from E-Mails From Scheherazad by Mohja Kahf
Disbeliever
On January 11, 1998, unidentified gunmen entered a movie theater and a small mosque in Sidi Ahmed near Algiers and massacred 120 men, women, and children at close range during Algeria's ongoing civil conflict.
By the limping of the people of Iraq
By the sound of frantic running in Qana, in Kosovo
By the men and boys of Hama massacred
By the swollen bodies in a river in Rwanda
and Afghani women and the writers of Algiers,
I am a disbeliever
in everything that refuses to kiss
full on the lips the ones still living
and receive them in the bosom of the self,
no matter the religion or the nation or the race
I am a disbeliever in everything
that does not say "How was the movie? I love you"
I need a body outside my life that can travel and kneel
on the sidewalk beside a movie theater in Algiers
over the bodies of the supple children
who will never be my children's playmates or marry them
over the bodies of the men and women
who will never write me a letter,
will never phone me from Algiers,
"How was the movie? I love you, I love you."
I need time outside this history
where I can whisper in the ear of each of them,
By God, you will never be forgotten
By God, I will make sure the world
buries its face in your beautiful hair,
sings to you, learns your name and your music,
lifts you up in the crook of its arm like a gift
I am a disbeliever
in everything but the purity of the bodies
of the men and women - with or without the veil,
with or without the markings of the right identity -
in everything but the suppleness of the children
I am a disbeliever in every scripture
in the world that leaves out
"How was the movie? I love you, I love you."
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Friday, February 9, 2007
We Can Try to Build Paradise Here
New York City SkylineWe can try to build paradise here
Where we walk together next to the river by my house
There we can pick a spot and stand against the railings painted green
And talk to the skyline across the water
The city, sleepless, waiting to echo back our words
The Visitors
Clarity and Peace, my long awaited visitors arrived humbly at my doorstep. There were no parting of clouds and majestic sunlight to signal their coming. They didn't approach with a crescendo of the orchestra or a soprano singing hallelujah. There was no music at all. Instead, they came in like the mist, unnoticed till you find yourself surrounded and covered by its presence.
I found them shrouded, stooped and quiet. Unsmiling and staring me in the face, Clarity took a step forward when I opened the gate. Peace lingered back and I was embarrassed. Thoughts of our last encounters came flashing back. It had been at a party - some celebration of me and I was drunk with elation. There were many guests gorging on food and drink and I was gliding back and forth among them. Many of the invited were family and friends, old and new. Some were recent acquaintances. Somewhere in there, Peace and Clarity were mingling. I had greeted them at the door, in hindsight maybe a bit carelessly and too quickly. Old friends should be understanding and I did not think it was necessary to make so much out of their being there. There were others who needed to be hi'd and hello'd. Hugs, handshakes, some even asked for air kisses. Flustered, but still giddy, I complied.
As the festivities wore on and the palest parts of the sky darkened, Clarity and Peace were beginning to feel haggard and tired. Their dresses were drooping and make-up looked washed out. They were taken aback by the proximity of formality and looseness. Helium voices let out hyena laughs. Plastic smiles flashed peroxide teeth. The two decided it was time to leave.
They walked out silently. In the din of noise I did not notice.
Months later now, I find the two here in front of me. Inviting them in, I searched their faces for forgiveness. They came in and this time they were the only ones there. Slowly, Peace took off her overcoat, hung it in the entrance closet and nudged Clarity to do the same. They stood there, together, heads cocked to the right and peered through the wide opening into the living, dining and kitchen areas. The place was a mess. Silently, the two stepped forward, moved me aside - now unable to speak or think - and began the process of cleaning up.
They piled the books and course packets on one side. Laid them there without stopping to read, I observed. In all my attempts at cleanliness I always failed when it came to this. Next they carried the unwashed dusty plates and glasses to the sink. Rinsed lightly, placed in dishwasher, and fully loaded set to wash. Guilt and uselessness moved me to bring out cleaning cloths and wipes and begin the process of rubbing grime off of surfaces. We three worked through the house over the course of the week. Passing through room to room and placing things in their proper places. Wiping, scrubbing, washing, folding, airing, organizing, labeling, throwing things, boxing and taping things away. Windows were opened and locks were changed. I threw out letters. Saved poetry written on napkins on journal pages. Deleted emails and photos. Rid myself of unwanted subscriptions and memberships of listservs and accounts. Removed pictures and writings. Framed paintings and drew calligraphy.
Then we bathed, purging every inch of our bodies, until skin became raw and fingertips felt like prunes. Lit some incense and unfurled prayer rugs. Recited scripture and made supplications.
Armed with colored pencils and markers we descended to the dining room. On the table, now free of clutter, we tore out a page of large sketch paper and drew a map of the world the way I wanted - no, needed - it to be. Peace drew out the boundaries, Clarity marked down the borders, and I colored it all in.
Evening began spreading its gray shawl on our shoulders. Chamomile tea was made by the kitchen window overlooking the sunset. Sipping in the quiet, suddenly we began to talk about desires and longings, hopes and dreams. Forgotten or new. Everything that one could think of for the self. What was it that I wanted to do? No, as in really really do...What inspired me? Made my heart happy? Brought me to my knees, in tears at the wonder of all that is glorious and holy? Lessened the distance between knowing and believing?
Words fell like puzzle pieces from my mouth and out onto the table, covering the map. Warmed from holding the teacups, our hands moved to fit the pieces together over the map of the world. We cut and reshaped some of them. More words came. Often incoherent, always soulful. Arranging and rearranging, sometimes discarding the pieces, we went on. It was late. There was something there. I asked them to stay on. To stay.
The map was unfinished. New pieces were forming, old ones may need salvaging. We fitted the guest rooms with laundered sheets.
I found them shrouded, stooped and quiet. Unsmiling and staring me in the face, Clarity took a step forward when I opened the gate. Peace lingered back and I was embarrassed. Thoughts of our last encounters came flashing back. It had been at a party - some celebration of me and I was drunk with elation. There were many guests gorging on food and drink and I was gliding back and forth among them. Many of the invited were family and friends, old and new. Some were recent acquaintances. Somewhere in there, Peace and Clarity were mingling. I had greeted them at the door, in hindsight maybe a bit carelessly and too quickly. Old friends should be understanding and I did not think it was necessary to make so much out of their being there. There were others who needed to be hi'd and hello'd. Hugs, handshakes, some even asked for air kisses. Flustered, but still giddy, I complied.
As the festivities wore on and the palest parts of the sky darkened, Clarity and Peace were beginning to feel haggard and tired. Their dresses were drooping and make-up looked washed out. They were taken aback by the proximity of formality and looseness. Helium voices let out hyena laughs. Plastic smiles flashed peroxide teeth. The two decided it was time to leave.
They walked out silently. In the din of noise I did not notice.
Months later now, I find the two here in front of me. Inviting them in, I searched their faces for forgiveness. They came in and this time they were the only ones there. Slowly, Peace took off her overcoat, hung it in the entrance closet and nudged Clarity to do the same. They stood there, together, heads cocked to the right and peered through the wide opening into the living, dining and kitchen areas. The place was a mess. Silently, the two stepped forward, moved me aside - now unable to speak or think - and began the process of cleaning up.
They piled the books and course packets on one side. Laid them there without stopping to read, I observed. In all my attempts at cleanliness I always failed when it came to this. Next they carried the unwashed dusty plates and glasses to the sink. Rinsed lightly, placed in dishwasher, and fully loaded set to wash. Guilt and uselessness moved me to bring out cleaning cloths and wipes and begin the process of rubbing grime off of surfaces. We three worked through the house over the course of the week. Passing through room to room and placing things in their proper places. Wiping, scrubbing, washing, folding, airing, organizing, labeling, throwing things, boxing and taping things away. Windows were opened and locks were changed. I threw out letters. Saved poetry written on napkins on journal pages. Deleted emails and photos. Rid myself of unwanted subscriptions and memberships of listservs and accounts. Removed pictures and writings. Framed paintings and drew calligraphy.
Then we bathed, purging every inch of our bodies, until skin became raw and fingertips felt like prunes. Lit some incense and unfurled prayer rugs. Recited scripture and made supplications.
Armed with colored pencils and markers we descended to the dining room. On the table, now free of clutter, we tore out a page of large sketch paper and drew a map of the world the way I wanted - no, needed - it to be. Peace drew out the boundaries, Clarity marked down the borders, and I colored it all in.
Evening began spreading its gray shawl on our shoulders. Chamomile tea was made by the kitchen window overlooking the sunset. Sipping in the quiet, suddenly we began to talk about desires and longings, hopes and dreams. Forgotten or new. Everything that one could think of for the self. What was it that I wanted to do? No, as in really really do...What inspired me? Made my heart happy? Brought me to my knees, in tears at the wonder of all that is glorious and holy? Lessened the distance between knowing and believing?
Words fell like puzzle pieces from my mouth and out onto the table, covering the map. Warmed from holding the teacups, our hands moved to fit the pieces together over the map of the world. We cut and reshaped some of them. More words came. Often incoherent, always soulful. Arranging and rearranging, sometimes discarding the pieces, we went on. It was late. There was something there. I asked them to stay on. To stay.
The map was unfinished. New pieces were forming, old ones may need salvaging. We fitted the guest rooms with laundered sheets.
Tuesday, February 6, 2007
I tripped on my shoelace/ And I fell up...
Bismillah-ir-Rahman-ir-Raheem
It is below freezing outside. New Yorkers, after enjoying months of good weather this winter, have had to finally dig out their hats, scarves, and gloves. But some of us are reluctant to venture out. We'd much rather shut the door, turn up the thermostat and bundle up under layers of quilts. Make some earl gray tea and settle in to watch forgettable television while the clock ticks. Hoping that a warm front will come and thaw our hearts, melt away the anxiety and fear.
Yet, New York keeps going and moves on. Layers of salt on the ground, down coats and warm coffee help it to do so. New Yorkers are resilient, uncanny in ways that astound. I've realized this as I sit and watch them make their way through the gusts of wind and skin tearing chill. I realize this sitting in a sweltering 73 degree room, by a window facing the front street. I've been doing this the past few days - sitting, watching, waiting to feel alright to go outside. Waiting for that piece of ice that had managed to lodge itself into my chest months ago to wash away.
In trying to remember how and when this happened I can only faintly remember tripping and falling onto this sliver of doubt. That one moment of questioning and hesitation led to further trips and falls. Now, I've fallen before and have the bruises to show for when flesh met uneven concrete. Those visits to the ground have taught me many things (will share in future posts, i'A).
So, it has taken me some time to get things in order (mainly in own head). But, equipped with lessons of experience, I think I know what it is that I need to do. I can't wait around for the cold frost to vanish and take with it the coolness that coats my being. I have to get up, get moving and rub the warmth back in.
Alhamdulillah. Alhamdulillah. Alhamdulillah. Every fall is just another opportunity from my Beloved for me to rise up.
If you are irritated by every rub, how will your mirror ever be polished?
- Maulana Jalauddin Rumi
It is below freezing outside. New Yorkers, after enjoying months of good weather this winter, have had to finally dig out their hats, scarves, and gloves. But some of us are reluctant to venture out. We'd much rather shut the door, turn up the thermostat and bundle up under layers of quilts. Make some earl gray tea and settle in to watch forgettable television while the clock ticks. Hoping that a warm front will come and thaw our hearts, melt away the anxiety and fear.
Yet, New York keeps going and moves on. Layers of salt on the ground, down coats and warm coffee help it to do so. New Yorkers are resilient, uncanny in ways that astound. I've realized this as I sit and watch them make their way through the gusts of wind and skin tearing chill. I realize this sitting in a sweltering 73 degree room, by a window facing the front street. I've been doing this the past few days - sitting, watching, waiting to feel alright to go outside. Waiting for that piece of ice that had managed to lodge itself into my chest months ago to wash away.
In trying to remember how and when this happened I can only faintly remember tripping and falling onto this sliver of doubt. That one moment of questioning and hesitation led to further trips and falls. Now, I've fallen before and have the bruises to show for when flesh met uneven concrete. Those visits to the ground have taught me many things (will share in future posts, i'A).
So, it has taken me some time to get things in order (mainly in own head). But, equipped with lessons of experience, I think I know what it is that I need to do. I can't wait around for the cold frost to vanish and take with it the coolness that coats my being. I have to get up, get moving and rub the warmth back in.
Alhamdulillah. Alhamdulillah. Alhamdulillah. Every fall is just another opportunity from my Beloved for me to rise up.
If you are irritated by every rub, how will your mirror ever be polished?
- Maulana Jalauddin Rumi
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