"Today, he was hung on a piece of wood," laments Fayrooz, "he who had hung the skies over the waters..." The music is brilliant, her voice lavish, yet soft. It was a Sad Friday, and Pollina had taken us to the Catholic church up the street, from our house in Al-Mansoor, to light candles. In the darkly painted manger outside, I lit a candle -I still light a candle every now and then. Inside the church, the Virgin Mary is covered in a black cloth. I cannot see her face. Pollina kneals. We watch on, my younger sister clutching my sweaty fingers.
The moans emerge from Nuha's living room. They mourn another martyr. His head was severed from his body, a starved and thirsty head, an adamant head, that vowed to die for the word...Allah's word. The main mourner's voice stems from the tape recorder. He sobs as he describes Al-Hussien's last moments. We have to keep our moans low. The police patrols of the regime outside can confiscate our recorder. They can order us to silence...sometimes forever. We mourn Al-Hussien quitely.
He died thirsty. So did Jesus...
At home, I sit to lament with Fayrooz...Her words tug at my tear glands..."My heart weeps for my people, they have slaughtered their Savior!", she sings.
In another room, the next day, everyone is in black. I am on the floor, listening to the mourning..."Curse the people that did that to you!"...He died for the word...Would he have wanted words of hate after his death?
"Anger, anger tumbling down...
Filling all the air with sound...!"
Anger at injustice.
Lamentation at injustice...And on those two days, in Falujah...another injustice...on Easter Sunday, on the fortieth annual memorial of the death of Al-Hussien, thousands mourned 600 more dead... Somewhere in the skies, the prophets weep, and God closes his eyes in pain...

Popular posts from this blog

"I know what that means!" he remarked, with a hint of excitment. "It says 'Allah'. " I explained. "Yeah! Aalaa !". I wasn't going to argue with a security guard at BWI over the correct pronounciation of the Arabic word. We were in the in the 'High Security' line. "I know why they placed me here," said the lady before me. "It happens every time I don't check in any luggage"... "Well," I replied, "It happens every time they read my name." She gave me a quizzical look. The New Zealanders behind me looked at me. "Do we really have to take off our shoes now?"... "You're better off taking them off now than later." I felt I owed them more explanation. "This is for our security, you know. It's better to be safe than sorry"...I wanted to add, especially with the elections approaching...but I bit my tongue... "So why do you wear it?" I turned to the almost...
Read more
I t was 1964 and I had not been born yet. Ahmed was a year old as he sat in the passenger seat of my father’s dark diplomatic sedan in downtown Peking at the peak of the Cultural Revolution. A cigar dangled from my father’s intellectual lips. It caught the eye of a 'figure of authority' infused with xenophobia, ready to revolt! He halted the passage of the car, down the crowded street, totally ignoring the 'Corps Diplomatique' number plate it carried. Faces pushed their tiny noses against the tinted glass of the black vehicle. As usual, my then little brother assumed it was the attention his big brown eyes had always managed to attract of so many baby lovers. The policeman spoke only in Mandarin; he waved at my father’s face, gesturing that he remove the cigar from his mouth. It was against the law in China, to drive and smoke. My father had not known. He removed the cigar from his mouth gently, then quietly pointed to the car fender where the number plate reared its ...
Read more