Mohamed Osman is an Egyptian-American writer, Reiki master, tarot reader, and spiritual explorer. A devoted lover of Meher Baba, his work bridges mysticism, healing, and interfaith insight across traditions and cultures.

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Mohamed Osman

<h4 style="text-align:justify;">MOHAMED OSMAN meditates on the historic meeting between Francis of Assisi and Sultan Al-Malik al-Kamil during the Fifth Crusade—a moment of sanctuary that transcends centuries.</h4>During the Fifth Crusade, a barefoot mystic named Francis of Assisi crossed into the land of my ancestors — all the way to Damietta.He brought no army. No doctrine. Only fire — a soul ablaze for truth.The Sultan of Egypt, Al-Malik al-Kamil, saw him. And instead of war, offered peace. No conversion. No bargain. Just sanctuary.He saw the Divine in a man who worshipped differently and said, “You are safe with me.”Francis couldn’t repay that favor. So he carried it — like a seed, waiting for a soul who could.

Where Love’s Camels Lead - From the Nile to the Mountain

<h4>In part 1 of this series of poems, MOHAMED OSMAN traces a personal <a href="https://heartfulness.org/magazine/a-personal-journey-part-1" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">spiritual journey</a> beginning on the Nile and culminating in a moment of grace atop the mountains of Assisi. It speaks to <a href="https://heartfulness.org/magazine/change-now-never" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">inner transformation</a>, interfaith understanding, and the quiet unfolding of the soul.</h4>&nbsp;<figure class="image"><img src="https://cdn-prod-static.heartfulness.org/love_camel_mountain2_8326ffbd15.webp" alt="love-camel-mountain2.webp"></figure>&nbsp;(The Favor, Fulfilled) —by Mo<h4>Born of Two Waters</h4>I was born by the Nile, in Mansoura—not far from Damietta, where the river meets the sea: one side salt, one side sweet.The Qur’an speaks of this mystery: “He has let loose the two seas meeting together: Between them is a barrier they do not transgress.” (55:19–20)Even as a child, that place felt holy. We were poor, couldn’t go often. But my wealthy aunt had a place there—though her husband was cruel. So I’d wander the shore alone, head tilted to the sky, asking questions I didn’t yet know how to ask.Later, I returned to that beach. To smoke. To drink. To search. I walked the sands of Damietta, not knowing I was retracing sacred steps.Not knowing a saint had once come there, carrying a gift— and waiting for someone to return it. &nbsp;