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Storm

Published February 12, 2015 by sidmary

THERE

On that hot summer’s day, the woman was was dragged out of her house. The area was deserted but for this group of people- and it was day. It was so hot, one could barely stand being out in the sun- and it was desolate.

The woman had a baby in her arms to whom she clung as if her life depended on it. A look of naked terror and horror adorned her face- and yet she was brave.

They led her to the center of the wide lane beyond the house where the ground was coarse and burning under her feet. Dust and sand settled on it for there was no wind.

They took the baby from her, and she tried to hold on, pleading and screaming. The baby was crying too now- writhing- extending his arms towards his mother, and bawling in the fierce grip of the men. His face was soaked, and her tears fell readily to the ground. One wondered why leaves did not sprout where they fell- but tears are salty…

They held her by the arms and pulled her away, and it took three men to do so. She looked at the angel’s face, then looked away. She looked up at the sun which glared down upon her without mercy, and she looked at the sky which was blazing white, and hurting her eyes. She then looked to the horizon, where far beyond the line of her vision, there were other people and other children.

She then looked at the ground and fell on her knees, covering her baby in his royal mantle from heaven by her body.

Somewhere afar, seas, and crimson blood, and rain and love and pain washed ashore in wild, furious and passionate waves that reached deep into the earth and high up to the heavens. The sun suddenly dimmed, as if a switch had been turned off, and the waves slowly receded, losing their tumult in their mournful sorrow.

HERE

“How very tragic,” said Saima, scanning the newspaper at the breakfast table and simultaneously dipping a piece of toast in her tea.

“What darling?” her husband looked up distractedly, sounding vaguely concerned.

NOW

Saima went to the office after sending her children to school. She had a long wearisome day, and came home late in the afternoon when her children were quietly playing in the playroom, attended by their nurse.

She washed up and fell into bed, thoroughly exhausted, for a long nap.

As she slept, dark clouds gathered on the horizon far far away.

Occasionally, a passerby would stop and look up towards it, a frown creasing his brow, before he would busy himself again. A few television channels and even news-reporters did a short report on the weather condition, assuring the people that there was nothing to worry about. Some of the newspapers too published a short column on the conditions the next day. When Saima saw them at the breakfast table, she said again: “How very tragic!” and her looked up, a frown creasing his brow, vaguely concerned.

LATER

The storm brewed and brewed, and the clouds darkened, and no one knew how, but suddenly they were upon the city, darkening everything.

It was not a storm- it was apocalypse.

The sky tore apart in flashes of bright, white light, and the sky fell onto the earth- but it was crying from more than anger- it was crying from hurt too…and it was as if it was not the sky pouring down, but the sea- and yet, leaves did not sprout, because it was the city, and all the paths were graveled.

The wind howled in every ear, and they all heard- probably for the first time ever. People came out of their homes, and for the first time, they saw too.

Saima gathered her children in her arms, and ran towards the closest, widest expanse of plain land: the mosque. There were already so many people there, one could almost be sure it was apocalypse.

She looked about her, the terror in her heart peeping at the world from behind her eyes. These ran now over many words plastered on the walls. Disjointed words leapt into her visions- words that said “faith” and “brothers” and “body” and “pain”1. Words that said “haraj’ and “bloodshed” and “bloodshed”2.

She closed her eyes, but the mist gathered and her face was wet. The ground shook beneath her feet and she held her children to herself in a vice-like grip. Her eyes were still closed and her children held onto her in terror.

The sky still raged, the wind still howled, and the ground still shook. They reminded one of the seas, and crimson blood, and rain and love and pain, all washed ashore in angry tumult…

–Sidra Maryam

Closed Eye: The Breaking of a Heart

Published August 2, 2012 by sidmary

I meant this blog for creative words. Words that form beautiful pictures, serene sounds and soft smells…

I meant this blog to write about a dewdrop on the petal of a flower and the tear drop between the lashes of an eye…

I wanted to write about the delicate being and the delicate feelings of those homo sapiens…

I wanted to write about children and laughter and happiness and nature…

I wanted to write about the musings on ordinary things and the making of extraordinary ones…

I wanted to write about my city, and my country, and my history, and the people of my world…

I wanted to write about everything I love…

But this world is a cruel world that I live in:

It breaks into my dreams and my musings and my passions, and robs from them all the delicacy and innocence that hang on to…

This world has double standards for everything I love…

It treats the powerful with more honesty than is honest, and the weak worse than animals…

Its authorities fuss over things that hardly matter and ignore massacres and genocides…

Its Ambassadors of human rights play chess pieces for the Veto powers and silent audience for Muslims…

Its Buddhists who preach that no ant be killed murder thousands rendered more helpless than ants…

Its NGOs which fight for food, shelter and safety for all sleep tight when comes the call to fight by the people at this side of the world…

Its people who raise the dead protesting against breaking of idols opt silence as lives break away from the tentacles of this world…

Its saints who don’t eat meat for fear of hurting animals disown, dislocate, starve , torture and rape people helpless…

This world has two eyes, and ones remains eternally closed…

A massacre continues in Syria as a massacre inaugurates in Burma…

It leaves me desperate…

It leaves me exhausted…

It gives fire to my passions…

And power to my pen…

I have a big heart- It shelters the whole world…

And my heart is breaking into bits…

NOTE: Please raise a voice against the genocide of Rohingya Muslims in Burma (Myanmar). When the media and authorities opt for silence, it becomes a duty unto every citizen- every “citizen of the world” to speak against oppression. Don’t keep quiet. It was them this time, and “you” are a “them” for them…It could be “you” next time.

–Sidra Maryam

 

Cries from Syria

Published June 1, 2012 by sidmary
Syria Children of Freedom

Syria Children of Freedom (Photo credit: FreedomHouse)

For once, I have no words for what is happening. Is it medieval times, or dark ages? Is it ancient customs of physical hate, or the primitive nature of brute men? What is happening? Where is the world going? Is it the new Holocaust? When will this end? When will the strife and the perseverance, the strength and the patience bear results?!

Children don’t die! They are the symbol of life!

If they can carry their flag, and with it their dead: they will win…

Nasr-um-min-Allah-wa-Fat-hun-qareeb!! (Help and victory from Allah is near!)

 

 

 

 

It’s the dead waiting to be buried. The hands and the burial grounds are wailing and exhausted…Young and old, men and women, children: the martyrs call for peace…Its a call from the wild…

When children die, they shake the heavens…

Humanity cries…

They are children!! Are we to have a holocaust every century!!! (photocredit:http://somalilandpress.com)

Yet they hope…
(photocredit:http://www.businessweek.com)

                           This is an after-thought: after decades of tyrant rule, Husni Mubarak is behind the bars. From the king to a criminal, his journey has been admonishing. His verdict will be given tomorrow. Does that have any signs for the Syrian Government???                               

Themes of Rebellion in Modern Literature -3

Published May 26, 2012 by sidmary
English: Mainstream march, part of the October...

English: Mainstream march, part of the October Rebellion demonstrations against the World Bank and IMF in Washington DC. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Conclusion:

Having determined this much, let’s come to a conclusion. Firstly, that most of the acclaimed contemporary fiction has an element of fantasy in. Take Harry Potter with all the magic and the world of Hogwarts; or the vampire fiction raging the bookshelves; or the all time popular series of the Hunger Games, not to forget Artemis Fowl and the Eragon Series… Why is fantasy becoming so popular these days? Here’s a suggested answer:

Fantasy is a way of creating a new separate reality from the world we live in. It is a way to escape the really pressing real life problems, which cannot be run from living in the same world (thus a separate world.) With the world fast reducing to a global village, and problems being intensified and projected more than ever, the instinct to escape is becoming stronger day by day. However, literature does not work like that. All that is written, is in some form or the other, inspired, combined and exaggerated till it gives a sense of originality. The human mind is quite incapable of creating something out of nothing; thus even the most out-of-the-world fantasy has its roots, somewhere deep down, in the world we live in. A review claims “The Hunger Games” to have “unsettling parallels to the reality,” and no surprise, as it can easily be related to the manipulations of reality TV shows, the barbarous wars in Palestine and Afghanistan, the human survival instinct, and the successions of power in the world. So however much one tries to escape, one is always led back into this same confined space. Fantasy just catches a larger audience to make aware in the subconscious, and provides an illusion that is clearer than reality.

Thus, when we see such a constant trend of themes of rebellion in contemporary literature, and more so in fantasy, we are forced to think where in the society is its origin. There is no trouble answering this. Rebellion is everywhere in the society. It is in the “new wave” and the turn towards liberalism. It is in experimenting new things, seeking adventure, venturing into untrod parts of this earth, divulging into the deep seas and exploring the extra-terrestrial world. We live in an age where people want to see logic in age old traditions and practices. There have been times when people have been dominated for centuries by oppressive monarchs; now, they don’t bear it more than 20, 30 or 40 years. A tide of rebellion began in Tunisia and has spread to Syria in less than two years. There is an identification of “self” that is gaining ground now. With the increasing of human knowledge, is coming the increasing of human wants; wants of freedom, liberty, expression, an own personal space etc. etc. When the world seemed big, people were content with it; but now that it seems shrunk, people crave for a greater space…All this, and perhaps more factors contribute to the rebellion in the society.

However, now that it has seeped into literature too, it has become a formidable trend. Literature, besides reflecting the society, has its way of affecting it. I personally can hardly name a book that has not affected me in one way or the other.  A writer, when he holds a pen, writes the future of the world. He is said to be one step ahead of time. Why? He does not (usually) have a crystal ball to help him in that? What he does is that he brings out, emphasizes and exaggerates something already present in the society; something that affects him, clicks to him, or maybe just registers in his subconscious. In print, that written theme or idea is caught up by others. The circle of effect of the “idea” increases, and it becomes more prominent in the lives of each of the individuals reading it. What is in the mind, finds a way out into the action of a person. When (as usually is), there is a writer among the readers too, the idea spreads further. From a single person to many, and from many to many more: a single “idea” becomes a dominant one. Gradually but eventually, the whole world takes its effect. That is why what a writer writes is so important. That is the reason that holding a pen is a sacred job; and that is the reason that trends in writing cannot be ignored!

When we find a trend of rebellion in the themes in literature, we have cause to be cautious, for this is the same very thing that our future holds for us. We don’t have crystal balls, but we have our pens and we have our minds. After we put them to use, there is only waiting and hoping that whatever sorts and causes of rebellions there be ahead of us, they be good…

Syria

Published May 7, 2012 by sidmary

My second try at acrostic poems 🙂 :

.

Succumbing to flames;

Yearning for peace;

Revolution is called for.

I see it coming; just round the corner

And all too soon.

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