The Descent

[7]

“When I was fifteen,” said the black-hared man with deeply tanned skin who sat next to my bed, “I attended my first public crucifixion. It took place on the afternoon of a beautiful spring day, and as usual, it took place on a hill, so that it could be seen by as many people as possible, and so that travelers and merchants could see it, from their distant routes, and convey the news to as many people as they possibly can.

But as for me, I was observing the crucifixion on the hill itself, just few feet away from the seven crosses that jotted out from the worn-out earth like cries of protest against God and humanity. And many people were on the hill with me to hear these cries, and to mock them: relatives, friends, people of curiosity, and people of conscience.

And people seeking gratification and revenge, on that fine spring afternoon.

Occasional cries of pain notwithstanding, there was this man, on a nearby cross, a middle-aged man, a common killer, who had snuffed out the lives of many a fellow Jew, but now was being punished for killing a Roman centurion in a fit of drunkenness. And this man had no one around his cross, no grieving mother or wife, no frightened children, no consoling friends, and, more significantly, no delighted enemies, and he had killed many, or so it was announced at the beginning of the ceremony. The killer was dying alone, as all killers should, but he was dying with a smile on his face, a wicked smile not that of the wronged or the righteous. A smug smile. A smug smile. I was intrigued.”

“I approached the man’s cross, and got close enough to touch it, but I didn’t. I didn’t touch it. And though I was already breaking too many of my parents injunctions by simply being there, I was too curious, and too naive, not to go further, not to speak. So I looked up to the man and said: ‘Why are you smiling, uncle? Is crucifixion not painful for you?’

The man looked down, and gazed upon me for the longest while, with amusement in his eyes, and yes, pain. He was definitely in pain, and I suddenly realized that I shouldn’t have asked, that I shouldn’t have approached the cross, or been on the hill to begin  with. But it was too late, the realization came to me too late, and that was the beginning of a pattern. The man spoke.

‘Fucking God never fails to put a smile on my face, son, you know, you should try it yourself. I can see by the way you look that you need it, son. You, at least, need to fuck someone, anyone. Don’t you agree, son? Don’t you get these feelings, and these dreams at night? Don’t you masturbate? Don’t you think of women, son? Don’t you dream of sucking on nipples?’ As he spoke these words, the amused expression on the man’s face became more pronounced, and the signs of pain disappeared, and he continued to gaze upon me, upon the surprised expression that painted itself on my face. I had never heard such language before, I came from a religious family, a very religious family.

I didn’t know how to react. I simply stood there, near the cross, being shocked, and looking nervously around me to see if there was anyone else nearby who could have heard the man’s words, and could see my embarrassment There was no one there but me, and I was relieved.

Suddenly, the expression on the man’s face changed, amusement disappeared, and was replaced by sorrow, it seemed, sorrow and regret. And the man spoke again: ‘Forgive my blasphemy, son. It was the pain talking. Look, I’ll make it up to you. I don’t have a family of my own, so I don’t have anyone to leave my possessions to. So I’ll leave them to you. There isn’t much, I’m not a rich man, but I’m sure you’ll like them. So what do you say, son? Agreed?’

I was surprised by this sudden change of attitude, but I was also curious. Curious to know what sort of possessions  a man like him would leave behind to a stranger. And probably even a bit greedy. I signaled my agreement to the man, and he gave me an address of a friend of his, Ruth, he said he had left his possessions with her as a trust, and that she would give them to me without a fuss, if I should say certain words to her. He taught me those words. They sounded strange, but they were easy to memorize. I decided to go to Ruth’s place the very next day, after work.”

“Ruth was a whore, I should have guessed that earlier, but I was too pure to make such guesses. Ruth was also beautiful. She had an infantile look, innocence exuded from her every pore. And femininity. I was trapped. Still I told her, as I stood shivering in front of her, of her man’s final wish, and of the special words he had taught me. ‘Give me these possessions in memory of that morning by David’s cross.’ I said. My words startled Ruth momentarily, but she quickly regained her calm, and stood in front of me, watching me with that sense of amusement in her eyes, that I knew very well by then. Dejà vu, that’s what it was. Dejà vu, up to a point.

‘Well then,’ she finally said, ‘I’d better give them to you, we don’t want to disregard a dead man’s last wish.’ And she went about the small and cluttered room gathering up items. A vase, a robe, a slingshot, among other things. When she had gathered them all, she put them in a neat bundle and handed them to me. I thanked her with kind words, and an obvious un-intrinsic stutter, and turned around and headed towards the door. But before I stepped out, I heard her voice behind me asking me to stop. It was her voice, no doubt about it, still it was different somehow, unusual... I turned around again, and...

‘There is one last thing that I need to give you,’ she said, as she stood in front of me again with that damned sense of amusement in her eyes. And I watched her with awe as she tugged at her robe, and wriggled out of it with all  the grace in the world, revealing her naked body to my virgin eyes. What followed was wonderful, what followed was joy laced with guilt, which is the best kind of joy one can have.

What followed began as her man must still have been alive on the cross, and it lasted for days, and weeks, and months. What followed led me eventually to decide upon a matter that I had been considering for quite a long time, a decision to join the Community of the Faithful, to shun the ways of the sinful world, and live only in anticipation of the coming of the Messiah, and the Kingdom of Lord.

One night, I penetrated Ruth one last time with all the vigor that I could muster, enjoying her croons in my ear, and the taste of her nipples in my mouth, one last time. Then I left her forever, without informing her of my decision, and without knowing why she, and her man had chosen to make love, one spring morning, by the cross of her unfortunate husband.

I left without notice, and I don’t think that surprised her, although she was three-month pregnant with our child. I would never hear of her again. Never. Not even here.”

“I spent the next fifteen years in the Community, meeting with my parents only two or three times throughout the entire period. I was a selfish man.

Nevertheless, my stay among the faithful was spiritually re- warding. Up to a point. I wasn’t as satisfied as I had hoped to be. It’s very hard to get satisfaction when you don’t know what you’re looking for. And I didn’t. The leaders of the Community urged me to get married, that was their solution to all male problems, but I  categorically refused even to contemplate the idea. And everyone knew, myself included, that it was only a matter of time before I would leave the Community. Still, fifteen years would pass before I finally did leave.

I left when I heard of John the Baptist. I left to listen to him only, not to become one of his followers. I left, because I was curious. I left, because it was time to leave. I left having no plans beyond leaving and listening to a few of John’s sermons.”

“John was a charismatic man. John  was an angry man. His sermons and baptismal rites attracted as many people as they repelled. His opinions divided families and villages. John the Divider was another of his titles. And I liked this title best, for he divided me in halves. Tormented halves. Irreconcilable halves. John was a preacher of love and hate, peace and war, salvation and damnation, in short, he had no clear vision. In fact, he had no vision at all.

He was an anarchist, he only knew what he hated at a given moment, and that might indeed change the very next moment. Still, from him I learned everything, everything, and in his footsteps I would follow after his death, as staunchly as I refused to follow him while he lived. I was a jealous man.”

“I was also an ambitious man, an ambitious man who, though refusing to follow, still wanted to be followed. And so it came to be that I continued John’s work shortly after his death. I began to sermonize in the same manner, to the same effect, and oftentimes to the same people. And although it was known that I had refused to follow John when he was still amongst us, people seemed to accept me as his legitimate heir, his only legitimate heir, my rivals were ignored. And why not? I even looked like John.

Then I began to travel, like John had done, and many others before him, taking the show to the road, as they say, heading towards Jerusalem. For I knew like many other prophets had known before me, that, in a manner of speaking, if I could make it there, I could make it anywhere. <It’s up to you then, Jerusalem.> I thought. And it was.”

“As I dragged my own cross through the streets of Jerusalem, and as I climbed that hill, huffing and puffing like an old and rabid dog, and as I felt the pain as nails where driven through my palms, and as I stared at the horizon from on high, I thought of all the  contradictions I would soon leave behind, of a life spent in motion, but without a clear purpose, of my own betrayal of Judas, and  of preaching angrily against anger, and slandering the slanderers, and casting stones, casting stones, spending a lifetime casting stones, and I had always been a sinner.

I even sinned on the cross. I sinned against God, and all of mankind. And I sinned against Ruth, and Mary, as I thought of them, and of the missed opportunities, of all the missed opportunities, and as I wasted my semen on the deadness of the cross.”

The thought of dying had never occurred to me, not even when  I had realized that I had just been stabbed in the chest, not even when my vision had gone blurry as I had tried to wrestle the dagger out of Thurayyâ’s maddened hands, not even as I had been punched and kicked around like a sap-less stalk until ghostly flocks of men and women had rushed in to claw the Khumeini-stricken Thurayyâ off me, as I had begun my descent into the lowest depth of hell.

America! I stood upon American ground, and I breathed polluted American air, and I thought of my homeland, and I felt nothing but relief for having left it behind. This doesn’t mean, however, that I fell madly in love with America, or that being there made me feel good about myself. On the contrary, I hated America, I hated her with a passion, being true to my chosen fundamentalism, I hated her for being strong and sure of herself, while my country, while my world, rather, the entire Muslim World, was weak. Weak to the point that we, the Muslims, had to hate each other, and kill each other to get a sense of empowerment,  no matter how brief, and insignificant it turned out to be. And all the while I continued to hate myself.

In spring of 1988, I left school and the small Wisconsin city of Stevens Point, bound to join the Mujahideen in Afghanistan for my small dose of empowerment,   killing Russians rather than Muslims. My mother came to say good-bye,   but it proved to be unnecessary, the Russians withdrew, and the Mujahideen began to kill themselves,  and the flame that burned within me died down. My mother returned home, and I settled in Los Angeles. Hell indeed.

My meeting with Jesus had taken place during my long period of recovery. It had taken place on time, for nobody had dared disturb the schedule that Burâq had laid, especially after he had just snuffed out the life of an immortal for the first time, in a long time. Thurayyâ had lost her mind to Khumeini, and her life to Burâq, and although we all grieved for her, life had to go on. The old patterns reasserted themselves, and somehow forgetfulness was induced, it was as if Thurayyâ had never existed.

And the nights belonged to Eve again, and the days to Jû, a more aggressive Jû. And I was drained. Totally drained.

I learned many things in hell. Things that I could not have learned elsewhere; demons can teach more about reality than angels, I owe the people of hell, a lot.

I learned that I was naive, and pitiful. And I learned that these were immutable qualities.

I learned that I was white. But racism remained irrelevant to me. Power was the real issue, and has always been.

I learned that I was a fanatic. And that I was championing the wrong cause.   Shi’ism, Sunnism, Sufism, gradually became insignificant for me.

I  learned that I   was a Westerner.  Westerner in the way I   behaved,  and thought. I had  more things  in common with Americans, than with the all  the Muslims that  I had known. Still I felt like a Muslim. And I lived like a Westerner. I was both. Withal,  it’s easier to  be alienated than to belong. I was homeless.

 And I learned that I had much to lose. Too much to lose. Everything to lose.

In August of 1990, and after a two-and-a-half years interruption in my studies, I returned to school, in good old Stevens Point. Two years later, I graduated with a Bachelor’s in history. Yes, astronomy was no longer suitable, I needed to be grounded in earth first, before I flew up to the heavens. Atheism came as another grounding factor, I was starting life all over again. And something told me that this time, I might die an infant.

The routine was killing me, killing me, killing me, killing me. I ran out of things to say...

 
“Eve.” I said.

“Aha.” She replied.

“What’s your favorite pet-peeve?” I asked.

I also ran out of ideas...

“Jû.” I said.

“Hmmm.” Came the reply.

“Why is the sky blue?” I asked.

I was becoming mad. My madness was beginning to show...

“Jibrîl.” I said.

“Yes.” He replied.

“Have you ever met ‘Izra’eel?” I asked.

And quite irritable, I was becoming quite irritable.

“Iblîs.” I said.

“What?” He asked.

“Fuck you.” I said.