The Descent

[1]

The streets of Damascus are intricate and odd
The ghosts of ancient sages come often here to plod
As dozens of minarets fuck the face of God

Forget God. Iblīsy said to me on that fateful night as I walked alone through the narrow and then empty Damascene streets of Sūq al-Jum’ah. Forget God and consider this: what if JibrīlW and Burāqå were real, and not merely figments of Muhammad’s overactive imagination?

Ah! Another voice interjected within me. Finally, you’re talking to yourself again. This is good. Truths cannot be sought after in silence. Quiet! I demanded, as I focused my attention back on what Iblīs was saying.

Jibrīl in particular could be real. He could be an intelligent alien life-form, long-lived, perhaps immortal, and a possessor of a highly advanced technological gadgetry, even by our contemporary standards, that he appears to us as a god,  yes, a god, and behaves towards as a god.

You know, I think you read too much science fiction. The second voice interjected again. And you know, I think you talk too much. I said through clinched teeth. Well I have to, I am your conscience, your guiding light... You are also the pain in my ass at the moment, in fact at every moment; so why don’t you just shut up and let Iblīs finish his thought. I said this while waving my fist at the nothing I always threaten when I am angry with myself. Well, with  my conscience and guiding light.

And why would such a creature interfere in human affairs, you might ask?

Oh, we may, you know, we just may. Shut up. Shut up.

Well, there are several possibilities.

But of course. Will you stop interrupting? What are you anyway: a conscience, or a professional heckler?

To an outside observer, throughout the last few moments, I must have looked like a vision from a nightmare. For I was sure-footed enough not to convey the image of a drunk man stumbling down the street. But with me muttering words out loudly to myself every so often, waving a fist in the air at nothing, and then, suddenly standing and pushing my arms in front of me like I am ready to hug, or punch, someone, I must have looked like a complete maniac.

But the streets were empty then, and I thanked the heavens for that. Yes I thanked the heavens, for I still had that religious urge to thank someone, or something, for my perceived good fortune. Atheism was only a recent development in my life. And when I was done with my thanksgiving...

You know, I said to my conscience, ending that momentary silence that invaded my mind. You know, having an internal trialogue, well, a sort of a trialogue is not the problem here. No, it is not. The problem lies in doing it loudly, publicly, and while gesturing wildly like a man possessed. Don’t think this is exactly the kind of behavior you should be warning me against, oh my conscience and guiding light? Silent. Finally, he is silent. But of course. Occasionally, silence does beseem a conscience. But of course.

The first few possibilities should be quite obvious. He could be doing it out of sheer malevolence, or sheer boredom. Or both. But the possibility that intrigues me the most is that he could be doing it, because he is an artist. Should I elaborate?

Oh, please do...what? I was just answering him. My conscience was responding to the mental equivalent of a jab in the ribs. Go ahead, I said to Iblīs, my anxious intuition.

Well, as you know, there are different types of artists...

You don’t say...Oomph. Another mental jab in the ribs.

there are painters, sculptors, writers, composers, singers, dancers and so on. And of course there are artists who excel at more than one form of art.

But of course...Huh. This one was to the throat.

Jibrīl could be an artist, a different sort of artist. An artist that uses, as he attempts to express himself, peoples and ideas, ideas as images to be seeded in the mind, rather than words, clay, paint or strings. An artist who looks upon the earth as a gallery with many wings exhibiting his work. His finest work being the still unfolding history of the Fertile Crescent. In this work,  the genius of Jibrīl is manifest. And so is the key to this genius: patience. Patience.

Iblīs, I have always noticed, savors his words and delivers them, just like a method actor. Isn’t it fitting?

Jibrīl is dealing with a simple, or seemingly simple, idea: the existence and oneness of God. God, whenever you hear this word in the trialogue, do kindly use the mental equivalent of quotation marks.

(But it takes him millennia of, telepathic suggestions, if you will,  and adroit manipulations of human desires to get to the moment when the idea is finally allowed to be born. Throughout these millennia, he never gives any clear hint to the audience, and there must exist an audience for the artist is basically a show-off, he never gives a hint then, that such a development is in store for the audience.

Still, he manages to keep their attention on the unfolding mosaic of his masterpiece, by throwing in the rise and fall of countless empires of men, each with its particular pantheon and foundation mythology. Female gods, male gods, wars and stability, prosperity and decline, all are celebrated with that intense passion that only humans can exhibit, especially when their minds are tapped into by Jibrīl.)

Jibrīl? Is it really Jibrīl who’s responsible for this, Iblīs? Iblīs did not reply, which means either he was too consumed within himself, as usual, to have heard the question, or he has heard it, and has chosen to ignore it. Whatever the case may be, I hate both traits in him. It makes two of us   then. Believe me, I seldom lie. It makes two of us.

(Then comes the birth. The Birth comes as a curious, minor development in the overall scheme of things. Still Jibrīl focuses upon it and the audience is intrigued. An insignificant people in an insignificant land begin to worship only one god who gradually becomes  the God, the One and Only Universal Creator. In theory, this God grants special concessions to the people who started His worship, and makes certain demands upon them.

In practice, however, God and His people actually haggle with each other, and for centuries, over the number and nature of these concessions and demands, thus providing a comic element in an otherwise tragic interlude. For while busy haggling, God and His people are caught unawares, and are defeated and conquered. Yes,  God, God Almighty Himself, is conquered. But He cannot be dispersed as happens to His people, and He remains as the One and Only... Whatever, in the unfolding.

Jibrīl then proceeds to tie the fate of God to the fortunes of a budding heretical sect. The sect spawns other sects, each claiming to represent the one true faith. God is confused. But Jibrīl saves Him the trouble of having to choose between the sects. By manipulating the dreams of emperors and priests, only one of them becomes officially recognized in the most powerful empire in the land, to the detriment of all others. And the name of God becomes supreme in the Fertile Crescent and beyond.  

At this stage, the audience expects the unfolding, as orchestrated by Jibrīl, to end. They expect Jibrīl to take one of his usual mini vacations on one of the planets circling Epsilon Eridani or Famalhot, before immersing himself into a new artistic endeavor. But when Jibrīl...)

I do beg your pardon, I know that my silence is appreciated by one and all, but my sense of duty compels me to declare at this stage that your damned Iblīs is really   in the process of   slipping off his rocker. Don’t you think?

I hated to agree with my conscience, but Iblīs’ monologue was getting pretty bizarre. Still, considering the way I had been feeling lately, bizarre was good. So I turned to my conscience and said: Shut up! Then I gave him... Oomph! a quick jab in the ribs.

(chooses to continue his work, the audience begins to realize that the master strokes in this unfolding mosaic are yet to come. They are riveted, and Jibrīl knows that he has to deliver on a grand scale. He scours the Fertile Crescent from end to end, from fringe to fringe, looking for that great human genius that can compliment his own and help him produce the chef d’oeuvre within a chef d’oeuvre that he wants, that he needs. The search does not last for long, for on the very periphery of the Crescent, in the minor city of Makkah, Muhammad is born.)

Muhammad! But of course, this is all about Muhammad, that over-bearing Prophet of Islam, that man continued to haunt me despite the fact that I had ceased to believe in his vision for well over a year by now, well over a year. Isn’t a year enough Jibrīl to rid yourself of a ghost? Well, apparently some ghosts are rather stubborn. Indeed.

For I still wanted to be like Muhammad. I wanted to witness the actual infusion of my own little vision of life, right into the  living fabric of history, to change the destiny of all mankind in a lifetime, my lifetime. Just as he had done in his. Just as he had done. But some dreams can break you, can’t they Jibrīl? The can break you.

(Jibrīl observes Muhammad as he grows up, matures, and begins to question his heritage. And Jibrīl soon realizes that, in Muhammad, the genius that he is looking for is found. In the world of dreams, vigils and trances, the alliance between the two is forged. And the most dramatic event in human history unfolds. Jibrīl’s audience, even as we speak, are still in mid gasp.)

An hour passed after my intuition had finished his  own finest work. A quiet hour, both without and within. I was still walking the narrow streets of the Sūq; now and then, it appears, I had been taking turns at random and I had been going in circles. At the end of my intuition’s tale, I had been emerging from the Sūq, now, at three thirteen in the morning, I stood again at its entrance. Since, nonetheless, I still felt no need for either rest or sleep, I decided to plod on through the ancient streets again, plod on and think. Or, to be more exact, plod on and talk to myself, again.

So, do you think that Jibrīl’s work here was done with the birth of Islam? I asked my intuition knowing that my conscience would be the one to answer. After all, this was really his show, he had been the one who had urged me in my dreams to take this walk. For you see, as my intuition is my Iblīs, my conscience is my Jibrīl, my alien yet real Jibrīl.

Of course not. Jibrīl’s work here will never be done. Never. He has a long life-span, and he might be immortal, the earth is his gallery, and the Fertile Crescent is the wing where his masterpiece is exhibited.

But why? I shouted. Why the Fertile Crescent, and not Europe or China, for instance?

Because the people here have become extraordinarily fixated on the idea of God, and they refuse to change. They expect God to do everything for them; they expect Him to rule them and dispense justice among them, they expect Him to deliver their babies for them, they expect Him to feed them, they expect Him to wipe their asses   for them. They call themselves the servants of God, but in practice they want God to be their servant. Thinking of God in terms of a master-slave relationship is the bane of their existence. If they could only think of Him as a friend, perhaps then things would  improve, and Jibrīl could find himself other masterpieces to create.

Or if they could all become atheists like me. I interjected.

Well, atheism is definitely   working for you; as your conscience, I can see that. It was the logical conclusion, the only logical conclusion of your own private search, of your own mystical journey. Still, this change in you is rather recent and there are still a lot of things that you need to work out for yourself, to create some new balance within yourself, some new consistency, harmony, whatever.

Such as? Such as the paradox of being simultaneously a Muslim and an atheist, and feeling, feeling simultaneously, like a Muslim and like an atheist.

And how, do you suppose, can we work this out? I asked somehow realizing that the answer would change my life forever.   Honestly? I had no idea, until now. And what happens now? I was too restless, too anxious to want to play any more games with my conscience. Well, look in front of you and you will see.

I did what I was told, and what did I see? Burāq was standing in front of  me.

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