From Inanna to Bibi Rajni

From Inanna to Bibi Rajni:

Why the Sidr Tree Refuses to Disappear from Human Memory

I grew up in Baghdad, in a neighborhood where war and uncertainty were part of daily life, but so were trees. Among them stood the sidr tree: thorny, resilient, quietly generous. Its fruits were sweet, its leaves medicinal, and its presence respected. We didn't worship it. We knew it mattered.

Years later, while studying pharmaceutical sciences in India, I reencountered the same kind of tree, this time called ber. I saw pilgrims gathering near a single jujube tree at the Golden Temple in Amritsar, seeking healing beside water. Around the same time, I was reading Islamic texts describing the Sidrat al-Muntaha, the lote tree marking the boundary of created knowledge.

That convergence stayed with me. Why does this particular tree keep returning, across religions, cultures, and thousands of years?

A Tree Older Than Our Divisions

Across Mesopotamia, Egypt, the Levant, Arabia, India, and Punjab, trees from the Ziziphus family, sidr, ber, jujube, appear again and again. Not as abstract symbols, but as lived companions:

• Trees that provide food in harsh climates
• Leaves used for cleansing and healing
• Shade in deserts and pilgrimage routes
• Wood strong enough for tools and structures

In ancient Mesopotamia, sacred trees stood at the crossroads of kingship, fertility, and cosmic order. In Egypt, sidr fruit was found in tombs, used as food for both the living and the dead. In Islamic tradition, sidr leaves are used in purification, while the tree itself becomes a cosmic boundary in the Miraj narrative.

This isn't superstition.

It's recognition.

Sacred Does Not Mean Magical

Modern thinking often forces a false choice: Either sacred trees are primitive superstition, or they're mere metaphors.

But the sidr tree doesn't fit that binary.

It is sacred because it works, because it heals, shelters, nourishes, endures. Ancient people didn't separate medicine from meaning the way we do today. When something consistently supported life, it was treated with reverence, responsibility, and restraint.

Even Islamic teachings that warn against cutting the lote tree do so not because the tree is divine, but because it serves travellers, animals, and the vulnerable. Sacredness here is ethical, not idolatrous.

Stories That Travel Better Than Species

In the Ramayana, Shabari offers forest fruits to Rama, an act of devotion through what is local and humble. Later retellings identify these fruits as ber. The species may shift, but the meaning remains. In Sikh tradition, the Dukh Bhanjani Beri stands beside water where suffering is said to have been lifted, not because the tree performs miracles, but because it witnesses faith, service, and hope. Sacredness survives not by scientific precision, but by place-memory, storytelling, and repeated human return.

Healing Is Never Just Chemical

As a pharmaceutical scientist, I approach plants with respect for evidence. Ziziphus species contain flavonoids, saponins, and bioactive compounds with documented biological activity. But the real lesson goes deeper. Healing has always been integrated across physical, psychological, social, and spiritual dimensions. A tree near water, surrounded by ritual and community, can create conditions where healing becomes possible. Modern medicine even has a term for this: the placebo effect. Older traditions called it care.

What the Sidr Tree Teaches Us Today

In a world that explains everything but often reveres nothing, the sidr tree offers a quiet correction.

It reminds us that:

• Nature can be meaningful without being worshipped
• Utility and sacredness are not opposites
• Science and spirituality don't need to cancel each other
• Protection often begins with respect, not regulation

The sidr tree has survived five thousand years of human history not because people were naïve, but because they were attentive.

And perhaps that is what we are most at risk of losing today.

Final Thought

This is not a call to return to superstition. It is a call to recognize meaning without embarrassment. The sidr tree stands, thorny, generous, and enduring, as a reminder that human flourishing has consistently grown where matter and meaning meet.