Reflections on a Spring in Van
I am presently in the Turkish city of Vān. It is a Kurdish region, situated right next to the border of Iran. I have come here in connection with a session of the European Fiqh Council. Apparently this is an assembly of scholars, the kind of gathering in which the knots of questions are untied, the lamps of proofs are kindled, and reconciliation is sought between the dictates of reason and the transmissions of revelation. Yet life itself is a strange madrasah. At times a single brief incident imparts the lesson for which voluminous tomes are blackened; and occasionally, on the bank of a spring, man may behold—along with his intellectual grandeur—his psychological frailty.
On 27 October 2026 we were taken for a tour of the historical sites of Vān. In the atmosphere of this city there is a silent sobriety of history. The mountains stand as though they were philosophers of bygone centuries who have seen much, heard much, but now prefer to keep silent rather than comment upon the antics of mankind.
We visited the mosque of the renowned reformer Badīʿ al-Zamān Nursī, God have mercy on him, situated at the foot of a mountain. Shaykh Nursī taught here for many years. On the mountain there is also a cave in which he would retire for spiritual seclusion. The very thought of that cave invites a person to reflection: far from the clamour of the world, within the silence of the mountain, a human being hears the voice of his own interior, converses with his nafs, and in the quest for reality seeks to sift the dust of his desires.
What a remarkable phenomenon is khalwah! Some ascend into solitude in order to subdue their nafs; others, amidst the crowd, remain subdued at the hands of the same nafs. One person climbs the mountain and grasps the reality of the world; another, standing at the foot of the mountain, forgets the reality of his own desires. The place is one and the same, yet the angles of the gazes differ: someone beholds therein the sky of thought, while someone else sees an opening of fortune.
At the foot of this very mountain flows a sweet spring. The water is pure, crystal-clear and pleasant. People drink from it, perform wuḍūʾ with it, and quench their thirst. Providence has caused a fountain of water to gush forth from the stony breast of the mountain—as though upon the forehead of stone a luminous inscription of life has been written.
When we arrived there, our guide began to speak about the spring. I imagined he would discuss its historical background, the qualities of its water, or the civilisational traditions of the area. But the real disclosure was still veiled behind his speech. The guide, adopting a somewhat mysterious tone, said:
“It is well-known here that whoever drinks from this spring ends up getting married in the city of Vān!”
At that, what remained? History turned over a page for a moment, philosophy removed its spectacles, and human desire produced from its pocket a cup.
The spring which, a few moments earlier, was merely a source of water suddenly became a source of nuptial arrangements. Within its water, not only mineral elements but also possibilities of the future now began to swim. It was as though, at the foot of the mountain, an unofficial marriage registry had opened; the only difference being that here one needed neither to fill in application forms, bring witnesses nor curry the favour of some office clerk. Simply drink a cup of water and receive from the post-office of destiny the hopeful letter of a bride or groom!
I observed that those whose glances until now had been indifferent to the water of the spring suddenly found within themselves an ocean of spiritual thirst. The water was the same, the spring the same, the stones the same, yet the news had changed. It became clear that the value of water is not determined by its purity, but by that benefit which happens to fit a compartment of our desire.
Now every face bore a new radiance. Someone filled a goblet, someone drank with cupped hands, and perhaps someone, thinking along such lines, took an extra sip as well: frugality is no virtue in matters of destiny. After all, the question was of marriage! And not in just any town, but in Vān! When the stamp of fate can be affixed by a single mouthful, who would bother submitting an application in the office of reason?
Then began the most delightful chapter of the scene. Every person was drinking the water whilst simultaneously declaring that he placed no faith in that legend!
What a splendid condition! The hands were testifying, the tongue was denying; the act was clinging to hope, whilst the intellect, standing at a distance, was offering explanations to save its honour. It was as though man had divided his existence into two halves: one said, “All this is nonsense”; the other replied, “Quite so, but what harm lies in a sip?”
Reason presented its argument, desire sought concession; reason said, “There is no proof,” desire responded, “And what need is there of proof when the experiment is so inexpensive?” Then, silencing the intellect, the cup was lifted to the lips.
Our desires, indeed, are skilful advocates; they never allow their client to accept defeat. If the argument is weak, they summon hope as a witness; if no witness is available, they produce a tradition; and if the chain of that tradition is sought, they promptly say: “Well, it is famous, is it not!”
By the side of the spring no one took the trouble to inquire about the source of this report. Who first made the claim? What proof supports it? How many drank the water and how many were married in Vān? As for those whose marriage was not concluded in Vān, had they drunk less water, or had the water itself refused to offer its services?
If the spring does indeed possess such efficacy, the water-supply department of Vān ought to commission a formal survey of its utility. For marriage registrars, wedding halls and matchmaking agencies, this could even represent an extraordinary economic threat. After all, when a single cup of water can accomplish so great a task, why should parents spend years searching for proposals, youths engage themselves in the circles of education and employment, and families spend their time scrutinising one another?
It is possible that tomorrow the water of this spring will be bottled and reach the global market under the name: “Vān Marriage Water”. In the advertisement a handsome couple would stand hand in hand, mountains in the background, and beneath would be written: “One sip of hope, one step towards wedlock!” In fine print on the margin: “No guarantee of results; other social, economic and human factors may also be operative in concluding marriage.”
We reject an ancient report simply by calling it baseless, yet embrace a modern claim merely because it comes with an English name, an attractive advertisement, or the photograph of a celebrity. Thus, if superstition dons an old cloak it is labelled a myth, but when it wears a new suit it becomes an ‘opportunity’, a ‘trend’ and a ‘strategy’!
The spring of Vān did not teach me that people ought not to drink water; rather, it showed me how readily man closes the door of evidence and opens the window of hope for the sake of his desire. That which we seek, around that object we begin weaving the web of our logic. Desire places a coloured glass upon the eye of the mind such that even a baseless notion appears charming.
That day I felt that jahl is not always the absence of knowledge. Jahl remains alive even when knowledge is present, but its voice is suppressed before desire. A person knows that a matter is unfounded, yet still acts upon it; denies it with the tongue, yet confirms it with the hand; rejects it in the mind, yet in the heart prays for its fulfilment—then the issue is no longer one merely of information, it becomes a question of human psychology.
Here my thoughts turned to the khalwah of Shaykh Nursī: the house upon the mountain where a man, alone, devoted himself to contemplation, and below, the spring where a group of people were busied in slaking the thirst of their aspirations. On one side, the vision of disciplining the nafs; on the other, the hope of gratifying the nafs. On one side, the quest for reality; on the other, the certification of desire.
Perhaps this is the greatest irony of the journey: we set out in search of knowledge, yet a spring showed us how, in matters of longing, man at times prefers to remain ignorant. The tongue says, “I have no certainty,” the heart says, “Yet there is hope,” and the thirsty of desire fill their cups saying, “As a precaution, let us take one more sip!”
