One day you believe in God. The next all that matters is that cup of red wine, and worry about where the next will come from. It is conflicting, it is difficult: it make no sense. But sense is overrated these days, and the belief that it guides us, misguided. With my indulgence comes love for the lovers but not the beloved. I kneel for no one and whisper to none but myself. You ask why it is I care about that veil, though I spend my days uncovered (while my heart is covered): it is the way you look at my grandmother that moves me so. Her sightly smile and friendly eyes soothe the children while her clothing terrifies the elders. Is it really the sight of that old woman, my tata, covered from head to toe–to protect all her love, and mine–is it that sight alone that sets your eyes aflame with hatred? Is it her dark garb that you fear, though she walks with a limp that even a child can escape? Because when I awaken in the middle of the night, my bowels unsettled, to see my mother dressed in spotless white, whispering those words to herself and the companions on her shoulders: there is not a more humbling sight. I cannot believe, but I do, in other ways. It brings to my mind the image of mother before mother before mother: the pedagogy of humility. And what can one do before such a performance, except give a kiss on the hand and a moment of silence? From this we descend: and into whispers in the night we disappear, only to be found before we find ourselves.








2 Comments
July 29, 2007
Wow, Yaman, this is so beautiful. I feel the emotion of it deep within me, yet I cannot explicate what it is exactly. Thank you for writing this. It has given me a sort of spiritual experience.
November 26, 2007
the layered confusion is intimate and palpable. and yet, there is clarity.
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