Ancient Free Moorish Rite Online

In The Beginning

       To be sure, while these Moorish lodges represented a change on the Masonic horizon, as regards image and practice, they retained the ancient landmarks and certain usages and customs of conventional Freemasonry, essentially operating under Scottish Rite charters issued by Bro. Hazel Bey 33/96°.

        When Master Mason Bro. Aalim Bey met Clifford E. Hazel Bey through his membership in a Moorish lodge in Brooklyn, New York, there were a handful of  Moorish lodges operating in embryonic stages under Hazel Bey's authority at the time. Meanwhile, having invested countless hours of in-lodge and private instruction to these Moorish Masonic cells, Hazel Bey strategically poised his constituencies for the next phase of Moorish Freemasonry.

         Master Mason Nasr-Qahhar:Ali was a young Freemason, outspoken and endowed with a keen sense of protocol. He was also a member of the Brooklyn lodge with Bro. Aalim Bey. Bro. Nasr exhibited rousing Masonic potential and caught the favorable eye of Hazel Bey, who adopted him as a favorite Spiritual Son. Thus, Nasr Ali factored significantly into Hazel Bey's plans. All were aware that Hazel Bey was ultimately constructing something more monumental than Moorish lodges; to be sure, something closely related, but none knew what exactly. Few had ideas. Bros. Nasr and Aalim both nurtured hunches that whatever Hazel Bey was planning, it was something big regarding Freemasonry and Moors.

       As it became perspicuous to Aalim Bey that his eight years of Freemasonry, and, his study diligence proved to be continual source of friction for some of the lesser informed and lesser invested brethren in his Moorish lodge, he strongly considered demitting. Moreover, as both Brothers, Nasr and Aalim, caught hold of Hazel Bey's vision, it became clear that others were hesitant, unwilling or simply emotionally unprepared to move forward accordingly. Finally, owing to unfounded hostilities directed at Aalim Bey from within the lodge membership, which fostered an unbearably uncomfortable environment for him and others, he found himself in a dim quandary and resolved to demit from the lodge. Nasr Ali, also feeling great unrest in the lodge, determined also to demit. In late July of 1998, Bros. Aalim Bey and Nasr Ali demitted from the lodge, vacating the seats of Secretary and Treasurer, respectively.

 

       In late July 1998, Bros. Bey and Ali, heartily desiring to realize a fully evolved Moorish lodge functioning in a distinct Moorish Freemasonic capacity, erected with integrity and reflecting all the virtue of a just and perfect conventional Freemason's lodge, and squaring accurately with Bro. Hazel Bey's vision, jointly pettitioned the Sovereign Grand Commander for a charter.

       One splendid afternoon in August 1998, Aalim Bey sat with Bro. Hazel Bey and they talked privately about the petition. Now; here is where the tale really spins the yarn of history and immortality. Pay strict attention, for hidden within the next account, are jewels for the ages, keys to answers and questions about the Moorish Rite. Here goes: Bro. Hazel Bey, in Oz's Wizard fashion, said that he would grant our request for a charter, but that we must first perform seven essential tasks (all of which won't necessarily be revealed here—and no; he didn't ask us to fetch any witch's broomstick; that would have been a cinch compared to the magnitude of his demands). These involved mostly entensive research on Moorish and Freemasonic history, and furnishing specific documents based on our findings. He was after specific historical relics, and nothing else would do! Initially I thought to pick his brains, instead he picked up mine, and just for an honest moment, like Oz's scarecrow, I thought I never had one. Hazel Bey said, “If you are up to the task, then the assignment is yours. All you have to do is start and the books will open and the birds will fly. That which you ask for is actually bigger than us all. Truth is; I am only a guide to you, the power is not mine to appoint you. That was determined before you were born. Of course, it will not be easy; no worthwhile task ever is. But I am at your service for as long as you and I endure. Find these things, my son, and when you do, you will find your charter and much, much more... and find them all, you will.”

 

    Following months of mind-grueling research, interstate traveling, a thousand mugs of coffee and no sleep, Bro. Nasr and I compiled a respectable information package for Hazel Bey. This included essays, books, long lists of books, historic photographs, etc. We traveled to Maryland and gave everything to him. He said thanks. I said well, do we get the charter now? He said no. I said well, when. He said go and continue to research and come back with more information and we'll see about it. I said we've researched everything we possibly could. He said no you haven't; that's impossible. I said what else would you have us bring back. He said I'll see when you bring it back to me. I said how much time do we have for this? He said our people need all the help they can get, so you don't have much time. I said we'll be back. He said I know you will. I said are you sure? He said I'll be waiting right here at the door. We smiled.

    Next month. Back in Maryland. He said thanks again. I said when will the charter be ready, because we're excited. He said you don't need a charter now. I said then what is it that we need. He said you need to do more research and get back to me. I said what should we research now? He said research the same stuff; you're almost there. I said we'll be back. He said I'll be here.

     Next month. Back in Maryland. He said thanks again. I said we did expect to get the charter this time. He said I told you, you don't need a charter. I said I guess that means were not getting it now. He said yes that's what that means. I said but we do want one. He said what if you had a ship, and the ship was fully equipped with everything except a crew, would you sail? I said I guess not. He said you wouldn't, you couldn't.

    Again, Hazel Bey gave us leads, mentioning the names of books, people, places and other things. Go fetch. I got the point. You see, I was fully aware that we were dealing with a real master. Others may have bridled or even become volatile. I was having a ball.

 

     At the time, I was employed as a teacher and a library researcher. So, these chores, though arduous and challenging, were right up my alley. Nasr too, was well up to the task, as he had been relentlessly sifting through volumes of law related books and articles for three years. We were learning so much and having so much fun at it, our mutual focus shifted from the charter to the hidden history of the Moors. We scraped up every piece of Moorish history we could find anywhere and everywhere! It is general knowledge that "Black History" in America is at best, "His story, incomplete and fragmented, about Our story." When studying the history of the Moors, students discover the true history of the so-called Negro, African Americans, Black people, etc. Most people are unaware that Moorish history is Black history--only more informative, true and accurate.

        We discovered the stuff "they" don't teach in the classrooms. Few people know about the Deys, Beys, Pashas and Els. Few know about the Barbary States and the powerful Moorish/African Rulers who once controlled international trade on the Mediterranean Sea. Few know of the Moors who helped construct American society before the American revolution.

        I don't quite know how to intimate this without readers consigning me to insanity or some other ill forsaken realm, but, speaking for myself, it seemed at one point that everywhere I went in search of information, doors opened miraculously. For instance, I insanely showed up at one library (can't say which one) at some god-forsaken hour one evening thinking I would just sit on the steps outside and read (can't explain what on earth compelled me to do something so desperately silly—I do however, recall being very lonely at the time). Well, lo and behold, a custodian inside looked through the window at me. He opened the front door and asked me how he could help me. I told him that I was just a crazy person who loved learning, so I came to a closed library to sit on the steps. He laughed and asked me if I had ever seen the discarded book collection in the library's sub-basement. I said I hadn't. He said that I should. He opened the door and bade me to enter (this is after 3am, easy).

       He introduced himself as Steven and proceeded to lead me down an old, musky, concrete staircase in the back of the building, which lead to the sub-basement. I wasn't scared at all. Steven talked and looked to be a little over sixty. He had a thin layer of grey hair and his slender face was well shaved, almost lending him a youthful profile. While we descended the dark stair-case lit with only a faint light from an exit sign, Steven mentioned he was the only person who ever goes to the sub-basement, and that even he hadn't been down there in over a year. He said also that from time to time, mechanics came to the sub-basement to service the elevator motors, boiler rooms, and air shafts, but these were all on the other side of the building. He spoke of the place he was bringing me as some kind of forgotten, but to him, hallowed sanctuary. He said that he sometimes believes all the knowledge in the world to be hidden in that sub-basement.

        It seemed we were on those stairs for ten minutes or more, and by now it was so dark I couldn't see Steven, the steps, nor my hands in front of me. Steven continuously warned me to watch my step. Finally, as we reached our destination, he told me to stand still. He walked away. And just for a nanosecond I thought' “Oh sh...! Am I in hell?” Then I saw some  overhead lights blinking frantically in a struggle to overcome the darkness. In about a minute, there was light, old and grey, but comforting and sure. I was standing in a small square foyer, no bigger than a classroom, damp, fraught with antiquity, and teaming with cobwebs. A stale, thick stench soon filled my nostrels; it was almost unbearable.

      Steven told me I would have to leave before 6am, and that he had some discarded books he collected himself and I could help myself to at least a dozen of them if I wished. Then he walked to an old door that reminded me of the entrance to an old southern church. The door was paned, and I could see beneath the multi layers of dust that the panes were an antique stained glass. There were two other doors, one in each of the other two adjacent walls, which Steven pointed out were closets. Quickly fumbling the key ring hanging from his trousers and locating an old skeleton key, and before inserting it in the keyhole, Steven seemed excited and proud to announce to his audience of one, "This is it!"

     Before Steven could open the door I asked him to stop. It startled him. Then I asked him why was he doing me the favor. He looked me square in the face and told me that an angel told him that I was coming, and when I came to take me to this room. I asked him why was he so sure that I was the one. He said because he saw me arrive on the steps outside at exactly 3am. I asked him if he or the angel could be mistaken. He said that no loiterer is ever on building grounds after 9pm, let alone sitting on the steps, without being detained by night law enforcers.

You must commit to where you are before you know where you are going!

    Where was I at that moment? I really didn't know. But When Steven opened those doors and I saw nothing but books, I felt as if I were in heaven. Books were literally everywhere (some fell to the floor as the doors opened); they were on shelves, wedged between shelves, stacked on tables, stacked and strewn on the floor, filed against walls, everywhere the eye could see and in some places light couldn't penetrate. My heart rapidly sped somewhere between my throat and chest. All at once I felt the joy of a child in the Wonka factory salivating at the site of endless candy, and the bitter selfishness of Seuss's Grinch wanting to hoard all goodies for myself. The room was huge! Almost the size of a high-school gymnasium. Cobwebs made for macabre decorations, and books seemed to cradle in some of them. My lower lip mopped the floor as I moved through the doors, and I probably swallowed cobwebs too.

    Steven explained that the room had no lights, no electrical wiring at all, and that the hall lights must suffice. I didn't know what he was talking about, I saw light everywhere! And he persisted in trying to talk to me about, I don't know what; I was so hijacked by books, I brushed Steven off as eagerly as I brushed cobwebs off of them. Most of the books were very old, some copyrighted as early as 1780. Some were not so ancient. All seemed to be in decent condition—you know libraries. This was a literary gold mine, a lost treasure. I felt like Indiana Jones! I could hardly contain myself as Steven continued his indistinct background noises. Honestly, for a time I completely forgot about Steven; that is, until he nearlky paralyzed me with one statement, a statement which I'll gladly share later.

    I gleaned titles on history, science, medicine, war, boats, animals, geography, etc. Then I saw a piece of a little, dusty book wedged midway in a tall stack barely balancing the fragile stack atop it. The whole stack was ready to topple under a cobweb drop or a spider's crawl. Something possessed me; I had to get that book. I pushed the stack to the floor. Steven said something but I didn't hear. It was a little brown book, and it was about geometry. The title, in thick white lettering, read simply: GEOMETRY. Talk about, talk to me. I opened the cover, saw the 1891 copyright, read a quote from Euclid on the first preliminary page, closed the book fast—but carefully—and stood ready to defend anyone who would dare challenge my right to have it. It was mine!

    I was frustrated because I couldn't glean everything, and I wanted to see everything, read everything, take everything! Then my eyes caught a large black book dangling from atop a rail on the ceiling. Strange. I climbed the ladder (you know the ones that attach to the shelves and roll sideways—I don't know what you call them—rolling ladders?) and took the book down. It was heavy and dusty. There was no title on the cover, only dust and cobwebs. I sat at a table, opened the book, turned a few blank pages, saw no copyright, turned more pages and saw an illustration of an ancient civilization that didn't look so ancient. Then I turned another page and saw a portrait of a man wearing one of those whig party wigs; you know, just like the founding fathers. He wore a dark coat with a white ascot. He was Moor. You know, a black man—dammit! I was in trouble. To whom much is given, much is required.

Look above the issues to where you want to go, not where you are!

 

    Of course, the book transfixed me somewhere between present day and remote history. As my feet searched for residence beneath the table, indiscriminately shifting and kicking books on the floor, my fingers sauntered across every page of this one as if I were reading braille, and my eyes pierced every word within recognition and scrutinized every illustration like micro-probes in human tissue. It was a large book, about the size of a small coffee tray, maybe 3 inches thick, and weighed perhaps ten ponds, easy. In no fashion was this book your average shelf dweller. No. Here was clearly a book on Moorish History, loaded with text and rare illustrations depicting Moors on ships, on horses, on mountains; in palaces, in robes, in carriages, incredible! Some illustrations seemed to clearly depict them in parts of Africa and Europe, while other geographical depictions were not so discernible, but I suspected they depicted Moors in pre-colonial America—something about the curved hills and wide prairies.

    I easily discerned that the black text on bilious oak tag was Latin. All the better and authentic. I understood some Latin and besides, I was not about to let a language handicap cloud my perceptions or spoil my rapture; I knew what I had in my possession and my girds garrisoned around me. Remarkably, I remembered Steven and, with my head buried in the book, I shouted, “You know I'm keeping this one, Sir!” Steven...Steven. There was no response and all was quiet. I quickly looked about and he was nowhere in site. Oh, well; maybe he went to the bathroom. Back to business, Aalim.

    Maybe an hour passed when I noticed Steven hadn't returned—and that I'd been reading virtually in darkness. The hall light wasn't doing anything for me up there, and so I had no need for it. But I suddenly felt embarrassed that I had had no need for Steven either. Did he desert me, seeing the heel that I was? Did he go home and lock me in the place to be arrested for trespassing and possibly burglary when the clock strikes six? Was he snoozing on his favorite sofa somewhere in an obscured mop room with bright lights? Was he somewhere sipping from a bottle, talking with that angel again, and the angel telling him I'm the wrong guy, to get back there and curse me out? The lights were fading on me.

    Now, finally recessing from a book for which I still couldn't find a title, I rose from the table to look for Steven. All was suddenly so black. Then I realized again, I really didn't know where I was. I felt lost and deserted, and contemplated busting out of the place. I quickly scratched that insanity from my mind and began to softly humm Gilberto's Girl from Ipanema. My alter ego had momentarily seized the moment, and relaxing on a Rio de Janeiro beach, sipping pina-colada and drooling over a tall and tan and young and lovely amazon who walks like a samba, swinging so cool and swaying so gently, was just the anecdotal psyche I needed. Ahh! So much for erudition and scholarship. Hesitating, I just stood there humming in the darkness—and clutching my books, of course. Then suddenly I heard Steven's voice from above, “It's not what it used to be, Aalim.” I was relieved, to say the least. I didn't want to leave my amazon, but she knows I always come back to her. I love women! Even those you meet only in classic songs.

    Looking up at darkness, I answered, “Well, the books are still in great condition! And that's good! I like it here. And I'm sure others would also. You kidding!” I meant to sound enthusiastic and friendly for his benefit. I continued, “Hey, Steven; listen, I apologize for getting myself so lost in here, you know. I didn't mean to ignore you and all; I'm just so excited about all of this, it's rather difficult to contain myself. I've never seen anything like this—never experienced anything like this. Just forgot and got sloppy. I didn't mean to shut you out. Sorry about that. You said you had a collection of your own?” All was quiet again. Steven...Steven. Where was he now? Maybe I was wrong to mention his collection. Wait a second: how does he know my name; I never told him my name, did I? No I didn't!

    Who was this guy, the friendly night janitor, who gave me trespassing rights to a respectable library during off hours and knew my name?  He appealed his case again, “Nope. It sure ain't what it used to be, Aalim.” I looked up in the direction of his voice and noticed for the first time, a balcony, and I could make out his silhouette there. He continued before I could say anything, “There was a day when a Traveling Man could stop a train dead in its tracks! Yessir; was a day when a Mason could walk down the street and call a plane down from the sky...plane would land right in front of him!" he declared. He then punctuated that declaration, "He'd take that plane anywhere he wanted to go!"  I was paralyzed from mind to limbs.

Be where you are just as long as you are there.

 

Now while I impulsively thought to fire questions at Steven like, “How do you know my name?...Are you a Mason?...Who are you?,” my instincts informed me better as his words echoed in my head, “...take that plane wherever he wanted to go,” reminding me that Masons meet on a plane, and so I met him there, instinctively knowing that he was authentic. He had to be. “I'd like to see those days return,” I said, and not waiting for a response I continued, “What do you think happened?” I asked.

I could hear him moving about up there and shuffling some papers. Then he said, “Hold on a second, I'm coming down and we'll talk in the hall soon as I put on my clothing.” What? Surely there was no shower up there. Maybe this guy likes to get off on cobwebs or something. I was just hoping he wouldn't tell me my time had run out. Then I heard him call me from the hall and I looked out and saw him standing there. He was wearing a beautifully embroidered Masonic apron—over his civilian clothing, of course.

As I entered the hall he was laughing. “Bet you didn't think this old man could dress up, did you?” He asked.

“Well, no; I guess I didn't suspect that you had the clothing,” I answered.

“Well then, I guess you didn't suspect that an old man had this either,” he said, revealing a gavel tucked under his apron and laughing while he spoke. Then he said, “Oh, didn't I tell you I know which way is up?” I didn't answer. Couldn't find one right there. He continued, “Up-right—on a perpendicular, that is.”

To be continued.