INJSA (IN NJ SOULS ALONE) IBSA (IN BABYLON SOULS ALONE

INJSA 9INNJ SOULS ALONE) IBSA (IN BABYLON SOULS ALONE)

INJSA:

Feel like homeless, motherless, godless child.

Some times I feel I am the daughter of Hagar, te slave woman

IBSA:

No, that's me, Injsa that's me. I was born in Babylon.  The history belongs to me

The faith belongs to me.  The graves belong to me.  I live at the Cemetry, Centuries old Cemetry.

You the daughter of NJ, You must ne in a tall, tall skyscraper with sheetrock interiors.

Don't light candles.  The building will burn.  You don't need candles.  You have electricity.

Don't you?

Candles also belong to me... The ancient child, the ancient daughter, the daughter of the prophets.

I heard our prophet invented the candles and than sat down and wrote the verses of the Qoran by

candle light.  But you don't need candles, they are ancient.  Candles brought a revolution in the

dark ages.

INJSA:

But the prophet did not write anything.  He couldn't. He didn't know how to read and write...

IBSA:

He recited in the candle light, recited the verses the scribes wrote for him. "REpeat after me, repeat

the word IQRA,  "RECITE IN THE NAME OF GOD WHO CREATED YOU FROM A BLOOD

CLOT"

INJSA:

Who invented the candles?

IBSA:

Our ancestors...Muslims, who else? and the paper and the ink.  There is a street in Baghdad

where hand made paper and ink was sold...the whole street was the street of poets and their poetry

INJSA:

You mean there was a street in Baghdad?  Are you talking about the same Baghdad which was

decimated by a father and then again by his son.

IBSA:

Allright there was a street in ancient Baghdad which was dedicated to the scribes.  They wrote on

parchments with the ink of the river Tigris.  They wrote verses of wisdom and poetry. They were

poets your great, great, great grandparents. who wrote poetry in that street during the day and recited

those poems in the evenings with candle light to hundereds of people.

INJSA:

I wish I was a poet.

IBSA:

Arn't you?

INJSA;

No,  I am a model.  A nude model.

IBSA:

A muslim nude model?

INJSA:

Yes, I am ashamed to say...

IBSA:

Why ashamed?

INJSA:

I show my flesh... That's haram.  Isn't it?

IBSA:

Do you make an honest dollar?

INJSA:

YES, VERY FEW DOLLARS BUT IT GIVES ME PEACE.  PEACE AND STILLNESS.

And during those moments I think...

IBSA:

What do you think about?

INJSA:

About my parents and the lack of their presence in my life.  When I am not modeling, I am lost.

Lost in a crowd, i a train,in the streets.

IBSA:

We are all lost.  I live in the cemetry.  I roam around all night reading the names on the headstones.

INJSA:

Do you find any familiar names?

IBSA:

I don't.  That's why my search hasn't ended yet.

INJSA:

Me too.  U am also searching but I have no idea about what is it that I am searching...

There is a silent void in me even after people shout at me all day long, that void inside of me remains

still and silent and I want to fill it with some noise, some familiar noise..

IBSA:

Aren't they calling you a terrorist?  Thy are actually shouting at you with fury but I guess that's not

the sound for your void to be filled with...

INJSA:

I am surprised that you said that. I thought that you were never aware of that word.

IBSA:

I have heard of that word.  Yes, I have.  The meaning of the word was and is the same but they  used

the word, "MUSALMAN" instead of the terrorist in ancient times...The European called us,

"Muslamans" with such disdain and hatred...exactly the same feeling but don't let that disturb you.

Think about te beautiful things when you are standing still as a model.  Listen to the song of the

bulbul. The singing bird...remeber in our courtyard on the top of the lilac tree chirping, chirping...

singing songs of love and comfort and contentment.  Be content under all circumstances and the void

will go away.

INJSA:

Oh! Ibsa, I wish we were still living together.  Still listening to the song of our bulbul.

IBSA;

You can still listen to the song.  I live in the cemetry and I still hear the song of the bulbul.

Don't let them bother you with the shouts of derogatry words.  They know not.  They are ignorant.

You are the daughter of the poets.  People who recited poetry all night in the garden next to the river

Euphrates with candles lit making patterns of avant garde paiintings in the deep blue clean waters of

the ancient rivers.

INJSA:

Those rivers have blood in them now.  The color of the water is deep burgundy.

IBSA;

There is plastic in the rivers as well.  The blood of the Arabs and the plastic of the modern

civilization who came here for democracy but brought plastic instead.  Now the rivers are red with

the remanents of free world's plastic floating together.  Blood and plastic, that should be the title of

your new poem in case you decide to write  poetry.

IBSA:

My dear dear sister, poetry is your only salvation, yur only escape from the anguish of this lost planet

and its inhabitants.  Hold a qalam (Pen) in your hand, pick up the hand made papers  made by the

 dead and write a poem and then another poem and then another...and you won't hear the word,

"terrorist"

INJSA:

I wish I dream about you more Insa...

IBSA:

It's not a dream Injsa.  I am always  here with you..  I am in your thoughts, in your heart, in your

breathing, I am your breath.  I am your air. I am your silk garment.. I am your garland.. I am your

candle. I am your light.  I will show you the way like I always have. You are not lost.  You are not

confused. You remeber me.  Your memory is crystal  clear...YOU REMEBER ME....You are my

future.  Don't be sad, don't be sad, don't be sad.  I am with you.  I breath when you breath.  Breath for

me.  Live for me. Without you I will die again...........