Burnt Shadows--Kamila Shamsie

There was a section in this novel which struck me as a page from my own life. It occurred towards the end of the story when an American asks an Afghan—Have you ever read the Quran? To which the Afghan replies-- Of course I have. And the American retorts-- Have you read it in a language you understand? The Afghan states unequivocally-- I understand Islam.

I had similar arguments with a man who I once loved more than anything else in the world. For approximately three years I tried to understand him and Islam. He was a Thai Muslim and I was the all-knowing Westerner who tried to square my love with his religion. This literary exchange made me realize how foolish I was to think that my reading of the Quran in English translation meant anything compared to his life raised in the faith.

This novel brought so much back to me, opened so many ideas about my own past; places I have lived and histories that in some way intersected with my life although they were distant in time and space from my own experience.

The novel begins in Nagasaki, before the atomic bomb and after. My life has been touched by this history, in a round about way, as the lives of anyone with a connection to Japan since the bombs dropped has been affected by those few days before the end of the war in the pacific.

That war, the surrender of the empire, the resulting impact on the Japanese psyche, touched my life in the person I chose to father my children-- much as the impact of those last day touched the lives of children born to, or related to, characters in the novel, who had never walked under a Japanese sun.

The thread in the first half of the novel that tied the main characters, almost all who were in exile from their homeland, was very engaging and when the story shifted to the next generation I almost put the book down. But soon I was drawn into a Muslim world where, although there was war and death, there was also a hint of that acceptance and love that I had experienced in the Thai Muslim communities that had once been part of my every day life.

I have never felt more love from strangers than in those small rooms and cinder block houses on dirt tracks in the jungle or small housing projects on the outskirts of Bangkok; peace be with you-- said my new brothers and sisters. I miss waking up to the call to prayer and the feeling it gave me to see an old man, one of my traveling companions, unfurl his prayer mat at the break of dawn when we stopped at a roadside gas station.

When I read this book I thought of how many people would read it and miss this point-- although the writer shows you the love that exists, even in the heart of a tacit supporter of the Taliban in Kabul-- I predict very few westerners will be able to accept it. In general, westerners fail to see the humanity of jihadist. I think that only when we can see them as people, try to understand their motivation, will we be able to end the so-called war on terror.

Of all the themes in this novel, the most important one, in my reading, is the possibility to look beyond fear, hate, class, and religion and find a brother/sister.

Being part of a Muslim community was one of the most important events in my life. It taught me to see the most demonized people of my time as part of my heart. I am forever grateful.

It was the image of the burnt cranes that drew me into this novel. I expected to be disinterested in the portion that I knew was coming at the end of the tale; that section dealing with 9/11. I have hit the saturation point on that topic, but this was not what I expected. It reminded me of a part of my life I don't think about often enough and the people that taught me how a true believer really acts, lives and loves in the world.

I hope other readers will see this in the characters of Abdullah and Ismail and give them their full attention. There is the potential for greater understanding here; I encourage everyone to take the opportunity.

What I am missing

Today as I proof the paper I read an 'In Memory' ad from a wife about her deceased husband. I remember this woman coming in to the office for the past two years to place similar ads in the paper on the anniversary date of her husbands' death. She's not a woman you would take note of if you were walking down the street: she's a senior lady, who, if anything comes across as a bit androgynous. But in her resided a great love and now a great memory of the love she and her husband shared. When I think of her, I think of what I am missing.

I have had thoughts of what my life as a single woman would mean emotionally those two previous years when her 'In Memory' ad came across my desk but this year, those thoughts are tinged with a new potency due to a recent break up I had with a short-term boyfriend. While this relationship was not long, only a few months, it did open my eyes to a life that I had pretty much assumed was not part of my path; a life with a companion.

For a long time I have made my peace with the idea that I would be a single person, then as life happened, that I would be a single person with children.

Being single is what seems simplest to me. I haven't had to accept all those little things that inevitably drive me crazy, or make time for another person other then my children. I have not had to deal with complications, awkwardness, deceptions and other things that often accompany a 'relationship'. I have been able to focus on my little family.

But sometimes I feel I need a break from my little family and that is when new men typically come into my life. For the past five years any relationship I have had has always been one that was outside of my regular life. The men I have dated have not become part of the fabric of my day-to-day life. When I was with them it was like I was a tourist on holiday. And as they say, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

That being said, this latest and shortest relationship, was something different. First of all, he didn't annoy me. And that is a big step forward for me. In any man I have ever been involved with there have been minor things that they did that drove me to distraction; things as simple as how they would pronounce a word with an elongated vowel to as crushing as dirty socks on my side of the bed (you can see now why I have never been married). This man let his dog eat off the dishes—I didn't care. He used double negatives—I didn't care. And most importantly, he didn't read my work-- and I didn't care.

So I felt like I had made progress, had gotten past some of my 'issues'. Unfortunately, maybe he had not gotten past some of his.

Today as I read the 'In Memory' ad from a loving wife I felt a little sad that I wouldn't have this man to tell the days tales to, wouldn't call him this evening to talk about his trip to the city, and wouldn't have a day when I would be missing the love I lost.

The good news is I wrote this.

At 2

There is a little creature that lives in my house. She's so unique I resist calling her human. She is much more animal in mind and manner.

The grace of her naked body as it gambols through the day fills me with joy and leaves me staring at her beauty as if she was a newly discovered Caravaggio.

The ticklish sound of her laughter creeps into my shielded body and infects me with it's untamed exuberance.

Her cry is full-throated and wide mouthed. It drills into my skull with a force only nature can exert.

Last night she awoke crying. Her words garbled in an attempt to escape her nightmare. After several minutes she quieted. We watched each other silently, intently-like a hunter does its prey. Finally she said, "I love you" and continued her vigilant stare. I stroked her glossy head and she fell asleep.

I have never been more loved.

Love and lust, but no sex

Sat here in my too tight jeans, thinking about the smell of my sheets; I perused the poemhunter. I reviewed my favourite poem by Hart and investigated poems on the topic of murder. Having written one on the murder of an old friend; it is a topic that interests me. I found a new poet to pursue who is aptly named Mark Slaughter. Unfortunately my name does not lend itself to such ironic futures.

After reading about the blade, I sought out poems about the shaft. Much to my surprise under the topics index one may find love and lust, but no sex. This disturbs me. It’s a topic that occupies my pen frequently. Are poets and fans of poetry supposed to be too sensitive to read and write clearly on this basic human function? Does it have to be covered with other words, hidden in the semantics of lesser prose? Sex, Sex, sex- see it didn’t burn your eyes out or blacken your soul.