A Tale of Two Walls

Unexpectedly, spectacular in its bitter resolve
to remain there, squatting mercilessly
as the symbol of irreconcilability
it suddenly, miraculously imploded on itself
collapsing, leaving a host of dazzled,
confused, triumphant prisoners
to emerge, the light of freedom realized
settling into consciousness like the
heavens themselves revealed. Free at last.

Echoes of another, earlier release
from brutal bondage barely recognized,
memories of the living dead released
from death camps. How precise is this irony
that the murderously irenic-averse
population complicit with the annihilation
of the pestilential Jews among them
suffered themselves a dim shadow of the
relentlessly mortal agony of official genocide.

The cleansing of the community,
the nation, the continent and ultimately
the world, of the existence of predatory
power-assertive, controlling Jews.
Shakespeare would have thrilled to
this moral dilemma, the bleak humour,
the black destiny, the upheaval
and the clever disposal of so many
throwaway lives, from infants to
three-legged doddering babblers.

Yet another anniversary; that which presaged
the cruel turmoil, the incessant slaughter
signified by shards of gleaming glass, goes
yet unacknowledged. There are the usual
preliminary dark clouds gathering on the
endless horizon of man's inhumanity to its own.
Another Kristallnacht abetted by the demonic
slander that soils the atmosphere. Perish
the very thought! But all the symptoms, the
signposts point unerringly there.

The dissenters - all those whose livid hatred
of surviving world Jewry become now citizens
of their very own land, their sovereign country -
speak of their own truth; their resurgent bigotry
has found its very own theme to augment
The Protocols, with another wall of desperation.
This one separating not a single nation with
polarizing ideologies, but two separate nations
one of which designs to obliterate the other
while proclaiming itself the sad victim, the
other the evil damned-by-acclamation occupier.

 

Deference By Association

When I kind of casually mention his rank, people are instantly deferential. Gives me a bit of a leg up, I soon enough noticed. Respect by association. Although I’ve earned my own, in fact. Still, it doesn’t hurt to mention that kind of thing.

My father always thought of himself as an astute judge of character. He could tell right off by closely examining someone, he always said, what they were made of. First impressions, he would tell anyone who’d listen, are important. I was really pleased when the first impression Mike made on dad was a good one. “Fine young fella”, he said.

I’d already been going out fairly steadily with him by then. My mom was less impressed. Mike was with the military, the air force, and my mother wasn’t thrilled with that, on my behalf, she said. Urged me to look around a little more. I could do better for myself.

“You wouldn’t like it, trust me, Sheila, living with someone in the military.”

“What on Earth would you know about it, Mom?” I recall asking. I wanted her to be as generous in her acceptance of Mike as dad so obviously was. Why I cared what my mother thought anyway, puzzled me more than I cared to admit. Truth was, I didn't know.

“I know”, mom responded. “I know that you’d have to share him with the military. His first allegiance will be to the military. That’s just the way it is. If he’s needed somewhere, called to duty, off he goes, and you’re left at home, holding the bag.”

“What bag might that be, Mother?” A little arch; she thought, since she knew what her mother was getting at.

“You want it spelled out? Ever thought what it might be like living on a military base? What kind of support do you think you’d have there, isolated from everything you’re familiar with? You’d be stuck there, with your kids, months, even possibly years at a time, if this country ever gets involved in another big war.”

“Kids!” she laughed. " There won’t be any.” Now that really shocked her mother. Mothers always begin thinking about grand kids. She’d have to get used the idea that her only kid won’t be having any. Tough, but that’s how it is. I can't envision myself as a mother.

“You can’t really mean that! You’re telling me you’ve given that thought and you’ve come to the conclusion you don’t want children? What about your future husband? Even if you don’t want any kids, what makes you think he won't?”

“Relax, Mom, he doesn’t want kids any more than I do. We’ve been through all that. It’s a mutual decision.”

“You’ve had that depth of conversation already? You’re that certain you want to spend your life with this guy?”

That was then. And since then so many things went down in our lives together. He took university courses and so did I. His were political history, economics, mine psychology, media studies. We had ambition. I often thought how alike my dad I am in identifying other peoples' strengths, and I was right; he had an abundance of great qualities.

Of course that wasn’t what brought us together. Sheer animal magnetism was what did it, back then. He was rough and ready, a handsome, tall male and I was ready to settle into some guy’s life. Things just seemed to mesh. I was lucky, I knew that.

He surprised me, frankly, about the sex thing. Just didn’t seem like he was prepared for it. Didn’t want, he said, to compromise me before marriage. My mouth kind of hung open. Was he for real? Was he just kidding me? As though I hadn’t had any experience. I was open with him, but that didn’t seem to change. He would wait. Bloody damn, I thought that was really, truly stupid, absolutely Victorian; antediluvian, actually.

I wasn’t, that way inclined, just bloody frustrated and just a little uncertain about him, over that. It just wasn’t … kind of … normal. For a guy not to press the issue. It made me a little uneasy. Besides which I had a good dose of sexual urges and saw no functionality in waiting. What the hell for? He wouldn’t budge. So despite some misgivings, we agreed, finally, to put the wedding date forward.

After that everything was fine. But again he surprised me. Oh, it wasn’t that he couldn’t perform. He was good, great, sent me into the high Cs. No complaints, just a bit of a surprise about his attitude. He waited for signals from me. Once he thought he had that - and those signals kept coming - he'd sweep me into the bedroom, the living room, the kitchen, anywhere, any time. He was amazingly good.

Still, I couldn't help wondering why he had this tactful delicacy about holding back until he thought the time was good for me. Sometimes that wasn't what I wanted. What the hell was his problem? Made me wonder about whether there was some kind of twisted relationship somewhere in his history.

I thought I would try something else, and began to practise being cold to the prospect of inviting him. Turn my back to him in bed, forget to kiss him, push him away after the perfunctory kiss and embrace when he arrived home in the evening. The cues were absent and he respected their absence. And that positively infuriated me.

Here he was, a big strong male, a military man no less, and he found it difficult to approach me demanding sex? What the hell!

He asked what was wrong a couple of times and I said nothing, nothing was wrong. He brought me flowers, took me out a little more often. But I stayed aloof. I was determined to wait this thing out, to make him puzzle out what was wrong in this relationship. But he was always so bloody busy, damn him.

Was anything wrong with that? I wanted him to assert his masculinity, wanted him to sweep me off my feet, let me know in no uncertain terms that he wanted me. I needed him to take no notice of my assumed coldness, to take me by storm, overcome my weak 'objections'.

Nothing. Finally I couldn't stand it any longer, and though I didn't really mean to, I blurted that found it strange that he wasn’t able or willing to be a little more sexually domineering. That’s what I wanted, I told him, what I expected from him. His passivity bugged the hell out of me. I couldn't understand what was going on, I could see he enjoyed sex as much as I did.

“That’s it, that’s what’s been bothering you?” he asked. “You’re my wife, I love and respect, cherish you, why would I be physically overbearing with you?”

“It’s just that … it doesn’t seem - kind of natural. The way you do it”, I said. “I … I’d like a little more physicality … know what I mean?”

“No. No, not exactly. But I’m getting a hint, here. My performance isn’t up to par, you want to be roughed up a bit, that kind of thing?” He said it with an air of disbelief. And maybe, I thought, a bit of hurt feelings. I was challenging his masculinity, after all, getting into dangerous territory.

Things changed after that, though. We had one hell of a time together. And he was ascending rapidly up the line of career appointments. Helped along by a stint at the Royal Military College where he obtained his Masters degree.

And I was getting plenty of experience working as a case manager for a local social services agency. And then transferring that experience to a career with another branch of the military myself, using my expertise in social welfare to advance myself as an advocate and support for military families. I felt pretty comfortable around the bases he was assigned to, and managed cross-stream assignments.

As he rose in the ranks, I often tagged along. Europe, East Asia. Secondments that increased his reputation. While he did his thing I did my own. That was another thing; through this exposure to foreign countries I learned more about people, formed some perceptions in opportunities to augment my formal training, sharpening my instinctual ability to diagnose idiosyncrasies in people. Kind of a more informed knock-off of my father.

So when Mike returned to National Defence Headquarters, there I was, ready to launch out again on another career tangent. We did all right, me and him. Some people (snidely I suspect) referred to us as a “power couple”, and I suppose that’s right on the mark.

Mike helped me through some tough times, too. A couple of times there were some really ugly, violent things that happened in places where he was stationed. The local media would cover these gruesome things, and for some reason, they bothered me more than I think they would have if I’d read about them back home. Women going missing, their bodies found later in desolate out-of-the-way places. Evidence they had been sexually assaulted before being cut up, partially dismembered. But all the pieces found together when they were finally discovered, in a state of decomposition.

Thinking about things like that made me pretty hysterical. Mike comforted me, reminded me how safe I was surrounded by the military, and being with him. He would never allow anything bad to happen to me, he always said.

Back home again we bought a nice little vacation property, and a house as well in a suburban area of the city. As part of the executive contingent of the military Mike makes good money, and so do I, working as a consultant with a large national health-advocacy charity. And then, Mike got a really terrific assignment; base commander of the largest and most important military base in the country.

There’s this about Mike; he doesn’t stand on ceremony; he’s affable and good-natured, and treats everyone well. People respect him, they like him. And that makes me really proud of this guy I married. I’d never have been able to imagine he’d make that rank and be given that kind of responsibility. He’s a full colonel; on track, I’ve been told confidentially, to becoming a fairly young full general in the near future.

I discussed that with him, of course. And he told me it’s in the future and fairly assured, but we’d do well not to say anything about it. Or, he said, if I really needed to tell someone, I could mention it to my parents, and he would to his, telling them to keep it to themselves. It was nothing that had to be spoken of, because there were no guarantees, only speculation at this point, despite what anyone said.

His parents were thrilled, naturally. And my dad kept saying how he knew all along that Mike would amount to one whole hell of a lot. My mom? Well, she smiles and doesn’t say too much these days. She’s not all there at times, she’s gone into a health decline; early symptoms of dementia. That worries the hell out of me. Not only for my mom and my dad, but for me, too. I imagine I’m genetically inclined toward the same. Mike laughs that off, tells me no one could be healthier, more involved with life than me.

We keep fit, both of us. Lots of time spent building up muscle and resistance to ageing; we’re in good shape. Couldn’t do that kind of thing if we had kids. No spontaneity. No fun, too many constraints. Our leisure time activities are heavy on golf. There’s a golf course close to where our summer cottage is located.

A few weeks after Mike took up command of the base, some young Corporal, a military flight attendant at the base, was found dead in her home. Her boyfriend found her there, dead. In her nightclothes, torn, throat slit, sexually abused. Her boyfriend, evidently, wasn’t a suspect. He was military too. Mike said these things happen, they happen anywhere. There are plenty of sadistic people around, psychopaths. Society would never be rid of them, he said. It’s simply an unfortunate fact of life.

More stuff went down. Seems to me women are plagued by men who turn out to be these criminal misfits. I can’t understand for the life of me how a mother can raise boys without imbuing a stiff sense of respect in them for other people, for women in particular. What kind of a man would brutalize, rape and torture a woman? A lost soul, Mike says, trying to comfort me. But they’ll get their own in the end, he said to me.

There were two home invasions a week apart in the area during the summer. In both instances it was women alone at home at night. A masked man entered their homes, raped and robbed them. This is a small town not used to this kind of stuff. Doors often not locked. One of the women had recently been separated from her husband. Both women reported intimate apparel missing, afterward, that they'd been photographed, naked, in degrading positions by this monster.

I thought about our neighbours, the people we bought our cottage from. He’s an amateur photographer. And I kicked myself for having those thoughts. He’s a nice enough guy, and his wife, too. He's not much of a conversationalist, but we don't have much in common; they're country people, and we're busy; he's retired, got lots of time to shuffle around. She shares garden produce with us, mostly zucchini; guess they grow too much of the stuff and don’t know what to do with it. I don’t either; I tend to just toss it.

When the second of the two home invasions occurred, soon afterward police actually arrived at the place next door to question this guy. Even though I’d thought about him, I was appalled. I just couldn’t believe it. They came back a second time to question him and his wife again. We never had much to do with them after that, hardly spoke beyond the occasional brief hello, that kind of thing. Never said anything to her about that, didn't want to hurt her feelings.

But I did say a lot to Mike about it. He tried to steady me, told me that if the police had any leads, any evidence or witness accounts that supported their suspicions they would arrest the guy. Sure he was questioned, Mike said. So were a lot of other local males. It was standard procedure. People were nervous and angry and upset and wanted some answers. So the police react and go around questioning everyone. Probably, he said, everyone but the person who did it. Often, he said, that’s the way things go.

I told him I just didn’t feel comfortable there any more. We should sell the place. I wanted to return to the house, summer be damned. I wouldn’t spend another night sleeping next to where this guy lived. So he agreed. He always does, he never gives me any grief about anything. He has pointed out often enough that I might be a more effective social worker if I managed to remain personally calm in the face of human relation difficulties. I know that. That’s why I switched over to fund-raising isn’t it?

That’s why I’m back here again, at the house. And Mike, of course, can’t be here right now, since he’s no longer stationed at Headquarters. He’s back at the base. With his responsibilities. Enormous responsibilities, I might add. But he’s more than able to match his abilities and his talents to the work needing attention.

I miss him. But he comes along most week-ends and he tells me it won’t be all that long before he’ll be re-assigned. Likely back to Headquarters. A year, maybe two. In any event, it’s far more convenient for me to be able to drive down to my own office from this location. Tele-commuting is a drag.

My God, another young woman missing. An alert went out when she didn’t report to work as expected. Her family is frantic and search parties have gone out looking everywhere. The community is helping, people are putting up posters. Word has spread through Face Book postings and the news media are really playing this one up. Probably went off on her own, sick of living in a small town, the cloistered atmosphere, lack of privacy. I hope. God, I hope her body isn't found somewhere, that would be horrible for her family. I think I knew the girl, her face looked familiar from the news shots.

And then. And then I discovered, listening to the radio early Sunday morning that that young woman who has been missing for weeks now - her body was discovered in a remote location. Mike heard it too, he was in bed beside me. On the week-ends when he’s home, we sleep in. And we listen to the radio when we wake, trying to stretch out as long as possible the luxury of staying in bed before we’ve got to get up and going.

Things happen so fast, when they happen. Our house is surrounded by yellow tape. I was advised I’d have to leave, to somewhere else for the time being. I went to my parents’ home. I’ll stay there for a few days, I guess. Or as long as it takes while they search our house. They'll let me know when I can return ... home. My mother knows absolutely nothing, she's just kind of back at an earlier time in her life. My dad is grim-faced and tries his best to comfort me. He’s going nuts, I think, going from my mom to me.

Mike, he’s been arrested. Two separate first-degree murder charges. And two home invasions. Investigating authorities say they’ve launched further enquiries into unsolved assaults against women that occurred over the past years, in places where he’s been stationed. There's all kinds of police forces working together on this, the media are reporting. Mike's face is everywhere, standing in uniform, handsome and resolute, standing next to the Minister of Defence, showing him around the base.

That guy who lives in the cottage next to ours said something to the press that really infuriated me. He said that while he was being treated as a prime suspect in the murder of the missing woman his wife was getting telephone calls and people at the other end would say to her “What’s it like, being married to a murderer?”

 

The Untouchables

There, she caught herself doing it again. She wasn’t really thinking about what she was doing, it was a habit that just seemed to develop, over time. Her father teased her about it, said he was prepared to take the mirror off, to help her. His very own Miss Personality. She thought it amusing at first, then tired of hearing him say it. Her mother defended her, saying it was just natural for a young woman to try to make certain she looked all right, before confronting a stranger. Not that it was only strangers that came to the door. So she had glimpsed herself in the mirror, to make certain she looked all right; big deal.

She was running late, really didn’t want to have anyone at the door. It would be the second time this week if she arrived late at work. Mr. Peters wouldn’t say anything directly, but he noticed and he took note. It was Sheila whom it impacted. She was mature and experienced, and cut her younger colleague some slack. Even though it meant she would be harried and a bit upset, doing work they both were tasked with.

Sometimes she just got carried away, forgot the time. What with her early morning run, and too many things she let slop over from the night before that took her time the following morning, it was always a race against time to make sure she left when she should. And right then, it was time she left. Right when the doorbell rang.

It was the last few Tweets that did it. Oh, and that email she sent her cousin, just some last-minute updates on their trip. She forgot the time, got too involved and wasn’t even certain she had given a clear explanation of why everyone in the area was becoming so nervous.

Anyway, there she was, ready to leave, and now she had to respond to someone at the door. Always some kind of nuisance factor to complicate life, she sighed.

Like her Dad, putting up last-minute objections to the trip she and Nora were preparing for.

“I know young people are curious and like the idea of adventure and going to new places, but you two are out of your minds, planning a trip to Central America. You have any idea of the number of people robbed, injured even murdered there?”

Like he did, as though he kept up to date on stuff like that. He was interfering as usual, inventing reasons why she shouldn't pursue something of interest to her. She'd be in her cousin's company, after all, and Nora had travelled on her own, before. When she mentioned this to her father he always snorted and said who'd look at Nora. She thought that was really offensive, but she said nothing about it.

“Yes, Dad, we do. We’ve talked about it. We’ll mostly be in cities, and the few side-trips we take will be with a guide. So relax, we’re not exactly stupid, you know.” They wouldn't use the services of local guides, they'd decided that. Nora knew her way around and knew how to get around, and they wanted this to be a different kind of adventure; she had confidence in her cousin, even if her dad hadn't.

“Not stupid, I never meant to intimate that, just innocent of what can happen when you’re in a strange place”, he grumbled.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake” her mother intervened. “All the young people are doing that, travelling before they get bogged down with life. They’ll be fine. They’ll be together, after all, and they’re both responsible adults, they’re not kids, after all.”

She could always count on her mom to come to her defense. Her father was just too protective, fearful of anything that could happen to his little girl. Her mother said he’d been like that since she had emerged from the womb and they both had a good laugh over that.

Theirs was the only house in the area that had a storm door over the regular front door. No one else saw the need for that. Oh, it was practical all right, to air things out in the summer heat, installing the screen part, but it wasn’t for that reason her father had installed it. It was so that he could teach her that it represented a barrier. When she responded to the front door and there was no one else around in the house, she could open the front door, and decide whether she would unlock the storm door.

Now, confronting her visitor, it was clear there was no need for precautions. She knew him. Not personally, but she knew of him, knew what he looked like, what he represented, his reputation and power in the community. She knew other things about him too, of course, everyone did. This was a small community, only six thousand people, and everyone more or less was aware of everyone else. Strangers would stick out in this community.

Even so, peculiarly alarming things had been happening in the past year and a half. There was clearly a violent predator on the loose coming from somewhere and everyone was nervous. Not her, not exactly, she felt all right, just that she was aware, as any intelligent woman should be. You can't be frightened all the time, you've got to live your life, or it's no life at all, her girlfriends had all agreed. The violently gruesome death of one young woman in the area was felt to be an isolated incident. That was a year ago and the investigators had turned up nothing at all.

There was no linkage, as far as anyone could tell, to the two women who had been bound, heads covered, raped and beaten, both within the space of a month. They'd been alone for the night. Just coincidence, or did someone local know that because they'd been stalked? Little wonder the whole town was on alert. It was top of the gossip charts. The mayor did his best to calm fears, and so did the OPP. These were rare, anomalous events in this sleepy little town.

Everyone was convinced some nutcase from Ottawa was involved, likely from one of the suburbs which weren’t, in fact, all that distant. Police had done a thorough job questioning anyone whom they thought might be involved from the area, and they’d come up with one huge zero. Anyway, nothing else had happened for awhile; it was possible whoever it was had decided to play his deadly games somewhere else, or moved, or … who knows?

“Can I help you?” she asked. “My parents have just left.”

“Hello, Miss Jackman. Heidi, I know that’s your name. Is it all right if I call you that?”

He knew her name. How odd was that. She warmed to him. The way he was looking at her. He had a reputation for being stand-offish, and there was nothing too stand-offish about his frank admiration. Suddenly she felt embarrassed. “Sure, she said, that’s all right. What can I do for you?”

Was he looking for directions? Wanting to ask her something about her parents? Her mother was involved in the local social club, maybe that was it.

“That’s all right, it isn’t your mom or dad I’m interested in”, he said, smiling broadly.

A large man, well built, must be close to 50, but doesn’t look it, she mused. Married; he and his wife famously a power couple in the nation’s capital. Bought a ‘cottage’ in the area; a lavish one-story brick house in fact, but because of its location, right at the river’s edge, it was termed a cottage. She should be so lucky, she thought wryly. Husband a wealthy industrialist; a social stature and affluence she might only imagine, and clearly politically well connected.

The town was flattered by their presence as summer residents. Pumped up with the importance of having someone like him around. It was well known that the mayor and his council deferred to him, invited him to their closed-session meetings. And it was also on the rumour mill that he pulled his influence where it mattered, to the gain of the town. More; it was bantered about he was considering opening a branch plant. There would be openings for local jobs. He had everyone’s respect.

So it was kind of puzzling that Marie, whose family owned the local pub, described to her friends a taciturn man who showed up there regularly once a week to order the ale brought in especially for his refined tastes, settling himself at the bar far from any locals in hot conversation. But here he was, Mr. Friendly, demonstrating his reputation as the jewelled presence of opportunity in situ.

“Oh, what then?” Interested in her? She wracked her mind to think why he might say that. Nothing special about her as far as influence went. She was involved with the town’s Little Theatre group but she didn’t sell tickets to their performances. Could he be an aspiring thespian? Why come to her, why not Adrian, who made all those arrangements?

“Me? You want to ask something of me?”

“May I come in?”, he asked.

She blushed again. So busy inside her head trying to find meaning in his presence she’d forgotten her manners. She glanced toward the driveway. There was his big BMW blocking her Toyota. “I’m … kind of late. I’m supposed to be at work in ten minutes”, she explained.

“That’s all right", he said, easily. 'I won’t take much of your time. Just a few minutes. You can spare a few minutes for me, can’t you?”

Her parents would never forgive her if she was rude to the man. Besides which, this was flattering, ego-appealing. Being noticed by someone like him …

“Sure”, she said, “I can spare a few minutes. Please, come in.” And she pushed the storm door wide, inviting him entry.

Stepping across the threshhold. Entering their house. Looking around. Spotting Tigger, her little orange-striped cat. “You’ve got a cat! My wife and I, we have cats”, he said.

“Yes”, she said, “I know”. And then cursed herself for saying that. Tried to make amends as though to tell him she had no personal interest, wasn’t nosy about him herself: “It’s just that”, she stumbled, embarrassed again, “everyone seems to know everything about you.”

He laughed self-deprecatingly, and drifted into the living room. Looked around, as though appraising the value of the interior. Cocking his head toward the stairs, and she wondered why. She invited him to take a seat on the sofa, and nervously sat across from him, but he quickly got to his feet again and said he didn’t mean to take any more of her time.

He wanted, actually, to show her something and it just happened he’d forgotten it in his car. It would take him a moment to get it, but on the other hand, it might be quicker, more efficient, if she just accompanied him to the car, he’d extract it and give it to her for her consideration.

Consideration? Was he offering her a job? The thought of a hefty salary doing something interesting flooded her mind.

“Just a minute, then, I’ll get my things …" She’d just jump into her own car afterward and make off for work.

“No“, he said, “don’t bother, you can get your things together once I’ve left, there’ll be ample time. This will only take a minute.”

And he grasped her firmly by her shoulders, leading her weakly protesting, out the front door, to his car.

When her mother returned from work late afternoon, she assumed her daughter was working late. Or she’d gone shopping with a friend, after work; that wasn’t unusual. But she noted the telephone answer machine light blinking. And the message was asking where her daughter was, her colleague was being swamped and couldn’t handle everything on her own. The next message fairly well repeated the original one. Finally, there was a third message, from her daughter’s employer and the man sounded fairly put out.

It was too late to call the place, they had closed for the day. She fumbled with the telephone book to find the number for her daughter’s employer, and called him. No, she hadn’t shown up to work at all that day, he grumbled.

A slow panic overtook her. She heard a sound and jumped, her worry suddenly evaporated, ready to grasp her daughter in a panicked hug of relief. And then tell her in no uncertain terms that her odd behaviour today had worried her no end, and that she had a lot of explaining to do to her employer.

But it was her husband, returning from work.

In a growing state of shock and fear they contacted the police.

“Please, Ma’m” the desk officer said, “calm yourself. Is there anyone else there we can speak to? I’m having difficulties understanding, your words are kind of running together.”

 

 

Rituals, Rites and Rehearsals

Closer to nature, they sense
what we do not, subtle atmospheric
alterations, nuances of the sun's
position in our Northern Hemisphere;
a warming ambiance, in the stellar
dark dome of brooding night.

But we too detect that elusive
fragrance, those tricky hints that
nature has once again called off her
servants of icy sleet and frigid air
white-out blizzards and the bellowing
north wind ferociously representing
our long and tolerated winter months.

We see the regained presence and
boldness of small animal life in the
forests surrounding our urban presence.
Raptors patrol the tree lines seeking prey,
coyotes slink covertly beyond sight,
birds begin to recall songs meant to
herald spring's long-awaited arrival.

Skies become wider, shedding clouds
as clear blue presents a warmer glow
of sun's growing spring presence. Creeks,
rivers and lakes bask in the warmth
that will melt winter's frozen fastness.

We gain in steady measure, daylight
hours to illuminate longer days and
steadily and surely the snowpack releases
its hold on the landscape. Tree roots
deliver sap to far-off limbs and the
irresistible impulse to flower and leaf
will spring into bright reality.

All that will be, most certainly
but not quite yet. We are still held
fast in winter's frosty, determined grip;
fantasies of spring - just that.

 

 

Then, On The Other Hand

Does there exist a social phenomenon
exemplified by adolescent angst
more fraught with adult irritation?
Children's propensity to view their
inner landscape as needful beyond
the grasp of parents' realization
exhibit a profound sense of self-
entitlement guaranteed to be met
with perplexed bedevilment.

Surely this emotional affliction
besets only offspring of socially
emancipated, economically-advanced
countries whose children have never
experienced deprivation and the
compelling drive toward advantage
leading inevitably to survival...?

Children who cannot conceive
of the desperation of endemic, deadly
disease, malnutrition, a stifling
of the yet-hopeful human spirit.
Little wonder exasperated parents
would admonish and remind their own
of starving children abroad. Witless
young remain fixated on their boredom,
not the distant reality of a workhouse.

Perhaps, on reflection, this malaise
is in truth a gift of nature's design.
Cleverly imposed and engaged to release
from the frustration of stasis, the
creative genius of a Socrates, a Galileo,
a da Vinci, an Einstein. Towering figures
of human intelligence and unsurpassed
achievement through creative drive.

Humankind designed in nature's image.

 

Freed At Last

 

The Book of Women 4:3

English translation by M. H. Shakir

"You can never be equitable in dealing with more than one wife, no matter how hard you try. Therefore, do not be so biased as to leave one of them hanging (neither enjoying marriage, nor left to marry someone else).... "

The viper that consumed her heart and her spirit, the adder that took dainty nibbles of her liver and her spleen, the asp that sucked the very marrow of her bones; defeated, all. Her vital organs consumed, she has peace. Her agony of existence dissipated. She awaits the final release of Death. To be welcomed as a pious Muslim to her everlasting reward.

IN the context of proper attire and conduct, the Quran lays down one basic principle, namely, modesty which is stated in Surah 24: 30-31: Tell the believing men to lower their gaze (avoiding its concentration on a person’s body, or a certain part of it) and to be mindful of their chastity; in this they will be more considerate for their own well-being and purity, and surely God is fully aware of all that they do.
And tell the believing women to lower their gaze (avoiding its concentration on a person’s body, or a certain part of it) and to be mindful of their chastity, and not to display the charms of their bodies (in public) beyond what may (decently) be apparent thereof; hence, let them draw their head-coverings over their bosoms.
And let them not display (more of) their charms to any but their husbands, or their fathers, or their husbands’ fathers, or their sons, or their husbands’ sons, or their brothers, or their brothers’ sons, or their sisters’ sons, or their womenfolk, or those whom they rightfully possess, or such male attendants as are beyond all sexual desire, or children that are as yet unaware of (the physical attractions of) women’s nakedness; and let them not swing their legs (or other actions in their walking) that may aim to draw attention to their hidden charms.

They too, are at peace, saved from themselves. They will be re-united with us. No vestige of the struggle will remain, between their unheeding denial of God's instructions and their final submission. That submission to His divine will complete, irrevocable.

Her inner furies erased by the grace of God, she is prepared to embrace them; her sister, her daughters. Compassion now replaces enmity. Calm resides in her breast; an hitherto-unknown quantity; a soul-restorative.

Allah absolves those who do His work. He takes them gently unto Himself, cradles their weary essence, brings them final comfort.

You it was he loved, not me. His choice was you, when he had from among so many to make his selection. In our tribal village, the dashing, handsome great grandson of the village founder, son of the tribal chief, an integral portion of the wealthiest local family; he chose you, Dahlia.

The homely one, his first cousin with whom he shared childhood memories. Quiet and unassertive, her only obvious quality one of kindness,warmth of presence. Her form dense, already matronly. Why her? Years passed and she did not conceive. Whispers ran through the village. His family took note, and became impatient, yet he begged them not to press him. When several more years passed it was clear she was barren, a disgrace to herself and to her family.

When he set her aside, gave her freedom to leave, her family would not welcome her return, they disowned her. And when his eyes turned elsewhere though his heart was heavy, he looked at younger women, and in particular one whose clear complexion, long, lustrous black hair, sultry eyes and vivacity marking a vast contrast to his cousin became his choice.

She, Amirah entered his life. And she made his life pleasant and comfortable so he might wish to remain with her. When her father informed her of Almadhi's interest she was happy beyond comprehension, and she was anxious for formalities to be concluded, for the ceremony of marriage to be done with, to have him welcome her into his strong arms. It did not take long for her to pridefully advise him and her family that she was bearing his son.

For a son it was; Alhusain, their first child. She had fulfilled his desires and his need to have a son, and there would be more children for she was fecund and more than prepared to do all that was expected of her.

When Alhusain was yet an infant her husband became restive, and it was clear he was dissatisfied with something. Her relief was great, but she came close to despair in any event, when he advised her he had begun proceedings to emigrate with his family to North America.

She dutifully made all the required arrangements on her part, and determined which of their belongings would accompany them. Drying her tears she did what a good wife must do to follow her husband. She was fearful of leaving her family, her friends, her village, her society. And then, a catastrophe; a fortnight prior to their departure, Almadhi claimed to have had a vision and in that vision he was instructed to bring Dahlia back into his household. She would, he informed her gravely, aid her in the raising of their children, for Amina was yet again gravid.

She knew, even before they left, that Almadhi would be visiting Dahlia in the night-time hours, for he was permitted as many wives as he could afford to support, and he could afford to support more than merely two wives. From scorning the woman who she had replaced, she turned to detesting her and spoke harshly to her, although Dahlia made no protest.

When they settled in their new place on another continent and Atifah was born, Dahlia held the child as though she were hers and hers alone. She brought Atifah to Amina to be nursed, and did everything else for the baby, leaving the care of Alhusain to his mother.

Amina resented Dahlia on the one hand, but was grateful that she was spared having to look after an infant and a baby on her own. She was unrelenting, however, in her spite toward Dahlia and would never permit her to forget that she had been the spurned one and it was Amina who had brought honour to Almadhi's family, not she. Dahlia would never respond, merely dip her head in assent.

And then two other babies were born in fairly short order, two more girls, Daniyah and Bhashira, and Dahlia opened her great heart to the new babies each in turn, while their mother turned away from them. The three girls felt Dhalia to be their mother, for it was she who comforted them, encouraged them, supported them. With Almadhi's approval, Amina focused on their son, and Dahlia on the three girls.

And Amina's hatred for Dahlia, even while she gave up maternal custody of her three girls to Dahlia, festered and caused unrest in the family. Almadhi chose to ignore the tension, and he continued also to take his conjugal rights with Dahlia, far more often than with Amina, which she knew, and which drove her to a frenzy of raging acrimonious execration.

Dahlia deftly, in their large spacious home, kept to her own apartment, and it was there that the three girls spent most of their time at home, as well.

Almadhi's business continued to flourish, and life was good to the family. Their circle of friends and acquaintances remained firmly within the Muslim community where they were well known. Dahlia, however, was open and committed to casual friendships with those of their neighbours who were non-Muslims, and this too infuriated Amina, and she demanded that Almadhi do something to discourage this un-Muslim-like behaviour, one that their regular Muslim cleric, the respected imam of their mosque warned against.

As the children entered adolescence and beyond, the girls began to emulate their beloved Auntie and became freely engaged outside the confines of their home, with their peers who were not Muslim. When this became apparent to Amina, she railed against the girls' behaviour, warning them that their father would not approve of it.

And when she informed Almadhi of the girls' indiscretions he became more alarmed than she might have imagined. He brought the girls to his study and lectured them sternly, and later spoke privately to Dahlia, forbidding his children to mingle with non-Muslims in any kind of social situation.

As the years passed and the girls became older, one 18, the second 15, the last 13 years of age, tension in the household increased. Particularly as their mother announced she and their father had decided their girls would now not only wear the headscarf, but also begin wearing an abiya.
the girls were horrified and Dahlia was distressed for them.

As soon as they left the house they would discard the abiya, push it into their school bags, to be retrieved when departing school for the return journey home. But Alhusain, witnessing this, reported it to their father. And reported also that his sister Atifah had been seen speaking to non-Muslim men.

The household became a hothouse of accusations, denials and counter-accusations. The girls were desperately unhappy and their aunt became extremely worried for them. Nothing was resolved despite the threats of dire punishment, for the girls became more defiant, refusing to even wear the abiya on leaving home and Dahlia tried to explain to Almadhi who was not closing his mind yet to her, and to Amina, who loathed her, how in their new country the girls were being influenced by other social mores that would not impact deleteriously on their personal faith.

Almadhi became furious with Dahlia, something that had never before occurred. And Amina watched, fascinated, as he set Dahlia aside, refusing to hear her out, shunning her company. And it was when Almadhi approached Amina, together with Alhusain, and, face stone-hard, infused with an anger they might never have suspected resided in him, said they must take steps to save their family's honour.

So it was that a dreadful accident occurred, when one of the family vehicles driven by Atifah, with her aunt sitting beside her and her sisters Daniyah and Bashirah seated in the back somehow managed to plunge into a wintry-icy canal, in the city where they lived. The submerged vehicle and the four dead bodies were discovered by a police patrol, for their family had reported them missing.

A truly dreadful tragedy. The three remaining family members went into deep mourning.

It is in a jail operated by infidels that they now await trial and judgement by kuffars; completely unjust, without divine guidance, meaningless. 

 

I Just Don't Get It...!

That’s just the way it is, I guess. I don’t have any brothers. Or sisters too, for that matter. But then, you know that, don’t you? I figure you know quite a bit about me. On the other hand, I thought I knew a lot about you. I understand now that I don’t know as much about you as I thought I did, once. I imagine you just think you know me, actually.

I thought that was neat, you having two brothers. Especially that they were so much older than you. You, their kid sister, so they could do nice things for you. Take you places, buy you things, help you out with your homework. Maybe there was a little bit of envy there. I often thought how it might be if I had a brother or a sister. Especially a sister. How maybe it would be really nice. I’d have some company, kind of. It’s lonely, sometimes, being the only kid in the house.

My grandmother told me that it doesn’t always work that way. She said to me sometimes siblings get along well with one another, and sometimes they don’t. She said take her, for example; she took very little notice of her younger sister, and to this day they aren’t all that close. As for her brothers, well, they were all years younger than her, and they were just kind of there, she hardly noticed them.

I don’t know how it would be if I had a brother or sister. Either older than me, or younger. I’m not certain if I even have a preference. I suppose someone older could be kind of a help, a guide, someone to talk to when Mom gets pissed off with me for something. That would mean I’d do an awful lot of talking to an older sibling, if they allowed me to. If they were interested in hearing me. I don’t know if that older brother or sister would be sympathetic, or whether they’d just laugh at me.

See what I mean?

And then, too, if I had an older sister would she even be interested in me ... or think of me all the time like being a pest she couldn’t get rid of? I’ve got friends who talk about their kid brothers or sisters like that. They talk about what a nuisance it is, how they just can’t get away from them, how they screw everything up, at home. I don’t think I’d be interested in trying that one out.

But, say, if I had a sister maybe a year older than me? A year isn’t all that much difference in age, is it? So say there was her, and then I came along and we grew up together, wouldn’t it make sense that we’d play together as kids, and then got to like one another and spending time together, and confided in each other, and were best friends?

I asked one of my friends if that was what it was like with her and her older sister. She just looked at me like she hadn’t exactly heard my question. Then she laughed, and I understood that she had heard what I’d asked. Her laugh was the answer.

So I guess I’m just day-dreaming about something ridiculous, anyway.

And I guess, Erin, I’m trying my best to understand what’s happened to you. I can’t even begin to imagine what you’re feeling. I mean here you have a complete family, your Mom and Dad are there at home, even if they’re both busy, working all the time. They’re there some of the time. And then when everyone is together, you’re all there…together. I know I’m not saying what I really mean, but it’s hard to put into words.

So there’s you and your Mom and your Dad, and there’s also your two big brothers. One’s married now, I know, and the other one’s going to university. I know your family. We’ve been friends for years, after all. I’ve slept over at your house, had dinner together with you and your family. I’ve been around your family for years. I’ve even gone to church with your family, even though I don’t believe in God.

Neither does my mother. And she’s a single mother, left my father years ago. She’s really busy all the time, since she’s got to earn a living for us. She refused to take any money from my father. My grandmother said the arrangement they made, even though she signed papers written up by my father’s lawyer, was that he would have no visiting rights with me, in return for not paying child support. I can’t understand that, actually.

Is money that important, after all? You’ve got a father, a biological father and he’s not interested in seeing you, ever? He doesn’t even know what you look like, after all these years. He’s just kind of happy not having to pay child support. That really, really bugs me.

There’s no photos of him at home, but I know what he looks like. My grandma has lots of family photographs in her house, and there are some photos of him and my mother, in their frames, sitting on pieces of furniture there. There are more pictures of him in some of the family albums, but I’m not all that interested in looking for them actually. I don't remember much about him, it was so long ago. But I don't believe I want to remember anything about him. He's out of my life.

Anyway, this isn’t about me, is it? All right, it is about me, partially. I am involved, after all. Since I am - or was your best friend. Erin, I loved being your best friend. I want to continue being your best friend. You have no idea how hurt I feel that you keep shoving me away. I’m … disconsolate … that’s what I am. That’s what my grandma said, when I told her about all of this. She’s upset for me. I can always count on her for that.

But you’ve got family all over the place, even if they’re kind of distant in relationship; they live close by. My only two uncles live in Toronto and Vancouver, and I only get to see them maybe once or twice a year, when they come visiting. And neither of them has any kids, so I don’t even have any cousins.

Your family, even though they live close by, kind of ignore one another. You’ve got two cousins, girls your age, but you’ve always told me they’ve been mean to you, and you just don’t like being around them. I could see where you were coming from, but I found it puzzling, anyway. I’d have made an effort, I’m sure, to get my cousins, if I had any, to like me. I think. But then, what do I know, I don’t have any.

Erin, I do so very much miss you. I realize now that this isn’t new, this distancing from me, this hostility I feel and see from you. It’s been happening for a while, and it disturbed me and perplexed me and I didn’t know what to do about it. For a while I thought I’d just drop you as casually as you seemed to be doing to me.

It didn’t work for me, Erin. There’s a dark little worm inside me, squirming around, making me miserable, and that worm is the disquietude I’ve felt about our relationship, about its having suddenly seemed to dissolve, and I couldn’t figure out why. It’s worse now, your hostility toward me is more aggressive, more overt. You’ve progressed from speaking nasty things about me to the other girls when I haven’t been around to actually doing it in my very presence; I can hear you whispering about me and when I turn around, I can see that odd smile on your face.

What, exactly, does it mean? You can’t possibly have decided, after all these years, that our friendship was meaningless. We both invested a lot of time and emotion in our friendship. We’ve done things together, helping one another, that most people would never credit. You’ve told me things you told no one else. I confided to you things that I would never even speak about to my mother.

And yet, you said not one word to me, gave me no hint of what was really happening with you. To you. Instead, you told some of the girls at school we’ve always liked and hung out with. But not me. I had to learn from someone else. I couldn’t believe it. I felt horribly for you, and felt sad for me, too. I tried to let you know that I now knew, so it was all right. I was determined to do what I could to help you overcome this dreadful thing that happened to you.

And I tried, and I kept trying, but you kept slamming my words right back at me. That really devastated me. I didn’t want to say anything to my Mom, because I knew she would tell me that I was doing something wrong. She would defend you, saying that you had been traumatized, that your psyche had been damaged, that you needed understanding and patience from your best friend. That this was no time to abandon you, that I had to stand by you and do whatever I could to extend my friendship, to help you heal.

She just won’t hear what I want to tell her, she doesn’t actually hear what I’m saying. She’s so fixated on what you’ve gone through that she sticks to that, and won’t hear about my pain. To her, I’m just being selfish and self-absorbed.

I’m not!

My mother says she knows me better. She says I am being selfish. That I’m concerned with the way I feel, not the way you feel. That I’m missing the connections. That I’m taking offence because I feel you’re not responding to me the way you should, the way a best friend should. She says I’m expecting too much of you under the circumstances, because of the trauma you’ve suffered.

I’m trying to understand that, Erin. I’m trying to get my head around the fact that you’ve had six years of your life to tell someone what was happening to you, and you just never got around to it. My mother said that I couldn’t begin to imagine such a thing because I’ve never lived it. I guess she’s right there. But I still don’t understand, anyway, Erin, why you never, ever said anything to your mother. Or your father. Right, I forgot, you aren’t into telling your father all that much.

I’m trying to get it through my thick head, that same head that hears you calling me stupid all the time now, how it could possibly be that for all the years we’ve known one another, you’ve lived with this. There was never any hint that there was anything wrong with your life at home. I thought that your family was normal, in the sense that mine isn’t, since you’re all together, father, mother, kids.

Well, there’s nothing normal, obviously, about what happened with you. Migod, since you were seven years old! How could you stand it? I know you love your brothers because they’re your brothers. They seem nice enough; they were always nice to me. But your brothers … doing that kind of thing …

Remember when we were in grade six and they began that sex education course with all of us? I was so mad, remember? I really, really resented that they were taking us kids, just in grade six - we were only ten and eleven, after all - and making us learn all that stuff. Who wants to know about it? Won’t there be enough time to tell us about stuff like that when we’re older? I thought, back then, that maybe when we were in grade eight, or beginning high school, that would be a more appropriate time.

You never really responded when I spoke about that. You just shrugged your shoulders. And told me to just forget about it. I remember that. I remember how kind of distasteful it was to me to hear about that stuff. I hated it. I tried to talk to you about how I felt, but you weren’t interested in discussing it, you said. No wonder. Now I know why.

There wasn’t too much they could teach you, after all. I don’t mean that in a hurtful way. It’s not your fault. You were only a kid, and you were kind of trapped, weren’t you?

I mean your brothers are a whole lot older than you, you looked up to them, you trusted them. Your parents trusted them too, to kind of keep an eye on you when they weren’t around. And they weren’t around a lot of the time.

And me, I envied you, having big brothers who were around so you weren’t lonely or anything. Guys you could kid around with sometimes, that kind of thing. Because you’d be relaxed around them, you knew them so well….