the sky is on fire

It is 6am. I sit in the coffee bar, and eye the route of the motorcade. It's a beautiful Pakistani sunrise, and Rawalpindi seems to epitomize everything that is beautiful in our country; the sort of place we strive so hard to keep, but will inevitably fall to modern vice, like every city in Dar al-Islam.

But right now, at this exquisite dawn, watching the sun's rays hit my beloved Jamia Mosque, accentuating the curves of the dome, the sensual and spiritual genius of the architecture – at 6am, Rawalpindi is a home fir for Our Prophet, blessed be his name.

But as I drink, and as the divine sun retreats, violated, to the sky above, our reality becomes clear.

There are only a few of them at first. Loathsome, slavish brutes in brown uniforms, each of them convinced he's a Caliph. They are like the British, but uncivilized; my stay at Oxford allowed me to see the twisted reasoning behind our former occupiers. If enveloped in hypocrisy and sin, at the very least the British were brilliant.

Musharaff's men – they are but great apes in formation.

I avert my gaze, so as not to cause suspicion – I am one of a very few in the vicinity of the motorcade route, very young as well. In other words, a very weak hand when dealing with these thugs.

I turn my attention to a copy of the Koran I have with me – even taking into account Musharaff's crimes against Our Prophet, I was inconspicuous. Nothing can change that part of our nation.


It is 9am. I think of last year's crimes, of the assault on Islamabad's Red Mosque, and the brutalization of its students. I think of Musharaff's treachery, his dealings with the Americans. I think of the liberals, and their ceaseless arrogance.

As I ponder, one of the kuffar approaches me.

"Young man – why are you here?"

Ever the subtle type.

"I am enjoying a beautiful Pakistani morning, and enriching myself with the verse of Our Prophet."

The fascist snorted.

"You are subject to a mandatory full-body search, as per Pakistani law requirements for political rallies of currently campaigning candidates."

The brute can memorize a mouthful.

"So be it."

He asserts his authority, and searches for imaginary weapons, explosives, drugs. I am not afraid. He has decided to check at the wrong time, and I have nothing to hide.

As I am humbled before the beast, I gather my bearings, search my surroundings; few others roam the dusty street running through the marketplace at this hour. More than likely, they have mindlessly congregated around their savior at an earlier stop in her motorcade.

Across the trail, a chicken scavenges for crumbs. Several of her chicks follow. The mother clucks, her chicks obey. They devour their minuscule morsels, and wander clueless through the town. Before the year is over, the mother will be slaughtered, and we will eat her. In another year, her chicks will follow.

The soldier finishes his "check-up", and leaves with a grunt.

It will go off without a hitch, insha'allah.


It is 12pm. The entire marketplace is now swimming with the rabid mass. Soon, I will have to move into position.

I remove what I have hidden in the tome of His Holy Words.

I begin to make my way to the site of Bhutto's last stop in Rawalpindi, where I will wait.

As I walk, I look at the faces of my countrymen. One young woman seems possessed by hope, like a desperate hunger, left malnourished all her life. A small boy, overwhelmed by everything around him, holds his parents' pro-Benazir poster high over his head, seated on father's shoulders. An old man, wizened by the years, is cautious, actively suppressing a budding excitement. Teenagers, skipping out of University, shout rhyming slogans with the energy only blind youth can afford, pumping their fists in the air.

How lost they are.

It is 3pm. Bhutto has just delivered her lies to the ravenous masses. Her vehicle is within sight. I am ready.

I push my way to the front of the crowd, and play my role.

"Long live the PPP! Bhutto for Pakistan!"

Others join in, and soon Bhutto takes notice. She smiles widely, and by her own volition stops her driver, and exits the vehicle to wave to her supporters.

Even I must admit that Benazir Bhutto has a certain beauty about her. Looking into her eyes, watching her speak, one can only regret that such talent has been wasted on such worthless causes. In the service of Our Prophet, in a role truly befitting of her, she could have been a great woman.


I take my weapon into my hands, point it directly at the whore, and empty my round.


Before anyone, myself inlcuded, can fully understand what has just happened, the game is changed.

Suddenly, I am overwhelmed with scalding heat, and knocked to the ground with all the force of a murderous bull, my head spinning.

The sky is on fire. My lungs have been emptied, and then clogged with thick black wafting smoke, and my eyes burn with the sharpest pain I have ever felt. For a moment, I think I've gone deaf, my eardrums blasted to hell by the violent ringing.

I stumble away from the heat, unable to see, unable to hear, my senses inflamed. I cough and I cough, hacking up phlegmy blood, my throat torn and aching. I vainly clutch at the air, clawing for a wall, a pole, a man – something to lead me away from this nightmare of limbo.

I start to breathe a little easier. In my pained stupor, maybe I've escaped from the smog, found a patch of open space where I could stabilize myself instead of losing the fight, fainting, maybe dying.


At this point I remember what I was doing. My left hand searches the right, and I realize that I've dropped my gun. I can't remember if I missed, if I succeeded, if I even had a chance to fire at all.

I fall to the ground, landing hard on my back. I cannot move.

My left hand searches upwards across my arm, and then I feel it – sharp, metal, charred, the shrapnel has cut to the bone.

My eyes force themselves open. A gray smokescreen greets my vision, and I quickly look to my right arm. The sight nauseates me, I'm losing blood, and I struggle to stay conscious.

A strong hand grips my shoulder.

"Young man – are you hurt?"

I turn, wild-eyed, and stare at the man. It is the kafir from before.

"Young man – you need help, there are doctors on the way, you need immediate..."

His words trail off, and soon all I can hear is the beating of my own heart.

In the next world, Allah waits for me.

In this world, I am utterly alone.

war stories

How strange is it?
To know
Without seeing
To talk
Without speaking
And to hear
in silence?

How strange
To devote
To trust
To hope
In that silence
In that void.

Children are told
Their war stories.
How Granpa fought
In Midway
Normandy
And Kursk.
"They still have his leg,
The Krauts!"

They visit him on Sundays
But it is never he
Never Granpa
Who spins the thread
Unwinds the yarn
Or fastens the quilt.
All he ever tells them
Those children
Not yet aware
Of things like
Complexion
Creed
Or
Country borders -
All he only whispers
Is of the sandman
Who grants them dreams
When they've been good
And the bogeyman
Who plagues their nightmares
Or even
Keeps them awake
Frightened and fearful
When they've been bad.

Only when they've been bad
Does the bogeyman
Come for them.

But Sunday night
When Granpa,
Alone,
But living as full
As one can
Alone,
Goes to bed,
It is he
Who dreams
Who remembers
Why
And how they come.

He will never forget
And in the still of night
He will never
Be alone.

But how strange
Is it?
To believe
In the veracity of dreams?

How strange is it?
To just for the moment
While you're still young
And the world is open
Inviting
Loving
Warm -
How strange is it
To take the hand of beautiful lies?
And drift to sleep
With beautiful
Loving
Hope?

The grandchildren
Are happy.
And they know
That Granpa
Is happy.
Because Granpa is good
He will be loved.
And in peace
They sleep.

How strange it is.

How strange
That now
More than ever
Granpa can hear
Can see
Can speak
And can be heard, seen, spoken to -
How it's all now
More real than ever
When he lives in those dreams
In his grandchildren
In their innocent love.

And yet
Nothing in Normandy
In Midway
In Kursk
Was ever so real.

And nothing
To me
Is ever so real.

I am of him
They are of me
All of us
Of all of us.

And it is within them
It is within us.

It is within me
That I may sleep
That I may dream.

Normandy
In me
Never me
In Normandy.

Midway
In they
Never they
In Midway.

Kursk
In us
Never us
In Kursk.

And God
And his kingdom
In us
Never us
In God
Or his kingdom.

Yes
The kingdom
Of God
Is within you.

Yes
The kingdom
Of God
Is within us.

And yes
The kingdom
Of God
Is within me.

And how strange
That is.

from confederate soldier to betrothed

If by doom,
Or if by dawn
I cease to wake,
And if your side
I never to make,
Remember only
Of things not thought
But done for you.

For as I dream
Of your waking
Of your song
Your tight embrace
I hope upon hope
To break through to
Our reality sought,
Where ne'er we part
And time allows
My heart to give
To you, beloved
My everything always.

ravishing

The water
Filling the Caspian
Boils
And the lascivious steam
Rises
Dissolves the swollen sky,
Bursting storm clouds,
And showering the steppes
In a mad caress.

The dark, dripping Tatar hands
Seize the dusty, dry
Parched Persian earth
And strangle the sand
Yellow and frail
Into muddy dirt,
Joyous soil.

And in weeks,
It blooms.

infancy

Thick fog of childhood,
Thin blanket of memory,
Foghorn sounding in the harbor,
And train-whistle blowing through the air -

Gray Wolf who visits our bedsides,
Whispers our fears
Softly,
Gently.

Black Sheep who nuzzles against us,
Comforts us
In our dreams.

Before I could speak,
I could listen.
Before I could see,
I could imagine,
I could feel.

Color,
Shape,
Warmth -
Watercolors flowing,
Blurring possibility.

My cry
Entering this world
Was not of sadness,
But of ecstasy.

oasis

In the sweltering blaze of Phoenix summer
The birds fall from tree, sky and nest
And meet in communion
Around the water
Pooled
Across a suburban streetcorner,
The doves to drink
The pigeons to bathe
And the grackle
To scare them all away.

levantines

How long, my friend?
O, how long has it been?
Since we've really laughed together
How long has it been?

My cousin
We are lost
And there's nowhere in the world
We can be friends

Now we are different
Now we are hungry
Now we are broken
Now we are severed

And now
Are we finished?

What's left for us, brother?
What's left of our past?
Our families are killing,
And our children are killed

Our art is a-mess
Our cities a-ruin
And nothing is left
For our hatred to maim.

And even till death
And even through pain
I cannot stop loving
Stop crying for you

la defensa del campo

Sunrise comes slowly,
shouldering
the weight of careless rain.
The mourning doves,
hungry but frightened,
wade cautiously
across damp leaves.
Within the drowned earth,
through muddy soil,
the feast rises,
and the birds reap
what has been sown.

The man,
startled out of dreams
of fertile land
and fertile life
by the coarse call to arms
of the emboldened cockerel.
His eyes
bear the weight
of years of labor,
and his throat
is cracked,
dry as the floor
of the Sonora.

The man
watches the battalion
of hungry creatures
scorching the earth,
undoing the week's work,
the week's worth.
He reaches for his gun
and pours into the flooded field.
He fires a round,
the army disperses,
and the fort
has been held -
Labor Omnia Vincit.

okc

Seven and a half years now
since everything changed
before I understood
what I already had.

The Atlantic
still a stranger to me,
how could I
understand?

The burning wreckage,
abstract and sterile
it's full terror
for me only living
in a child's imagination.

Eight and a half years now
since hopes vanished
where there's something I can have
that I will never want.

West of the Jordan
always alien to me
the estranged family
where I am loved
but not wanted.

Young men and women
marching over endless sand
burning coastlands
an industrial waste
still beautiful in my heart.

Fourteen years now
since the plains
caught aflame,
roots of my family
charred by the lightning
our ears deafened
by the thunder.

No face of evil
to remember
but one of our own.

And still
no zealot from abroad
can frighten me
like him.