Proselyte
Tovli Simiryan – United States

“Incidents like these happen in war. But Rumi kissed us and promised: ‘The minute I heard my first love story I started looking for you …’”  John Walker Lindh

If it weren’t for God, I wouldn’t be in this mess. Lost in heavy, coastal fog, I followed voices churning out satisfying sound, releasing a comforting pitch that filled every cavity from within.

Eventually, the air dried, becoming thin, crisp, and authentic. Men with penetrating voices surrounded me. Their welcome was instantaneous, inclusion sailing from their eyes. Converging flesh to flesh, hand to hand, with tears tapping the back of their wrists as sustenance. The tallest of the group wanted me to rest, to sit comfortably among them and drink the last of their water.

“It’s sweet. Now that you’ve arrived, there will be plenty of water and food. The desert feels different already.”  An elderly man with a scarred face looked directly in my eyes as he spoke. They needed the desert, a mapless country sliding into distant horizons and threatening to reveal something marvelous.

“We are your nation.”

“We have been singing for you.”

“You have found deliverance.”

“You have rescued us.”

They gave me a comfortable bed and I slept. The sound of their songs rose inside me. They were not dreams, but ambition. I recognized their faces and voices in the distance of my slumber. “It’s as though the fog coughed him up. It is as if the desert had roads all along and we just noticed them.” I heard them sing from inside my soul.

“It’s the same world, the same nation, yet boundaries have extended.” I wanted to believe them. Their melody was rich, interesting — almost cute.

“What will he reveal? Is he benevolent? Will our portion be assigned?” It’s then I felt frightened, as though dreaming was dangerous, that nothing would be left of me if I trusted them, or listened to their prayers and song. I woke and they were watching, as though something was opening only for them. The youngest, a man-child, ageless and unsure of himself spoke first.

“Baba, his eyes are opening. He is finally with us. I see. I see!”

“Stand back, Muhammad. Don’t get too close. What do you see?” The tall man grabbed the boy’s shoulder the way a father shows guidance, turning impatience into doctrine and inheritance.

I sat up quickly, embarrassed for sleeping and offering indiscretion carelessly revealed as wisdom.  They expected much and saw something in the sand that had been there before, something they coveted, a treasure they desired and thought I could provide. If I made myself smile, repeating their melodies from memory, perhaps I would be allowed to stay, to absorb the ether of desert secrets and be left alone in peace and pointed in the right direction. It was a lot to ask of them.

 “Will you reveal yourself?” The voices spoke with softness, the presence of childhood and tolerance. “Bless us with a godly soul and fire burning above any mountain in language we’ve not heard before. Clean our souls, make us complete. We are leaders among our people.”

Their faces were lean. Their gaunt bodies wrapped around their skeletons like snakes inspecting a corpse for anything valuable. They moved low, into the earth in a place no one else wanted, disappointed, yet resolved to destiny and inconspicuous purpose. I was sorry for their tears, provocative voices and spiritual ambivalence. But they wanted pieces of me; a portion so deep nothing would remain to sustain essence.  I would disappear, an apostate standing on the horizon envisioning the end of desert stillness. There would be no more voices to follow.

“There is nothing I can give you. My soul is not yours. I’m not like you. You’ve mistaken my appearance as significant. I am merely traveling, enjoying the flatness of this land, anticipating desert sliding into beach and ocean behind a pleasant breeze, and solid economy inclusive and available for persons who’ve set borders and price tags on belonging.” My speech haunted my own soul.

“Were you not part of last year’s exodus, the flights from Ethiopia, saving what was left of our forgotten people? Did you not accept the gracious charity every man and woman, wanting to be part of the nation, donated to the cause?” The tall man was frustrated. He pushed little Muhammad aside. His height was all that was necessary to produce shade, making sunlight disappear and stars threaten to dance like dust fading against an evening sky. His hatred became the seed of his people, splintering, flowering, until it produced a wound that could never be healed.

“You drank our water. You have taken all we have.” The old one was angry.

“We have expectations, rules and doctrine.”

I stood to leave. I needed my own place, but they feared my leaving them. Their melodies changed. The pitch of their voices grew sharp like weapons intruding from distant enemies thought to have died out during the last war. Their songs turned harsh, overly personal and in one swift burst of finite synchronization their bony hands covered the air like many angry wings.

“You are selfish and preoccupied with your own survival. We are your people. Can’t you see we need you? We want every piece, every word you have to tell us.”

Desert sand is razor sharp. It spreads like beads of sweat on pale skin, producing blood. The night sky pleased me. The giant stars exploding with fire from distant times made me believe God was watching out for me. My people raised my entire body into the wind, their wrists and elbows locked into place, their muscles sinewy and determined.  I marveled at the darkness of their flesh and wished it was my flesh.

“Give us your soul.” Muhammad cried, disappearing with his elders into sandy portals that reminded me of indentations one claims as legacy and pathways to heaven. It was then foreigners invaded.

I felt every piece that cracked or shattered — skin, teeth, breath, draining from air onto sand, knowing nothing would be left. Rope, nails, plastic cord, and the sound of tape ripping the universe into layers was the only melody they would remember. I heard emptiness, or an echo slapping against metal with me inside. They prayed in front of God as vessels so broken, God fell asleep, exhausted, tired of supremacy, resolving to intervene at the point history kisses the future.

“I have nothing left for you. I will love you, that’s all. Is it enough?” This was the last time I spoke, my last prayer harvested from the language of my enemy.

I never saw the desert again. They would not let me go. The wooden stretcher was hoisted above the multitude, every eye crying without tears, yelling: apostate, traitor, enemy of the people. Their weapons were loaded and they left metal inside our flesh and my skull was covered with nightfall and loud metallic sounds, as if rain were bullets. Soon it was quiet, but even when I made my voice as soft as a prayer, they remained angry and could not hear. But I survived and eventually nothing else mattered to me expect living, silence, and the tiny windows inside the prison they provided.