Khalid Mukhtar

Word, like wind, cuts through you / Withers all but true you

Articles

Bartering Our Souls For “Peace” – Srebenica Twenty Years On

· ·

As we mark twenty years since the brutal killings in a Bosnian town of over 8,000 Muslim boys and men ranging from ages 12 to 77, we are faced with emerging evidence bringing into focus the unfortunate role of the free world in the commission of what has been called the “worst massacre on European soil since the Third Reich”. Details around how a safe area came to be presented to the Serb death-squads are chilling, no doubt.

Photo courtesy guardian.co.uk: man praying at the gravesites of Srebenica
Photo courtesy guardian.co.uk: man praying at the gravesites of Srebenica
But there is something even more disturbing than the actual genocide itself. This was clearly not the first time an act of ethnic cleansing had shocked the world. If we restrict ourselves to a simple game of numbers, the killing of 8,000 boys and men is a drop in the ocean of genocide that the twentieth century alone has seen. (Wikipedia List of genocides by death toll.) No, the numbers are not interesting. But the politics is.

It is one thing that the Serbian killing machine had overrun Srebenica, and the likes of Mladic had personally overseen the separation of boys as young as twelve and their fathers and grandfathers from their mothers, sisters, daughters and wives. While the women and girls were sent off to “Muslim territory”, a collective term for the horrors that awaited them as they were delivered to their new homes, the boys and their fathers and their grandfathers were transported to the lush fields around the town and cut down by soldiers, men who were beginning to reel under the fatigue of playing executioners.
Killing is hard work, even with guns. To send metal flying at over twice the speed of sound, tearing open the chests and heads of twelve and thirteen year-old boys can take a toll on the sickest of hearts.So, yes, that is all one thing.

But it is another thing for a massacre on a scale of this magnitude to not just occur, but flourish on the watch of a group that was instituted for the very purpose of preventing such oppression, an institution called the United Nations that is held as the positive culmination of the great lessons learned from World War II. Sure, there were hostages – 30 soldiers of a Dutch contingent – whose lives were threatened if Srebenica wasn’t handed over quietly. But now we read of this:

According to declassified US cables details of the killings reached western intelligence and decision makers soon after they began on 13 July; CIA operatives watched almost “live” at a satellite post in Vienna. From that day, spy planes caught what was happening. “Standing men held by armed guard. Later pictures show them lying in the fields, dead,” according to one cable.

A senior state department official insists: “All US partners were immediately informed.” Yet the slaughter was allowed to run its course, no attempt made to deter the killers, or to locate the men and boys, let alone rescue them.

The next day, 14 July, the UN security council said it feared “grave mistreatment and killing of innocent civilians”; it said it had received “reports that 4,000 men and boys have gone missing”. But the diplomats continued business as usual.

…

…

Pauline Neville-Jones, then political director at the British Foreign Office, argued as late as 2009: “It still remains to be established whether the Serbs had a long-range intention to do just that [massacre men and boys]. Serb forces engaged in an ethnic cleansing campaign to rid Srebrenica of its Muslims [which] eventually became genocide when the decision was made to separate men targeted for extinction.”

Jean-Claude Mallet, the director of strategy at the French defence ministry, says in an interview: “I had no illusion that atrocities would be committed. We had reported that. But never such as the ones that occurred.”

The International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia rejects these views, ruling that the killings were premeditated well in advance. In the conviction of the Bosnian Serb general Radislav Krstic for aiding and abetting genocide at Srebrenica, the court ruled: “Without detailed planning, it would have been impossible to kill so many people in such a systematic manner in such a short time, between 13 July and 17 July.”

The International Court of Justice would rule in 2007: “It must have been clear that there was a serious risk of genocide in Srebrenica.”

France’s foreign minister at the time, Alain Juppé, says in an interview: “We all knew the men would be annihilated, or at least that the Serbs were not sparing the lives of prisoners”. 

Source: http://www.theguardian.com/world/2015/jul/04/how-britain-and-us-abandoned-srebrenica-massacre-1995

And this:

But a new investigation of the mass of evidence documenting the siege suggests much wider involvement in the events leading to the fall of Srebrenica. Declassified cables, exclusive interviews and testimony to the tribunal show that the British, American and French governments accepted – and sometimes argued – that Srebrenica and two other UN-protected safe areas were “untenable” long before Mladic took the town, and were ready to cede Srebrenica to the Serbs in pursuit of a map acceptable to the Serbian president, Slobodan Miloševic, for peace at any price.

But as they considered granting Srebrenica to the Serbs, western powers were also aware, or should have been, of the Bosnian Serb military “Directive 7” ordering the “permanent removal” of Bosnian Muslims from the safe areas. They also knew Mladic had told the Bosnian Serb assembly, “My concern is to have them vanish completely”, and that Karadžic pledged “blood up to the knees” if his army took Srebrenica.

Robert Frasure, a US diplomat working as an international representative, reported to Washington that Miloševic would not accept a peace map unless the safe areas were ceded to the Serbs. His boss, Anthony Lake, the US national security adviser, favoured a revised map that ceded Srebrenica, and the US policy-making Principals Committee urged that UN troops “pull back from vulnerable positions” – ergo, the safe areas.

France and Britain agreed, with UK defence secretary Sir Malcolm Rifkind arguing that the safe areas were “untenable”, as defended in 1995. As Mladic’s troops advanced on Srebrenica, the west failed to heed warnings of the town’s imminent fall. Once it had, says General Van der Wind of the Dutch defence ministry, in an exclusive interview with the Observer, the UN provided 30,000 litres of petrol, used by the Serbs to drive their quarry to the killing fields and plough their bodies into mass graves.

As the killing hit full throttle, top western negotiators met Mladic and Miloševic but did not raise the issue of mass murder, even though unclassified US cables show that the CIA was watching the killing fields almost “live” from satellite planes.

The shocking findings of high-level willingness in London, Washington and Paris to cede Srebrenica were collated over 15 years by Florence Hartmann, a former Le Monde correspondent, for a book, The Srebrenica Affair: The Blood of Realpolitik. Hartmann worked as a spokeswoman for the prosecutor at the international criminal tribunal for the former Yugoslavia between 2000 and 2006.

Source: http://www.theguardian.com/world/2015/jul/04/west-true-role-in-srebrenica-massacre-bosnia

I can’t speak for the British and French roles in all of this. But as an American, my respect for the law of this land, and my faith in its immense potential for goodness, empower me to hold my government to a level of accountability commensurate with its unique position in the world. When words of grief are spoken in Srebenica next weekend, it would be an obscenity at the very least for America to not acknowledge its inaction to attempt (not succeed, but just attempt) to use the intelligence and certain knowledge it had to stop that tragic massacre.

We all tear up when Peter Parker hears the words of his late uncle echo in his mind. “With great power, comes great responsibility.” It is time we own up to the values we espouse, to end the hypocrisy and take ownership of our failings. We must not be wary to go on record and acknowledge such failure. That would be cowardice and against everything we believe in. Rather what we must be wary of are the long term consequences of a silence that makes no sense in a nation that prides itself upon making some noise. It is a silence that will surely undermine and mock our current and future efforts to navigate the bloody oceans of world peace. Let’s show some backbone. Let’s be the proverbial grownup in a house full of children, and stand for the justice we are committed to as a nation.

The souls of the boys and men that perished in the violence of Srebenica twenty years ago may well be alive and at peace. What should keep us awake at night is whether we who are left behind, in our drunken pursuit of a perception of peace at any cost, have lost our souls.

On Healy’s Insightful Observation

· ·

I read of the time they wanted to wave
The swastika over a shtetl,
I’m oddly impressed the ACLU gave
All it could to that storm in a kettle.
The union had taken a stand that was strong
In seventy-eight, and some called it wrong,
Yet well it reflected the grit of the land
Of the free and the home of the brave. Understand
That the plan didn’t fly, but supposing it had,
And further supposing had something gone bad,
Can you force an incident, however sad,
That MAY just have driven the union mad,
To say: “I am Hitler”?
I can’t.
I get it, the foe of a foe can be friend.
How close is a friendship like that in the end?
You want the stain gone, break out the bleach,
But seek out a pair of good gloves within reach.
And do put them on.
Just for the record, I am not bleach.

I WIll Grieve, I Will Laugh, But I Am Not Charlie, by Josh Healy

http://www.commondreams.org/views/2015/01/13/i-will-grieve-i-will-laugh-i-am-not-charlie
ACLU History: Taking a Stand for Free Speech in Skokie
https://www.aclu.org/free-speech/aclu-history-taking-stand-free-speech-skokie
In an Unequal World, Mocking All Serves the Powerful, by Saladin Ahmed

 

http://www.nytimes.com/roomfordebate/2015/01/10/when-satire-cuts-both-ways/in-unequal-an-world-mocking-all-serves-the-powerful

The Greater Struggle

· ·

As soon as you feel good about yourself, know that the devil has got you, because he is made from fire and he understands the nafs better than you.  

-Shaykh Mohammed Amin Kholwadia

When I read in the news last week about the inflammatory Defeat Jihad ad campaign hitting New York City buses, I couldn’t help marvel at how poorly Muslim thinking and preoccupation is represented in the media. It made me ponder the widely known story whereby the Prophet (peace and blessings of God be upon him) once welcomed home troops returning after an expedition. “You have returned from the lesser struggle to the greater struggle”, he is reported to have said to them. When the companions asked him what he meant by the “greater struggle”, he clarified: “the struggle against (the desires of) oneself”.

This story is so widespread and so well diffused into Muslim discourse that it could very well be one of the most cited traditions (hadith) in our times. It is all about the battle with the nafs, the “urging self”. Libraries of Islamic literature are filled with books written by masters of the subject such as Imam Ghazali, sermons abound with the idea, poets have wrought verse about it for centuries. Even I felt compelled to craft a riddle on it two weeks ago. (Seriously, take a look! 🙂

To better understand the idea of the greater jihad, I’d like to lean on what I think is one of the most beautiful modern day lyrical poems in the English language on the topic – Yusuf Islam’s Angel of War. Mr. Islam takes the idea of the greater jihad and embellishes it with the mundane vocabulary of warriors and warfare. But to the seasoned reader/listener, every verse has a remarkably subtle reference to the nafs.

The poem reads as a dialogue between a hypothetical angel of war and a young man who Mr. Islam aptly refers to as a soldier boy. That the poem was cast into song in the tune of his original number, My Lady D’arbanville, dating back to his days of rock-stardom, is no mere coincidence in my opinion, but certainly inconsequential.

Oh, angel of war, what am I fighting for?
If death comes tomorrow, inform me before 
Inform me before

Oh, young soldier boy, I’ll tell you what I know
If peace is your wish, to battle you must go 
To battle you must go

Oh, angel of war, please, make it clear to me
Which is my side and who is my enemy? 
Who is my enemy?

Oh, angel of war, within myself I see
The battle has started, what will become of me? 
What will become of me?

Oh, young soldier boy, you’re wiser than you seem
Look into your heart and keep your motives clean 
And keep your motives clean

Oh, angel of war, what weapons do I need?
Lest I may perish, that I may succeed 
That I may succeed

Oh, young soldier boy, if you protect the poor
Let truth be your armour and justice be your sword 
And justice be your sword

Oh, young soldier boy, the war that you wage
If it’s for your ego, it will die in rage 
It will die in rage

Oh, angel of war, how can I tell for sure
Pride’s not the reason that I’m fighting for 
That I’m fighting for

Oh, angel of war, when I look at me
I’m fearful to confess, the enemy I see 
The enemy I see

Oh, young soldier boy, now you can go to war
I’ll see you tomorrow and a boy you’ll be no more 
A boy you’ll be no more

Here are a few insights I have gleaned from this poem.

  • “O Young Soldier Boy” could be anyone, and is meant for the reader/listener to identify with. Its repetition in every verse is almost taunting, but is clarified in the closing couplets.
  • “If peace is your wish, to battle you must go”. This is the overarching theme. If you seek peace then you must wage war. But as the following couplet goes, against who? “Who’s my enemy?” That does not come out until the penultimate couplet.
  • Truth as an armor… for the soul. And justice as a sword… for how can justice smite unjustly.
  • The closing couplets confirm that one remains a boy – a soldier boy – for as long as one has not recognized that one’s self, one’s nafs, is one’s greatest enemy.
This sort of self-control and introspective battle-readiness is related in countless stories of the prophets and in the biographies of the pious predecessors. Two powerful examples follow.
The First Example
The story of young Ali, the prophet’s cousin (God be pleased with him) when he accepted a duel from the massive Amr son of Abdi Wud is a glowing example of self-restraint that was witnessed by hundreds. The duel begins with Amr and his companions mocking Ali on account of his short stature and youth. It is a classic David and Goliath duel. Ali wields the Zulfiqar to eventually overcome the giant, and straddle his chest. His dagger is inches from being thrust into Amr’s throat when Amr, in a last show of defiance, spits into the younger man’s face.
Now, picture this: you’re surrounded by enemy soldiers even as you duel the strongest of them, while your own remain watchful beyond a broad trench. You are young and strong and the obvious underdog in this poorly balanced match. But then you subdue your adversary by skill and agility, and find yourself the victor in the duel. And then the defeated man insults you, hoping it will bring you to expedite his death. 
But what does Ali do?

Ali restrains his dagger, gets off the giant’s chest and steps back. When Amr asks him why he had not slain him, Ali responds that had he slain him then, it would have been out of an anger he felt towards Amr, and not out of love for and service to God.

Now that is the greater jihad. This of course upsets Amr even more, so he picks up his sword and attacks Ali again, and so the story goes. A poetic rendition of the entire incident is here if you like: https://khamuk.com/2012/11/blog-post.html

The Second Example
The ultimate story is that of the Prophet Muhammad (peace and blessings of Almighty God be upon him) when he visits the leaders of the city of Taif seeking their support in his mission. It was a difficult time in the Prophet’s life. His only supporter and protector, his uncle Abu Talib, had died earlier in the year, and his other pillar of support, his beloved wife of twenty-five years, Khadijah, had died a couple months later. His companions in Makkah were being sought out and harassed for professing their belief in one God. The poorer among them were tortured, many killed without restraint. 
At this time, the prophet hears that the people of Taif may be sympathetic to his cause. So off he goes to meet with them. They swiftly reject him, but they don’t leave it at that. As he exits their city, the leaders send word to the children and youth playing about to band together and stone him even as he departs the city. So the prophets runs. But he is unable to dodge the rain of stones flying into his face from every direction as he makes his way through mobs of deriding youth, shouting and flinging rocks at his person. 
When he finally gets out of stone’s throw, he sits down on a rock and wipes away the blood and sweat dripping down his face. In that moment of weakness and grief, the Angel of the Mountains comes to the Prophet, and asks his leave to bring the two mountains on either side of Taif together that they may crush the city and all within it. 
The prophet’s response is packed with a subtlety befitting one who has vanquished his self at many levels. He informs the angel to leave them be, as he sees the possibility that their children may one day believe (and that did come to be). And then he raises his hands in supplication to God and says, “My Lord, if you are not upset with me, then I am alright with what you have decreed”. Now that is an introspective war waged against a nafs already at peace and in full submission. Make whatever sense of that as you may. 
And that is the greater jihad in the deepest sense of the term. The peace that we seek (whoever and wherever we be) does not lie in defeating jihad. Rather it stubbornly lies in understanding and embracing it. 
As for the misguided engaged in the mindless slaughter of innocents all around the world, whatever faith or ideology or political force they claim an allegiance to, it is time for them to look hard at themselves, into themselves, and to take in what they see.
Oh, angel of war, when I look at me
I’m fearful to confess, the enemy I see 
The enemy I see.

A Simple Sermon

· ·

I made the Friday prayers today at the Rolling Meadows mosque, and I have to say it was an excellent experience. At a time when sound khutab are hard to come by, it was revealing to me that a Friday sermon can achieve its purpose on the back of either or both of two things:

  1. the merit of the message in the khutbah and/or
  2. the merit of the khateeb’s (sermon-giver’s) sincerity

I thought today’s sermon at the Rolling Meadows mosque was a glowing tribute to the latter. A brief explanation is due here.

When the unassuming Imam stood up and conveyed in the most mundane tones, a simple and mundane message, nobody knew ( I certainly did not know) how worthwhile the next few minutes of our lives would be.

“Remember Allah”, he said. And then a plethora of “the season of the Hajj is upon us”, and “men and women of every color and race and age and intellect will gather together in the worship of one Creator”, and such. Nothing earth-shattering for the regular listener, no hyperbole, the only semblance of any depth coming from a not-so-eloquent narration of a recorded conversation that occurred between a pilgrim and the esteemed Imam Junayd al-Baghdadi.

And that was it! So what am I raving about!?

I once heard Shaykh Amin say (and I paraphrase) that the whole point of the Jumuah khutbah is to take a break from the dunya and immerse oneself in Allah’s remembrance. That alone is the goal of a Friday sermon.

What made that happen today is a bit hard to explain, unless your imagination can fill in the gaps in my shoddy explanation here. At every mention of “Madinah”, “forgiveness”, “Hajj”, the khateeb choked up with tears. Tears. Now you know that nothing washes away dirt like tears, and if you don’t know that, you don’t know “dirt”.

So, if you do not possess the scholarship to break new ground in your khutbah, then please, please, do the next best thing (and may be you’ll even top the scholars). Pick the most simple reminders you can serve to Muslims, and (this is important) say it like you feel it. Mission accomplished in sha Allah. But then again, what do I know?

Oh, right! I know “dirt”.

——————————————————————————————————————–
They’re coming to you now, my Lord
Believers everywhere,
Responding to Ibrahim’s call
That once did pierce the air;

They’ve spent their wealth and shed the threads
That set themselves apart,
And donned the simple shroud that suits
A true believing heart,

They’ll watch their actions in these days,
To hurt no gnat or fly,
And let the dirt without erase
The dirt within must die.

And tears, Lord, the tears flow
Like rivers on a land
That’s parched and thirsting for a show
Of Mercy that is grand.

So take them all on Arafah
And let upon them rains
Of love to wash their sins away
Till none of sins remains.

And we afar, can only hope
The goodness of those slaves
Will bring us strength to grasp the rope
That lifts us from our graves

And huddles us in throngs behind
The man you hold so close:
It is a high we long to find
Upon a day of lows.

Rim to River, River to Rim

· ·

My sore legs bear witness that I hiked 7.3 miles down the South Kaibab trail of the Grand Canyon, spent the night at Phantom Ranch and hiked 10.1 miles up the Bright Angel Trail the next day. 

YES! And I couldn’t have done it without the following, in order of importance:

  • the prayers of some wonderful people 🙂
  • two fabulous friends for companions
  • a sense of humor that would make vinegar taste like sugar, and
  • a pair of sturdy hiking poles (oh yes, very important!)

We met up in Phoenix on the 13th of June and drove to Grand Canyon Village that same afternoon. There, we checked into our room at the very rustic and cozy Maswik Lodge. After a short but restful night, we set out down the South Kaibab at 5:50 AM, about thirty minutes after sunrise. Suffice it to say the South Kaibab is a perilous trail with a steep grade and brutal switchbacks (Wikipedia it for more!). What adds to the excitement is that there is no shade and no potable water the entire 7.3 miles of the trail. So each of us carried 6 liters of water and enough food to last us all the way down. 

The views of the canyon are spectacular from this ridge trail. We encountered a pack mule train just past Skeleton Point, and dutifully stepped aside to let it pass. It took us six hours and twenty minutes to get to the Colorado river where we spent a good hour soaking our feet in its cold waters and resting in the shade. I was intrigued that the sands were burning while the waters were icy. We would hear later that day that the Colorado in those parts ran 46 degrees Fahrenheit all year round. I haven’t verified that statement, but I’d certainly recognize the woman that told me that.

Our time at Phantom Ranch was relaxing to say the least, and I slept three hours that afternoon. After an early breakfast at 5 AM the following morning, we set off up the Bright Angel Trail. Despite the steep climb, we covered the five miles to Indian Garden in two and a half hours. After a short rest at the oasis, we continued on for two more miles to the Three Mile Rest House and got there in less than two hours. The Bright Angel offered a different view of the canyon than the less hospitable South Kaibab, with an abundance of greenery, shade and cool flowing streams. 

We were only three miles away from the rim, and the thought of being so close filled us with excitement. One of the hikers sharing the shade mentioned how the last 1.5 miles to the rim were considered the most brutal. “Endless switchbacks”, he said. That sounded familiar from a blog post I had read some weeks ago. 

We rested our tired feet, and replenished our water supply before continuing our ascent up to the rim, stopping mindfully at the One and a Half Mile Rest House to repeat the rites of refreshment and replenishment. It took us an hour to get there, and our morale was high. But there was no denying the fatigue that was setting in. After an extended break, we decided to brave the last leg of our journey to the rim.

It was slow. We were out of breath every eight minutes or so. I told my companions we’d be in good shape as long as my bad jokes kept coming, and they kept coming for some time. We were particularly troubled when a sixty-six year old hiker and his wife showed up whom we had encountered earlier that morning. They were bound for the river then and now they were passing us on the way up. He attempted to make us feel better by impressing upon us that the Swiss (as he was) were particularly adept hikers. This sharp reminder of our incapacity gave us the adrenaline rush we needed to traverse another one hundred yards before we fell into three distinct piles of meat and bones under another bluff generous with its shade. 

We repeated these sprints a few more time and I assured my companions we couldn’t be more than half a mile from the rim when a cheery ranger came jogging down with her hiking poles raised backward and held to her sides. She seemed in a hurry to get to somewhere. I anticipated she was disinclined (ugh!) to stop so I shouted out to her even as she was approaching us, asking how far it was to the rim. She trotted on past us shouting back her response: “One more mile”.  

My jokes were getting better, which was bad. And the hiking poles seemed like they needed hiking poles. It had been a little over two hours since we left the last rest house. But we continued on, slowly and steadily. Endless switchbacks. 

It took us another hour to get to the rim. The last mile and a half had taken us three gruesome hours. In all, including breaks, we had been on the Bright Angel Trail for nine hours and twenty minutes.

And in all honesty, it was completely worth it. I can only agree with others who say that you haven’t really seen the canyon unless you see it down from the river.

Here are a few more shots selected from the couple hundred we took.


Canyon Of Life

You think you’re prepared
And you step on the trail,
You’ve taken precautions,
Each little detail,

Six liters of water
And four pounds of food,
You’ll know it gets hotter
When the weather turns rude;

It’s seven some miles
Down the South Kaibab,
And the grade is quite brutal,
Makes walking a job

As you pound on the ground
Till your knees feel the weight
Of a growing repulsion
To be canyon bait;

No water at all,
No shade you may rent,
But stop anywhere on
This downward descent,

And turn up your eye,
To take in the sight
Of clear blue skies
And limestone delight;

Look down at the green
Colorado resign
Its waters between
Shores of silvery shine;

You’ll likely encounter
A mule train some place,
Just let them to pass you
With every grace,

And when you get down
To the river, behold
Its shores are on fire,
Its waters are cold,

And here you may sit
And reflect on your fall
From the rim to the river,
Its perils and all,

And take out the time
To plan your ascent
Up the shady Bright Angel
Will make you repent,

Oh yes, it will treat you
To water and shade
And luxuries that
The South Kaibab forbade,

You’ll tell yourself how
You’ve conquered it all,
For eight point five miles;
Then your engine will stall.

The water is there,
And so is the shade,
But the grade’s up a notch,
And your breath is delayed,

It’s a mile and a half
That just seems to go on,
But just keep to the trail
And the trail will respond;

What a glorious sign
This American treasure,
A bowl of serenity
And scenic pleasure,

Descend it to where
From its beauty is found;
Or tell yourself it’s 
Just a hole in the ground.

2014 Chaining Project Unveiled at Madame Zuzu’s, And Another Open-mic

· ·

Last night was the unveiling of the 2014 Chaining Project conducted by the Highland Park Poetry Chain Gang. I was at the event held  at Madame Zuzu’s Tea shop and Art Studio in Highland Park.

It was enjoyable to hear the chain begin with Arthur Rimbaud’s Time Without End, navigate through verse describing a hike in the woods along a polluted stream, and culminate in defeat at a ball game :-).

The open-mic that followed was more interesting than usual. I performed Take Heart, Cabbage Wisdom, and One-Dream Child. 
Also it turns out Madame Zuzu’s is owned by Billy Corgan, once frontman for the Smashing Pumpkins. I read some excerpts from his anthology titled Blinking with Fists. Not bad at all.
About the tea served at Madame Zuzu’s… well, the water was certainly hot.

Published in the Society of Classical Poets Annual Journal 2014, Volume 2

· ·

Earlier this year, I learned that my entries were selected for publication in the 2014 Annual Journal of the Society of Classical Poets, Volume 2.

In this latest issue, the journal features the works of the top fifteen poets judged in the last competition held by the society. So this is an honor for me, having been published in the previous issue of the journal as well. I recently got my copy and was very impressed with the quality of all the poetic works. I feel honored to be counted among those who were recognized.

Get your copy on Amazon, and please support the society for the good work it does in reviving and promoting classical poetry. My thanks and admiration go to Evan Mantyk, President of the society, for his efforts to this end.

-KM

Finished My Second Book

· ·

This story took me a little over a year to finally get done. It is called Kindred. It is about 55,000 words. I have it out to three first readers at this time. I hope to open it up to a group of second readers in the coming weeks. I am yet to work on a query letter for it. I also hope to start on my third work of fiction drama shortly. I have included a small chapter below by way of an excerpt.

5. The Third of July 

    Ray sat on the steps of the porch watching Blain Travers assist a neighbor whose home had suffered significant damage from the quake. He didn’t particularly care for the cup of heavily sugared chamomile tea his grandfather had forced into his hands, but he couldn’t deny the calming effect it had on his nerves. He thought about how the bitterness in the strong brew seemed to overtake the sweetness in it as the warm liquid gently swirled up into his palette with each sip.

    It reminded him of the events from two days ago, bitter-sweet in so many ways: his impulsive decision to run, against all odds, into the cave, the upbeat mood of the group as it followed his lead, the shock of realizing one of them was left behind, the relief at finding Nabeel alive and well, the frantic pace that he and Nabeel worked at as they moved the fallen rocks in the hopes of finding Cory. All of it played back in his head. He thought back to when Tom Leary and a fireman named Bert, emerged from the side path and joined them in their efforts. He recalled how all four of them worked incessantly until 11 PM at which point Nabeel’s knees buckled and he fell down on to his fours, breaking out into sobs. The next three hours went by quietly as Ray and Nabeel sat back against the cold walls of the cave watching Tom and Bert move like machines. At 2:15 PM, the rescue workers from the other side broke through. With each passing minute, their hopes of finding Cory dwindled, until every rock had been moved off to the side and the floor at the site of the collapse had become even with the rest of the surrounding floor. It was as if Cory had just disappeared.

    Ray blinked as the next wave of recollection came upon him, of when he and Nabeel exited the mouth of the cave with Tom ahead of them. It was almost 5 AM. He remembered seeing a couple massive cranes, and rescue workers lining the narrow path that led to the mouth of the cave. He remembered how the floodlights almost blinded him, how pockets of onlookers gathered high above began a cheer that Tom quickly arrested with a slow and deliberate shake of his head preventing its growth into a roar. He remembered how his grandfather took a step forward and covered him up completely in an affectionate bear hug. He remembered how, from the corner of his eye, he, along with everybody else gathered there in the dawn, watched as Nabeel slowly made his way to his friends standing beside the sitting figure of Joshua with an arm around a fast-asleep Drew Fedson. He remembered how Drew opened his eyes with the slightest squeeze from Joshua, and looked up at Nabeel, and how Nabeel looked down at Drew, his face an image of resignation. He remembered how the tears welled up in Drew’s eyes instantly as he sprang up and into the arms of the man who had been closest to his father, as if the act alone would somehow bring him closer to his own father.

    And the tears streamed from Ray’s own eyes and down his cheeks into the bitter sweet cup of tea he held close to his lips. So lost was he in thought and so hazy was his vision on account of the tears, that Ray did not see the towering figure of his grandfather standing above him. Blaine Travers placed a comforting hand on Ray’s shoulders that brought him out of his dreamy state. Ray lowered the cup and wiped his face on his sleeve as Blaine sat next to him with a deep sigh, placing his walking cane on the steps next to him.

    The older man cleared his throat and spoke as he nodded his head. “It isn’t easy, Ray. But you’ll get over it.”

Ray said nothing. He was glad for his grandfather. He wished his parents were with him too, but took strength in knowing that they would be with him soon. He had talked with them the night before for an entire hour. All roadways into and out of Memphis had been closed the previous night due to the quake. Flight cancellations abounded as almost every airport in a three-hundred mile radius of Evansville had to be shut down. Ray’s father had called at noon to say that the roadways had opened up again, and that they were planning to drive up later that night. Ray took solace in the fact that his parents were both safe and had survived the quake without injury or major losses of any kind. Families in Evansville and surrounding areas weren’t that lucky, with one fatality reported in Evansville. Hospitals were teeming with outpatient cases. And Cory Fedson was still considered missing as his body had not yet been recovered.

    The cuckoo clock in the living room behind them chimed 6 PM when they saw two cars pull into their street and park in front of their house. Ray recognized the Grand Prix as Nabeel’s, and assumed the Infiniti next to it to be a rental.

    “Now that is a fancy set of wheels.” Blaine said in his raspy voice as he stood up with his cane and began to make his way towards the sidewalk.

    Ray watched silently as Nabeel Hassan and Jason Banner exited the Grand Prix. Joshua Sanders got out of the other car. Each shook Blaine’s hand with a courteous nod. They spoke with him for some time before Joshua and Jason broke off from the conversation and made their way towards Ray. Nabeel continued chatting with Blaine and sent a wan smile in Ray’s direction which Ray reciprocated with a nod.

    The two others shook Ray’s hand and thanked him profusely, patting him on his back, recalling his handling of the crisis. Ray asked where Drew was and learned that his mother had
rushed down that morning and was with him at this time. They were going to stay in Still Mountain a few more days.

    Jason Banner frowned and shook his head . “I still can’t believe Cory’s just disappeared.”

    Everyone nodded but they couldn’t think of anything else to say. The rescue workers had dug into all the other parts of cave three where rock had fallen during the shock waves, and they had gone an extra six inches deep, twelve in some places. But there had been no trace of Cory.

    Nabeel left Blaine and walked towards the others assembled near the porch. The skinny man made straight for Ray and threw his arms around him in a tight embrace, then motioned with his fingers to the others to join him in a group hug. They obliged closing in on the forms of Ray Pritchard and Nabeel Hassan.

    Blaine watched them huddle as the afternoon sun cast a long shadow of the group. He could hear the soft murmur of Nabeel’s voice. The group hug extended into its fourth minute, and when
it finally broke, all four men wiped their faces with their hands. No other words were said. The men got into their respective cars, waved quickly and disappeared down the hill.

    Blaine and Ray finished a meal of macaroni and cheese after which Ray helped his grandfather clean up. Blaine made no secret of his fatigue and ambled into his room to call it an early night. Ray, on the other hand, decided he wanted to watch some television. He stretched himself out on the couch and clicked the tuner to an old Seinfeld rerun. Watching a George Costanza meltdown was one of Ray’s favorite television experiences. But this night, even George’s antics couldn’t bring a smile to his face. It only took fifteen minutes for him to fall asleep on the couch. He hadn’t the slightest inkling as to what awaited him.

Won the “Lighting of the Fire” Poetry Contest

· ·

Good news for me. I recently learned that my entry was placed first in the “Lighting of the Fire” Poetry Contest sponsored by Highland Park Poetry and the Ravinia Neighbors Association.
I have been invited to read it at the November 22nd Centennial Celebration of the Ravinia Village House (that’s Friday night).

Here’s an article talking about the upcoming celebration.
http://www.ravinianeighbors.org/ravinia-neighbors-association-blog/your-invitation-to-a-once-in-a-century-event

And here’s the winning poem.
http://www.highlandparkpoetry.org/home.html

My sincere thanks to the Ravinia Neighbors Association and Highland Park Poetry for this recognition. I’ve pasted the poem below in case the above link expires :-).

A Spark and a Fire

I often set to wonder why
We take the stands we take;
What makes us rise from where we lie,
And stirs our hearts to wake

When forth, the ever silent, speak
To light a tiny spark
That burns a flame by which we seek
To drive away the dark;

Like planters of the olive tree,
They never taste its fruit,
Which, like the one who eats from it,
Knows nothing of its root.

I think the answer might well be
The courage of a few
Whose grit, resolve, tenacity,
And other virtues too

Deliver us to light again
This fire that will burn
In honor of their service then,
An honor we return.

Wrote My First Book

· ·

There! I said it. And I said it with all the mediocrity I could summon into my fingertips.

Now, don’t get me wrong. It is a big deal, or rather it was when I finished the manuscript. But I am trying to make a point in this post, and to get to it, I must dwell on the title line a bit. So I’ll say it again.

I wrote my first book.

Yes. I wrote it in January of 2012. It all happened quite suddenly, and very unexpectedly.

I was with my family one Saturday morning brunching at the Egg Harbor Cafe in downtown Naperville. We were just making small talk when my wife brought up the topic of schooling in India. Before we knew it, somewhere between the belgian waffle and the cheese grits (if you haven’t, you’ve got to try their cheese grits), the conversation whittled itself into a long and slender bamboo cane – one that graced the hand of our high school headmaster. No, we’re not that old, but we did go to school in India, and back when we were in school, about twenty-five years ago, getting your daily stripes courtesy said bamboo cane could easily become an everyday ritual, albeit a painful one.

So as we whittled the proverbial cane of our conversation into dust, I said to my wife (and I paraphrase):

“Hey, maybe I could write a book on this. You know, about oppression at two entirely different levels. There’s the headmaster figure, and… and maybe a tyrannical ruler, like the pharaoh. Right? You know, to show how oppression is ugly, however small or large the scale of it. Right?”

My wife looked at me, and said, “Why don’t you do it?”

My then-nine-year-old daughter looked at me and said, “Do what?”

My then-six-year-old daughter looked at me and said, “I can’t finish my eggs.”

So, I finished them for her.

I spent the rest of the weekend thinking about our conversation, and a plot began to emerge in my head. The following Monday, my commute to work helped me finish chapter 1. I decided I would call the book “Tyrants”. The return commute knocked out chapters 2, 3 and 4 (maybe even 5). Anyway, by Wednesday of that same week, I had a fully thought-out story in my head, divvied up into thirteen chapters. I told myself the plot had to be tight and engaging, and the characters interesting and believable. I even decided I would be as minimal in my writing as possible, with everything distilled down to only what was needed to carry a story and keep it interesting. I read somewhere that it was easy to add pages, but not so easy to remove, and feeling insecure as a first-time writer, I embraced the advice fully.

I wrote the first chapter the very next night. And then I kept at it for the next three weeks, working weeknights and Saturdays. And when I finally finished the manuscript of “Tyrants” in three weeks flat, it felt good. I had a 53,000 word manuscript on my computer. I put it on a flash drive and drove down to a copy shop where I printed it out. It felt so good.

My wife had been reading the chapters as I was writing them, so she finished reading the book about the time I finished writing it. She liked it, but her feedback was a bit tainted as she knew the plot from the outset.

So then I gave it to my Dad. He had no idea I had written a novel, so when he liked it, I was encouraged a bit.

I began to read up on the querying scene that all writers ought to get familiar with. I became a frequenter of queryshark.com (great resource for new fiction writers by the way). After several iterations of “writing my query letter and letting it sit”, I felt my query letter was ready for the world of literary agents.

I mustered the courage to send out a few. I started with the most popular agents on the east coast, sending them email queries, and in some cases, snail mail.

One in three got back to me and politely declined saying the work “was not a good fit for them”. After about five queries, my interest began to wane. I began to wonder if my two-hundred-page manuscript was a colossal waste of time. In the days and weeks and months that followed, I shared out the manuscript with a close circle of family and friends. Some liked it a lot, a few had mixed but good feedback, while some (actually many) never got back to me.

Then someone said, “Friends and family will never tell you your book is garbage.”

So I approached the founder of the poetry club I had been a member of. She was not family. She was not a friend. She was… an acquaintance. She seemed unbiased. And she taught creative writing too. She agreed to read my manuscript. It took her three weeks to get back to me. We met up right after an open mic. Her feedback was very good. She liked the story a lot, she liked the writing, she liked the characters and the twists in the plot. She pointed out a few inconsistencies and I fixed them.

And that’s when I told myself there was something here. I redoubled my querying efforts.

Fast-forward from then to six months ago: I had altogether sent out just under twenty queries, twenty if you count one pathetically half-hearted attempt. That’s really not a lot at all. There are happy souls out there who celebrate one-hundred query rejections by throwing their friends a party – it is the sort of grit you need to keep your head up in this industry.

Nevertheless, one bright and sunny day in May, I stopped querying. I had grown tired of it, but that wasn’t why I stopped. I stopped because I had started to think. You see, my father-in-law visited with us some time back and he had given me some advice. It was simple advice: keep writing; churn out the books; when you finish one, stuff it under your bed, and start on the next one. He told me not to worry about getting published, but rather to be preoccupied with the craft of writing.

When this advice finally sank in (and it took a few months), the realization was quite liberating for me as a writer. And that is really the simple point I am trying to make in this post.

You see, I was getting better. My writing had improved. I could tell. My ability to spin yarn from word-pulp, and weave an intricate tapestry of fiction drama had increased. Cheesy imagery, but you get the point. My writing had improved just with stepping into my second book. I felt like I had crossed a bridge after dodging the one-novel-publisher troll who dwelt beneath it, a beast that ceaselessly spat the word “Publish”.

Now, if you ever comes across such a bridge by happenstance and encounter a troll beneath it spitting the word “Publish”, do take my advice and risk your everything to get to the other side where the grass is greener. I know, I’m chewing on it right now. And guess what, there will be more bridges that I, and you, will have to span in our respective journeys as writers, and you don’t want to not cross any of them. Now, don’t get me wrong. You can lean on the railing, chat with that troll, you know, query an agent every now and then with the work you have accomplished – just make sure you continually sharpen your query letters. But then once you’ve done that, flash that troll a smile and keep walking. The grass will keep getting greener and greener with every bridge you cross.

So I’ve decided that on my journey as a writer, I will not allow myself to be preoccupied with my destination. Besides, the journey is far too beautiful. And if you’ve been stuck on that query-your-nth-novel-like-there’s-no-tomorrow bridge (especially if n = 1), I hope this gives you a push to keep walking.

I close this post with the opening verses of an old Cat Stevens number.

Miles from nowhere, 
I guess I’ll take my time,
Oh yeah, to reach there.

Look up at the mountain 
I have to climb,
Oh yeah, to reach there.