the good muslim ·
8 May 11

I had weird religious dream though I’m trying to remember how it went. I was trying to read Arabic in a mosque and its all kids. including some “deformities” and they’re all like “we’ll teach you!” sarcastically.

So they’re like what do you remember? So I recite them the first surat of the first sapara (?). And they’re like “well do you remember the alphabet?” and I try but can’t remember. And the “deformities” is like “Yeah I’ll teach the fucker”.

I remember it better now than I did originally. It’s coming back to me. The room where I was in was on the middle floor of this palace like building. It was marble floors, as though in Mecca. They shone brightly against the lights that hung from chandeliers from the white patterned ceiling. The bannister of the staircase was beautiful, shaped with intricate patterns, and ending with this rose like “crest” at each end.

It swung and waved like a wild snake, as though frozen in time to create this abnormal shape. There were rugs everywhere: square ones; round ones; dark colours; light colours; and vibrant colours. Once more the patterns and pictures on the rugs varied, they looked similar to prayer mats, but of course were not prayer mats.

In the room I stood, there were stereotypical Arab dressings on the wall, cloth hanging from wall to wall, revealing a concave corner, where a man sat, wide eyed smoking his hookah. Puffing away like a giant whale struggling to breathe under water, except this was a mammal trying to breathe above it. Why was he smoking it, puffing away like a clapped out motor, coughing and spluttering, his eyes growing wider still. Was he really just smoking molasses or was there something in there that he shouldn’t have been smoking? It was only a few minutes that I noticed him, but his demeanour and presence was wide, in more ways than one.

He wore a traditional “man dress”, where you have a top and a bottom, it was blue/grey in colour, possibly because it was a favourite colour of mine once. Perhaps it stills is, I rarely think about it now. Colours are so meaningless when we have two colours that matter more: black and white. Rather contradictory I know, but if we all saw the world as black and white, there would still war, famine, hate, love, respect, fear everything we have now. Going blind in both eyes does make the one eyed man a king, but why not a one eyed woman queen? Oh, but such a lonely world to be in. I’d rather be blind. Or better yet, dead.

The man’s beard was groomed to perfection, like that of a horse’s back, not to say it looked like an arse, but more to say the grooming that took place, and the way he stroked his beard was that of respect and dignity. Ironic no? After all this is a man choking on molasses, coughing and spluttering, putting up the pretence that everything is okay.

I notice the child in front of me, he sits in a similar position to the man choking on his smoking habit. He lays with one arm resting his head on the floor, angled at a 90 degrees; his left arm is turning the pages of the Quran; his right leg lays on the floor straight out, like a flamingo during feeding season; while his left leg sits atop his right, angled once more to demonstrate a casual authority on what he’s doing. This was a child of no more than 15 years old, but he seemed to command the respect of his fellow children amongst him. He too was smoking from a hookah, but only now and again, and not very often. He seemed to manage it better than the man. The child had no beard, but he did wear the topee (hat) on his head to signify he was a Muslim; a proud one to show his faith.

Pride as they say is a sin, another irony then that so many show their faith. They say not out of pride, but to reserve your faith, rather than shout it from the rooftops is more a sign of dignity and respect than it is to throw it in your fucking face. I am a Muslim. I am a Jew. I wear a cross, I must be a catholic/protestant/of some Christian faith. Keep that shit private, your religion is your bond with god, it compels you to be modest, not overt, for fuck’s sake. some religions are expressly overt: Sikhism, wear the turban; Buddhism, wear a robe or something modest that does not signify worldly possessions, the list goes on.

Again, keep it modest, keep it private – do we really need to know what you believe or don’t believe? You have every right to practice your belief, your hopes, your dreams, but do you ever go to the work place and say,

“Hey guys nice seeing you all – btw I hate this fucking job, I know I’ll be doing it for another 20 FUCKING YEARS, but I just thought I’d let you know because I will NEVER get promoted, and I’m too FUCKING OLD to get another company to hire me. So FUCK YOU very much people. Especially you University grads with your piece of paper. Back in my day…”

Oh shut the fuck up. PLEASE.

So back to this kid, this confident young child who was going to assess my Arabic and my ability to read. I guess I felt, superseded, old hat – too long in the tooth to be there, an inconvenience. I see myself as a thirty one year. I’m still only thirty though, but in the dream I have aged. I’ve never aged in a dream before, not that I can remember. Is it possible to age in a dream? I guess I proved to myself “yes you can”. So this will be on my epitaph, “Died of young age”.

He looks at me once, and only once, then he puts his head back down. In that look is that of, “oh another one”, a certain proud disdain, for one who knows more than you. There’s always something or someone better than you, I live in this comfort, knowing this, I don’t let his disdain get the better of me. I know he’s not looking with his eyes per se, but surely he notices my movements? I look at him in disdain, and think, “There’s someone who knows more than you – you think you’re special, you think because you know the Quran by heart, by having read it and understood it you’re a better person. But you’re not. It’s a myth. It’s all a myth. Knowing how to read and understanding is only part of being a human being, of being a good person. Doing things out of the goodness of your heart, without even thinking about it, is another theory. It’s one I can only hope that is followed by the majority, because your disdain for your fellow man is one of arrogance and pride. You believe this makes you a better Muslim? A better human being? It makes you a fool.”

The monologue in my head is cut short as another boy comes across and pours tea for this boy, this assessor. The boy who pours the tea is in brown garb, and wears a sequinned hat, he is young and fresh faced, with smooth skin contrasting harshly with that of the old man and his beard who is now fast asleep, his belly rising and falling like a poorly inflated bouncing castle. His skin by comparison is old and sagging, it’s rough, and the pores are blocked, you can see them clearly. If he was to scrunch his face I expect many of those blocked pores would open and breathe a sigh of relief, as though a baby gasping for air for the first time. All those tears of joys running down the pores, singing, “thank you!” to whoever set them free to breathe once more.

I sit down finally, I cross my legs. I haven’t told you what I’m wearing. It’s a little….melodramatic, almost puritan and self-righteous. I am wearing all white garb, the traditional Pakistani kind, with sandals, brown in colour, the fit snugly on my worn dry feet, as though I have spent an eternity walking and getting nowhere fast. My journey has not ended, it has never begun. As I sit there, cross legged, I feel my journey is at a stand still. I will learn nothing from this place. My own preconceptions have taken over, my bias brooding for all to see.

I don’t believe anyone is impressed at my presence. It’s not grand, it’s desperately seeking answers, and yet it’s arrogant and not willing to give them a second opportunity to destroy a reconstructed, yet broken life. They know this, but they are taught to teach, to learn to develop and grow, and that includes turning the non-believers into believers. Make me a believer again, if you think you can. I will give you that opportunity. But I am but a “kaffir” now, I may as well be white, for the belief in them is that of no belief in that of anyone other than that of their own kind, their own skin colour is no longer enough. I am dressed appropriately, but it’s mechanical almost, a mechanism by which I am doing this out of duty of courtesy than belief or want. They knows this, I know this. These are just mind games now.

My paranoid delusions set in when I hear a crowd of children praying, then laughing, and then turning to look inside. Are they laughing at me? You looking at me? There’s no one else…you get the idea. I feel, uncomfortable, I start to sweat, the beads of perspiration ride down my scalp and down my forehead. I respite by drinking the bottle of water I had brought with me. I feel the heat, even with the fan running at full speed above my head. It;s a ceiling fan in the traditional sense, the chandelier above it with a pike sticking down so low you would think it would cut the head off if you jumped. I’ve seen the movies.

“Why are you here?”
“No. That’s the wrong question.”
“Oh, I see.” he gets up slowly.
“Yes, the wrong question.” I respond.

He looks at me eye to eye, and begins to laugh. He looks at his friends, and says something in Arabic. They begin to laugh too. It’s about me. There’s no paranoid about this one, only truth. Many children and even adults do this, because they feel insecure saying what they say to their friends to your face. One on one, they don’t stand a chance, it’s not funny, and they fear you. Fear is what makes them turn to their friend’s for back up. It’s hilarious, it’s a one sided joke, but the joke is on them. I do not fear them, I feel the heat of the weather, I marvel at the marble floors, I wonder in amazement at the architecture.

But I am not fearful. I am not afraid. I fear nothing, and want something. I am but an empty vessel, thirsting for knowledge, my sustenance. I crave it, I want it, and I cannot find anyone that can keep up with me. I cannot find a religion that can keep up with me. I do not want to learn everything, I want to understand everything. Learning is not enough, it’s a step,, but it only tells you how to understand. There is no fast track, and I am a man of infinite patience, but for this, for this I am a man of little time. A corporeal existence has limited my understanding, my ability to grow. I need to go beyond this body, this world, this plane of existence.

I get up too now. I look at him square in the eyes, I carefully construct the sentences that will determine the fate of this conversation and this life of mine in that place where defiling or defying their God will result in my death, my sacrifice to Him in order to prove their loyalty and belief. Is this what your all loving God wants? For you to kill in his name? Harm in his name? Hurt in his name? Demean those that do not believe in his name? Not out of love, or out of pity or out of hope, but out of rage, and hate, and pride and most of all fear. Fear of what God will do to you, if you do not protect his name.

“Fuck you. And your God.”

There’s screaming and shouting. I’m hit over the head, I fall to the floor, I feel the kicks landing. Not children’s kicks, but adult kicks. I can tell the difference, my mother beat the shit out of me as a child. I was bullied in primary school by racists. Yeah I know the difference between the two.

Suddenly the whole scene changes – the darkness lifts, the bright lights come on. It’s a game show. The audience is Arabic, there’s a picture of someone hanging over us, with Riyal signs showing next to them. Everything is glitzy, it;s glamourous, there are women in burkas waving at a board with a wheel on it. Wheel of Fortune? I can’t tell to be honest. It’s a game show of some sort. I escape when the audience is cheering. I hear “boos” as I leave. I fear the chase is on. As I exit I run into an Arcade centre.

I have no idea where I am. I am no longer wearing traditional men’s Pakistani clothing, I am now in my jeans, with a pain dark blue hoodie on. My favourite pairing. I run and lose the people behind me, alL I hear is Arabic being shouted. When I enter the Arcade, I exit out to the Mall where a woman sits in the hallway, as I walk past, I take a chance, I spin around as I walk away and say “Hot!” pointing t her. I walk away and she says, “Hey wait!”. Shit I think, am I in trouble? “Let’s go!” she says. Hah, I am in trouble, “Sorry I didn’t mean to imply anything. I’m already in love. Sorry!!!!”

So I run off, into the distance and end up held by two burly Arab men dressed in traditional garb, and accompanied by four others. They all wear moustaches that aren’t real, but they look like handlebar tashes, so they look inconspicuous. They grab me firmly by the arms and take me to a pod. They tell me,

“Now you will go where no one comes back from. There you will be a good Muslim. You will never see anything again.”

I look on in despair, at my fate, my future, the litle time that remains of it. I may as well stick a knife in my heart and end this now. This is the love that Allah has brought them, that has brought them forward to take me by force and teach me their ways, to end my existence as one of them. If I refuse, do I go to hell? If I accept, do I go to heaven? I can never come back. Do i want to? Or do I want to stay? The conflict within me builds. My life as it is has no meaning, perhaps this is beyond death, to live in one existence, on one plane, to know nothing else. Is this ebyond death? Is this enlightenment?

“Fuck no!” I tell myself. I think of a way out but I’m being blocked by the harem of ugly guys. I don’t see a way out, all hope is lost until….

“Welcome! Welcome my friends! Come around, and join the fun, for what comes next no one knows!” Four of the men are distracted. I see another man, he is dressed liek an Arab, but wears a suit underneath. So not like an Arab, but he wears the sheik-style hat, with the flowing cloth. He looks at me, and winks. Who is this man?

He looks like he’s in his 50s, worn from an existence of helping others? No, but he seems worn out physically, yet his mind seems sharp, he seems young at heart, full of energy. I wish, I wish I grow to be that old, and yet I think I am forever doomed into this existence of monotony until I pass away a miserable man. A man full of guilt, and regret and hate for the world that has trapped him here. For a world that barks on about freedom, and yet takes that freedom away when one wants to leave a corporeal existence.

I don’t believe in anything. I don’t believe there is anything beyond, but I’m willing to take the chance, because it’s obvious I cannot find a happiness that will last here. If I can’t have that, what good is my existence? To help others? To make them happy? Out of pity? Sorrow? A mechanical gut reaction that says, help those less fortunate because some book says so, and so you artificially react and think “yes this is good, Allah will welcome me with open arms. My family will go to heaven. My children will go to heaven. Yes, I must do what Allah asks, for his bond with me is so great that all the good I do will be praised and blessed.”

Because we want to believe. Because we want to accept that there is a heaven, we have the faith to believe in something that cannot be proven, or disproved, so we accept the unacceptable. And yet most people don’t believe in a hell. Or in science, and science often proves itself to be wrong, so we re-learn. But science is another religion, it’s not proven or disproved. Some guy says there is gravity, so we believe it.

Someone says “the Earth is flat, I will sail to the edge” he returns and says, “I have sailed to the edge, the world is flat” yes it must be true! Time passes. “The world is round, I will prove it by going to the edge”, he returns, “I have returned from the so-called edge and gone beyond it, I went round” The world is round. Now it’s round but more like an egg shape, they show pictures, we believe. “How can you deny proof such as this?” Because it’s not enough. Until I exist and see this with my own eyes, until I visit this world, and see that it is an egg shape, this is not enough for me. Prove it. PROVE IT YOU MOTHERFUCKER. Otherwise don’t waste my time with your bullshit.

Tomorrow you’ll tell me that the world is an oblong, and tell me to accept that. Fuck you. Some guy says 9 is a number, some guy says this is pi – I’ve proved it with an ancient formula. Fuck you. Fuck you and your formulas. So narrow minded. So limited in thought and scope. Fuck you and your bullshit.

The old man with a beard and entertaining everyone in his suit, jumps here, and jumps there. He winks at me again, and shakes his head to prod the other way. An exit. I see a fucking exit. Two guys. Two very big, very strong looking guys. Strong, and big yes. But fast? I doubt they could catch my small frame. Maybe if they had Gummi Beary Juice. I dart for the exit, I run and run. I look back and see two burly men taking on the bearded man, but I feel guilty and stop momentarily til he says, “Run! Run you idiot!”. I don’t look back, my guilt fades and I dart for the light at the end of the tunnel. I stand there, I look beyond, and all I see is desert. A motherfucking desert. Thanks old man, at least you tried.

I hear footsteps and calls in Arabic come closer, I hear shouting, and screams, I don’t turn around. I feel something in my chest. I don’t look down, i feel a warmness in my chest now. Then I feel cold. So cold I can’t feel anything any more, but it’s ironic – don’t take this moment away from me. I am at last at peace. No more questions. No more answers. Just peace. Just darkness. Just quiet. Peace.