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April 23, 2005
A dislocated soul,
I am shaken inside, and feel so little, the tingles in my hands, the ache in my leg muscles, I am hurtin, but that happens, it always does, God bless Debbie, the beautifull Red Haired Mermaid, that brought the sanity to me in little morsels, Kindness of strangers, and such blessings, in every form. I need a hug, a big bear hug, I was telling one of my friends, he is so lucky, being a christian with churches in every town, he could take solace, walk in, and pray, make a new connecction, renew, get energy, cry and get some release. I know I could go too, but to a native brown boy like me churches are too fussy, they have seats, and bare floors, I miss the mosques, the simpleness of the ones I remember, just four walls, and rugs on the floor, with people all bare feet sitting, praying, kneelig, while their mouthes move and they repeat the words within the sanctury of their heads.
I miss the human smell of the mosques, the informality of it, that is the way GOD's house should be, simple of all the earthly things, leaving room for spirits to roam. CHEY called me the other day, " the Bazar Boy ", and I like it, it made me realise who much I am the product of those settings, those crowded streets and alleys, how attached I am to the odors of livings that so freely came to life there. that hot son, dry and soothing, the SOUND OF AZAN, in the middle of the day, or at Ramazan, at the middle of the night with my father, the biggest man I knew, standing in his white undershirt on the Blacony, with his hand behind his ears, and calling the words, all the expressions of a religion that had sipped into our culture so effortlessly.
The smell of the soil, apread in the air, my town, my alleys and streets, midnight passages through the dark alleys of Shimran, when my cousins and I would go for AHYA, the midnight gatherings of moslems at the Mosques, the heat of the bodies sitting next to us, the crowd, the safety of being amongst your own kind, your people, using the same tongues, and the familiar sounds of your language, and how I left all of that almost thirty years ago, and never went back.
It takes a while for us refugees of TWENTIETH Century, to find ourselves here, and accept the bareness, the solitude and the silence of living in this land. No matter how long we live here, it is not of ours and it will never be, so we get to accept it, but it is living in PURGATORY, it is the big wait, it is not real, for all we know of REAL, has come from our knowings there. So we wait, eating our breads and chocolate, some of us accept easier, change our names, find new identities amongst the unfamiliar ALPHABETS, and assimilate. Some never let go, not that they do not want to, they can't. That life, that land has so become a part of us, and so fully has filled all our senses, that there is no room in our Psyches.
During my first decade here, I stood away from anything that brought memories, like a defense mechanism, to protect me, and never went back, since I knew if I did, I will never return. I accepted the shadows, the voices, the dreams that followed me even when I was awake. A man without his homeland, does not have much, so everything became a wait, an anticipation of where life would take me, hoping it would be there, and yet I stayed. My mother is always surprised at how much I remember, the usage of the old words in my language, words that sometimes even she would not remember, but that is where I live, inside the sanctuary of a life lived and rememberd, and remembering the details became as sacred of a rituall as it could be, holding on to. remembering, like a roadmap that I was convinced would take me back, like a map of my being, my existance the way I needed it to be.
So I have kept the identity intact, my only salvation, my only road to me, my being, my sanity, and the longing that is ever present, and also has become a part of me, and my dislocated soul.
Posted by Idinraha at April 23, 2005 01:40 PM
Comments
salaaam Idinraha>
You wrote; "
but that is where I live, inside the sanctuary of a life lived and rememberd, and remembering the details became as sacred of a rituall as it could be"
and I leave you this;
"I have dreamed you many times....lingered over your poets heart,philosophy so wise, leader of culture, a master of art.
I have marvelled at your crescent lips & almond eyes^^perfect curves which danced under turquiose skies.
At one time joon, your smile rivaled the arc of the moon. I saw your tears rain onto golden robes as you were captured over time but not oppressed....
They reduced your mosques but not your pride, traditions of the ages,,, even your name was cast aside.
Why you live in my dreams....who can say? But I have always known you.....Oh Persia,,,,,,
and you will, on the strings of my heart...
always play.
~%~~%~~%~%~%~%'Ode to Persia'~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~
Posted by: chey at April 23, 2005 08:38 PM