the last chapter:
Neither man moved. Moyad stood behind Illaam and the two cousins peered at each other in the looking glass, time suspended in the parallel universe. “You know I don’t want to hurt you, Illaam.”
Despite the words of the motionless man, Illaam saw that Moyad held a needle in his hand. “Why?” His cousin turned slowly, feeling somewhere between hopelessness and determination, “What happened to you, Moyad, to change your heart so? We used to believe in the same God, once.”
“We were only boys then. I am a man now. Truth has many faces. ”
“It is the evil that lives in some men’s hearts, like those that killed your parents, Moyad. How could you avenge their death on a country? This is not Allah’s wish.” Illaam saw a flicker of pain and hesitation in the eyes of the man he once knew and loved.
“What do you know about Allah’s wish? You still have your head in the clouds, still just a boy.”
The needle rose then. Surprising Moyad, Illaam deftly slid his body beneath the other man’s arm and Moyad slipped on the sanitary tiles, which allowed Illaam to escape.
Uncertainty no longer reigned. He knew what was in his heart and he knew he must follow his own truth. Someone had to be warned of the plans Moyad and his friends were about to play out. To live knowing he may have saved lives and didn’t, was an unbearable thought to Illaam. The wire beneath his tiny bird feet widened and Illaam ran as fast as the little boy in the bazaar those many years ago.
When the station came into view, Illaam could breathe. He saw with new eyes and the clarity with which he saw dispelled his fear. When he blinked, the bazaar was still vivid behind his lids, the spices calling him with the smell of heaven. But the sound of his grandfather’s voice was drowned by an echo he couldn’t make out.
Illaam fell to the ground before he could make sense of the sound. He did not see the blood, could not see the red pool forming a halo on the concrete around his head.
Showing posts with label Just Another Word. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Just Another Word. Show all posts
Thursday, 27 December 2007
Friday, 23 November 2007
Just Another Word
part five:
In his mind’s eye he saw Moyad still bowing to their God before him those many years ago, at a time when life made sense to Illaam, when Illaam did not think to question freedom. But how could he have allowed himself to be here, to sleep, to dream?
He made his way to the sink. Curses escaped his lips, fear took hold once again. Cold water splashed several times on his face, a rivulet making its way through his thick, black chest hair down to his navel and then beyond it through thick black hair once again. With a shiver, he straightened and looked into the mirror. Two faces looked back. Then came the familiar voice, "Illaam. You were not so easy to find, my friend."
In his mind’s eye he saw Moyad still bowing to their God before him those many years ago, at a time when life made sense to Illaam, when Illaam did not think to question freedom. But how could he have allowed himself to be here, to sleep, to dream?
He made his way to the sink. Curses escaped his lips, fear took hold once again. Cold water splashed several times on his face, a rivulet making its way through his thick, black chest hair down to his navel and then beyond it through thick black hair once again. With a shiver, he straightened and looked into the mirror. Two faces looked back. Then came the familiar voice, "Illaam. You were not so easy to find, my friend."
Sunday, 18 November 2007
Just Another Word
part four:
“Mr. Qashqai?” The woman cleared her throat and with more force she tried again to awaken the man with the funny name, “Mr. Qashqai. Can you hear me?” Not getting a response, the commissary worker grabbed a vegetarian meal from her cart, and filling up his water glass with ice she sat it onto the patient’s bed stand with an impatient thud.
Illaam is in the desert under the late afternoon sun when the prayer bell strikes. For Allah, all activity ceases. His mother and father by his side, Illaam feels peace in his heart at the sound of their voices conferring in unison to their God. Hoping his voice will reach the heavens, his arms lift towards the sky. This is when he sees Moyad several feet ahead, looking tired and sweaty from the chase. When his arms reach the ground, Illaam grins and he prays to Allah that things might stay this way forever.
A second bell chimes. Resisting that fragile state between sleep and waking, Illaam feels himself being pulled away from home. Soon his eyes will open and he will realize that what he hears is the back and forth motion of ice against the hospital melamine glass. He closes his eyes tightly, wanting to be eight for just another moment. Enshallah...Ensha...
He was damp under the bed linens but his throat felt as dry as the desert he had journeyed behind his lids. Illaam brought the bended straw to his lips and insatiably, he emptied the glass of ice water left there for him.
“Mr. Qashqai?” The woman cleared her throat and with more force she tried again to awaken the man with the funny name, “Mr. Qashqai. Can you hear me?” Not getting a response, the commissary worker grabbed a vegetarian meal from her cart, and filling up his water glass with ice she sat it onto the patient’s bed stand with an impatient thud.
Illaam is in the desert under the late afternoon sun when the prayer bell strikes. For Allah, all activity ceases. His mother and father by his side, Illaam feels peace in his heart at the sound of their voices conferring in unison to their God. Hoping his voice will reach the heavens, his arms lift towards the sky. This is when he sees Moyad several feet ahead, looking tired and sweaty from the chase. When his arms reach the ground, Illaam grins and he prays to Allah that things might stay this way forever.
A second bell chimes. Resisting that fragile state between sleep and waking, Illaam feels himself being pulled away from home. Soon his eyes will open and he will realize that what he hears is the back and forth motion of ice against the hospital melamine glass. He closes his eyes tightly, wanting to be eight for just another moment. Enshallah...Ensha...
He was damp under the bed linens but his throat felt as dry as the desert he had journeyed behind his lids. Illaam brought the bended straw to his lips and insatiably, he emptied the glass of ice water left there for him.
Monday, 12 November 2007
Just Another Word
part three:
He felt dizzy and decided to sit on one of the benches that lined this side of Bloor Street. He wiped the sudden sweat off of his brow. Overtaken by anxiety Illaam closed his eyes and tried to slow his breathing, to no avail. When he opened his eyes, he was no longer on a public bench breathing in Toronto fumes, no longer sitting amidst its turbulence. He blinked and wiped his eyes. I...I am in a hospital. A great desire for calm came over Illaam, and allowing himself to find peace at the apparent safety in the bleached white lines of the room, his eyes closed once again. This time he dreamt.
Illaam is running through the crowded Bazaar, occasionally getting tangled up in some of the women's hejabs. But he doesn’t mind. He’s playing hide and seek with his cousin Moyad and he is the one hiding. He passes the spice vendor, stopping a moment to take in a deep breath of what he has already decided heaven smells like; then spotting his cousin across the center aisle of the market, he plunges into his grandfather’s carpet shop nearly toppling over a customer in the process. A commotion ensues.
Illaam, born eight years ago in the province of his name-sake, burrows his slender boy body into one of the larger Persian rugs rolled up against the far end of the tent. His grandfather reaches in, grabbing his grandson by both arms with this one landing on his feet before the old man. Illaam is not afraid of him, but he apologizes out of reverence for his beloved grandfather. He turns then to the woman who doesn’t like children and bows to her in apology.
She leaves his grandfather’s shop uttering words he cannot make out and his grandfather resumes the weaving of delicate fibres, his gnarled hands homage to his life’s work. When the old man thinks the boy is no longer in sight, he smiles as if remembering the games of his own childhood those many years ago, when Reza Shah reigned over Iran.
He felt dizzy and decided to sit on one of the benches that lined this side of Bloor Street. He wiped the sudden sweat off of his brow. Overtaken by anxiety Illaam closed his eyes and tried to slow his breathing, to no avail. When he opened his eyes, he was no longer on a public bench breathing in Toronto fumes, no longer sitting amidst its turbulence. He blinked and wiped his eyes. I...I am in a hospital. A great desire for calm came over Illaam, and allowing himself to find peace at the apparent safety in the bleached white lines of the room, his eyes closed once again. This time he dreamt.
Illaam is running through the crowded Bazaar, occasionally getting tangled up in some of the women's hejabs. But he doesn’t mind. He’s playing hide and seek with his cousin Moyad and he is the one hiding. He passes the spice vendor, stopping a moment to take in a deep breath of what he has already decided heaven smells like; then spotting his cousin across the center aisle of the market, he plunges into his grandfather’s carpet shop nearly toppling over a customer in the process. A commotion ensues.
Illaam, born eight years ago in the province of his name-sake, burrows his slender boy body into one of the larger Persian rugs rolled up against the far end of the tent. His grandfather reaches in, grabbing his grandson by both arms with this one landing on his feet before the old man. Illaam is not afraid of him, but he apologizes out of reverence for his beloved grandfather. He turns then to the woman who doesn’t like children and bows to her in apology.
She leaves his grandfather’s shop uttering words he cannot make out and his grandfather resumes the weaving of delicate fibres, his gnarled hands homage to his life’s work. When the old man thinks the boy is no longer in sight, he smiles as if remembering the games of his own childhood those many years ago, when Reza Shah reigned over Iran.
Sunday, 11 November 2007
Just Another Word
part two:
Would they listen to him? Would they care about what he had to tell them? His pace had slowed now that Illaam was nearing his destination. Having escaped one danger, only now did he begin to process the consequences of what he had perhaps naively understood as saving himself. The men he ran from were only as powerful as they believed themselves to be, but the men he ran to now, feared what they did not understand and that gave them all the power in the world.
It might be more convenient for the government to throw him in jail and worry about the details later. After all, Illaam had no inside connections and accidentally thrust into a situation he wished he might awaken from, all he had to share with them were words. What were his words worth to a country who might not see past the colour of his skin, a man not native to the land he knew as his own (his only) for nine years now. And for this, was Illaam willing to sacrifice his freedom?
Would they listen to him? Would they care about what he had to tell them? His pace had slowed now that Illaam was nearing his destination. Having escaped one danger, only now did he begin to process the consequences of what he had perhaps naively understood as saving himself. The men he ran from were only as powerful as they believed themselves to be, but the men he ran to now, feared what they did not understand and that gave them all the power in the world.
It might be more convenient for the government to throw him in jail and worry about the details later. After all, Illaam had no inside connections and accidentally thrust into a situation he wished he might awaken from, all he had to share with them were words. What were his words worth to a country who might not see past the colour of his skin, a man not native to the land he knew as his own (his only) for nine years now. And for this, was Illaam willing to sacrifice his freedom?
Monday, 29 October 2007
Just Another Word -
part one:
Freedom came to him like Cohen’s bird on a wire. He feared the wire he balanced his fragile existence upon would clip his wings as he slept one night and he would never fly again. The wind could come at any moment and carry him to his death below. Freedom was a fickle gift anyway. He skirted his way through passengers to the car door and tried to remember that sign he’d seen in a photo of a Nazi concentration camp. Arbeit macht frei. Yes, he thought, that was it. Self-sacrifice would bring them freedom.
Illaam ran up the subway exit to Bloor Street looking up and down the crowded flurry of Monday morning pedestrians; everyone had somewhere so important to get to that elbowing him for space was par for the course. For a moment he forgot his destination and his heart began to beat rapidly. Destination, from Destin, French for fate. He tried taking a deep breath but only gasped on the damp foggy diesel scent of the city. It didn’t smell like his city, the one he had known as a boy. But this wasn’t the time for reminiscing – he had to find his way to Station D51.
Freedom came to him like Cohen’s bird on a wire. He feared the wire he balanced his fragile existence upon would clip his wings as he slept one night and he would never fly again. The wind could come at any moment and carry him to his death below. Freedom was a fickle gift anyway. He skirted his way through passengers to the car door and tried to remember that sign he’d seen in a photo of a Nazi concentration camp. Arbeit macht frei. Yes, he thought, that was it. Self-sacrifice would bring them freedom.
Illaam ran up the subway exit to Bloor Street looking up and down the crowded flurry of Monday morning pedestrians; everyone had somewhere so important to get to that elbowing him for space was par for the course. For a moment he forgot his destination and his heart began to beat rapidly. Destination, from Destin, French for fate. He tried taking a deep breath but only gasped on the damp foggy diesel scent of the city. It didn’t smell like his city, the one he had known as a boy. But this wasn’t the time for reminiscing – he had to find his way to Station D51.
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