"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...
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...