The Barbarians, and: The Magician

The barbarians

after C. P. Cavafy’s “Waiting for the Barbarians”

We were certain they would come.

We broke the idols of those whomight have stood against them, one by one.We waited in the capital to welcome themwith goblets brimming with children’s blood.We removed our clothes to put on barksset fire to monuments,propitiated fire for the sacrifices to come,changed the names of the royal streets.Afraid our libraries might provoke themwe razed them to the ground, lettingonly the palm leaves inscribed with the mantrasof black magic survive.

But we did not even know when they came.For they had come up, holding aloftour own idols, saluting our flag,dressed like we used to be,carrying our law books, chanting our slogans,speaking our tongue, piously touchingthe stone steps of the royal assembly.

Only when they began to poison our wells,rob our children of their food andshoot people down accusing them of thinkingdid we realize they had ever beenamidst us, within us. Now welook askance at one another and wonder,“Are you the barbarian? Are you?”

No answer. We only see the fire spreadingfilling our future with smoke and ourlanguage turning into that of death.

Now we wait for our savior at the city square,as if it were someone else.

The magician

I clearly remember the daythe magician had come to our school.

He showed us some card tricksand asked for a girl.It was Khadeeja who came forward,the bold girl who had beenlaughing at his manliness,telling everyone the secret of his tricks.He laid her on the table on her backand removed her clothes, one by one.

Magic, thought everyone,and kept quiet.

Then the magician took outa butcher’s knife from his bag.“I am going to cut this girl intofour slices like halwa,” he declared.“Any objection?” he askedthe teachers and students.

Magic, thought everyone,and did not object.

We gazed, with bated breath.He slowly brought down his knife.Khadeeja’s blood flowedonto the school floor as she screamed.

Magic, thought everyone,and did not wipe the blood.

The magician cleaned his knife,got down from the stageand walked away.

Magic, everyone thought,and did not stop him.

When he did not come back,“Khadeeja,” we called out together.She replied, butwe could not see her.

Her voice had comefrom The Arabian Nights.We opened the book and sawKhadeeja gliding on the flying carpetdropping flowers and peacock feathersover the bleeding Damascus,the dead Baghdad,the choking Tehran,the screaming Cairo,the seething Tunis.Flying with her was a tumri:“Babul moraa naihar jhootto hi jayen”*

“Khadeeja,” I called again.She dropped a slate pencilfrom the flying carpet.With that pencilI wrote my first poem,I still write.

As I write each line,I leave my home,go to my beloved’s.