeves hus vagun. Male’ vagah nagaifi. Aharun mithibee gellifa. Viber ga kanneynge.

Another friend says he is a psychopath. And that is that. 

In the late eighties and early nineties, we walked on the seawalls around Male’ that lead to Lonuziyaaraiykolhu. My young cousin Nibu, who died when he was four, I remember walking with him a few months before he died. It was a strange, festive occasion because our entire family went. It began to rain while we were at raalhugandu, and we ran home.

It was usually just our grandfather, and all the grandchildren. It would be still dark when we set out, and then it would become light. Lonuziyaaraiykolhu was part of the routine. It was where we stopped to “get our feet wet” which would lead to other parts of the body, of course. My grandfather in his mundu, will stand with his arms crossed, while we ran around. We didn’t question his patience. It was just how things were. It is scraps and fragments of defined memory, but the inner things, feelings, associated with these scraps, they remain. Male’ is a part of the identity of all who have grown up here. It has its pull and it’s comfort of memory and familiarity.

Sure you can laugh at sentimentalism, because it is ‘randu’ or useless. but it is perhaps the heart-things that make people care and love. Sure you can be embarassed at emotion but it is this embarrassment that is making you stifle feelings that could lead to some kind of semi-constructive anger or sadness. Narratives of functionalism are a joke if there if it doesn’t account for the drive for function. In my mental geography, the image for Maldives machismo is a bunch of men sitting around in a circle around a table wanking each other off, or perhaps even trying to generate an erection at this point, with a cup of lavazza cooling in front of them. Theethi salhiey kiyan. Balaaehnnu.