Call Me Ishmael

A Poem by riskrapper

a poem from a collection of poetry and prose on the Arab Spring. Offered today to celebrate the anniversary of Herman Melville's birth.

Call me Ishmael. Some years ago - never mind how long precisely - having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world... Moby Dick, Herman Melville

Call me

Ishmael.

I hail

from

the clan

of Adam.

I am the

beloved

child

of Hagar;

unbowed son

of an upright

Ibrahim.

I am

the older

half brother

of Musa,

cousin to

Isa and

father to

Muhammad.

I work

in a bakery

that

overlooks

the roiling

waters of

the Nile.

It’s

owned

by an

Egyptian

General,

managed

by a

platoon

of his

hand picked

lieutenants.

I fire the

ovens,

roll the

dough

and pack

the loaves.

We bake

all day

but it seems

we cannot

quench

the hunger

that grips

our people.

brother

Musa

says

I bake

the bread

of tyrants

and serve it

to a people

starving for

freedom.

Musa

likes to say

if we wish

to feast at

the banquet

of liberty

we must

refuse

to eat

the bread

of fear.

In winter

our hunger

blends with

the misery

of living

in frigid

apartments.

dilapidated flat

in Darb Al-Ahmar

is one of a

thousand owned

by Cairo’s

most notorious

police chief.

The roofs leak,

the plumbing

is broken,

no heat in winter,

in summer

it’s a sweltering

furnace.

My home

is the

handiwork of a

cold blooded

landlord’s

indifference

to the freezing

rooms they

force us

to live in.

In their eyes,

our sole purpose

in life is to feather

their nest.

They demand

that the rent be paid

on the first of every month

and will make our life miserable

if we’re one day late

or a half a pound short.

Do they

actually

think

that we

live

only

to assure

the

warmth

and comfort

for them

and their

children?

In winter

they freeze

us into

inaction;

while

during the

summer,

swirling

ceiling fans

fail to relieve the

oppressive heat

of fire they

breathe down

our necks.

The batons

of the police

freely swing to

crack a head if

we fail to bow to

their authority

or grease

the extortionists

palms with

tributes to their

domination.

They never

shake down

their friends

that drive

the fancy

silver

Mercedes.

The big guys

roll wherever

they want.

They

roll over

anything

they

choose.

They take

up parking

spaces in our lives;

leaving less room

for us to park

our tiny scooters.

I’m certain

the name

on their

drivers license

says privilege

and impunity.

Yet

somehow

always

get stuck

picking up

the tab

for

their

tolls.

Some slavishly

put coins

in parking meters

for them and get

compensated for it

by being offered

the opportunity

to wash their cars.

I’m glad

that I get

to bake

bread.

I was talking

to my friend

Isa at the

coffee shop,

he said,

“We needn't

live in a constant

state of

want and fear.”

A young man

sitting at

the next table

was a zealous

believer from

The Muslim

Brotherhood.

His name is

Muhammad,

he handed me

The Holy Quran.

My dear

Muslim

brother

exhorts

me to

submit.

He says that is

the way to a

fearless life;

free of any

need,

save

Allah’s

salvation.

Muslim

brother

is firm

in his

belief

that

all

the answers

all

my problems

and

all

the answers

all

Egypt's problems

were

breathed on to

the pages of

The Holy Quran

with

The Prophet Muhammad’s

-(may peace be upon him)-

own breath;

his tongue

inscribing

the holy pages

in Arabic

squeezed

out by the

loving

embrace

of the

Angel

Gabriel.

Mubarak also boasts that

he too has all the answers to

alleviate the ills that plague us.

He’s

been ruling us

for forty years;

while the

Holy Quran

has been

with us

forever.

Our

impatience

grows

as we yearn

for these promises

to be filled.

Mubarak swears

he knows what is best

for the children

of Egypt.

Mubarak insists

that the way to

freedom from

want and fear

is submission to

his perpetual rule.

I am exhausted

from submission.

I have nothing

left to yield.

My uneasiness

grows when

someone suggests

an infallibility.

I accept the

supreme dominion

and divine knowledge

of the Quran and Hadiths

but I’m not too sure

that the Imams,

politicians and

generals who

swore by its

truth really

understand

it themselves.

I am left

to question

if any of them

even see me?

I am more of a

person then a

Muslim;

and

sometimes

I wonder

if even

Allah

has forgotten

the peril of

Ibrahim’s

children.

I wonder have

I disappeared

from Allah’s

unblinking eye

as well?

Sometimes

I look into

the mirror

to see if

I am real.

I am relieved

to see my image.

I have not

become invisible

to myself.

I am

emboldened

to know

that I am a

real person

of flesh and bones

with a mind

full of conviction

refreshed

with the blood

of a warm beating

heart.

I remind myself

I am a man,

not a faceless

subject

to be ruled.

I am an individual

not just another

submissive being

under the control

of a pious Imam.

I am Ishmael.

I recognize the fire of

life in my own eyes.

I can see the scars

of my decisions,

that my life has

etched upon my face.

I am not invisible.

I am not a casualty

of the twists of history

or the events of fate.

I take

responsibility

for me.

I am not a fish

swimming within

a giant school

trapped in an

ocean current

propelled

to a

predetermined

destination

of a well

laid net.

I am a man.

Let it be known

that I claim

responsibility

for my manhood

and I will

command

respect from

those who now

lord over me.

Like my father

Ibrahim, they

will recognize

me as an

unbowed

upright man.

They will

call me

Ishmael.

As I stand

I will raise my voice.

I will not remain

voiceless.

I am one voice

of many

who like me

have not

been heard.

We were once

grovelling dogs

that have been

transformed

into free range wolves,

set free from its cage,

we now form in packs

howling for justice.

will raise

our voice

in concert

so all

may hear.

will

make

them

listen.

They will

know who

I am.

Call me Ishmael.

Music Selection:

Muddy Waters

Mannish Boy

Oakland

2/9/12

jbm

Author's Note

One of a semi narrative of poems and prose on the Arab Spring.

My Review

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Reviews

SHEEMA HUQ

you have made, sacred, ancient, religious text accessible through your clever poem, i kind of found your chosen structure quite challenging which is could be constued as more of a compliment than a criticism, with thanks.