IN THE DARKNESS AND IN THE LIGHT OF THE NEBULA, WE REMAIN

And when we awoke and the Nebula filled our lungs, we wondered if the sounds of shattered hearts and the stench of gun smoke beneath us would bring us low to the killing floors once more. Dazed, stunned, we looked around us and heard the babes crying and the women wailing ancient wails of the past, of old souls not forgotten.

And when the women began wailing and the babes, crying in muffled tones, saw this, the women, sensing but not knowing that the Nebula had risen, left their babes to gather the fallen pomegranates outside their homes. Wearing their thin veils, they stooped lower to gather the fallen fruits.

And when they had finished gathering the leathery skins of these fruits, these seeds in ruby castings, and had returned to their homes, they — noticing that the wails had stopped and the babes had grown and that the children in the streets had stopped kicking their dusty feet at childhood walls, plastic like their eyes — reflected upon their old age and their loss.

And when they began this reflection and saw that their bodies, much like the winter clouds above, had wisened, they listened quietly until the Nebula spoke to them, too; it told them to softly hold the pomegranates in safety, in defiance of the will and the wantonness of the impregnable city.

And when the walls of wonder of that ancient impregnable city came crashing upon us like desperate illusions — the ones we had likened to God’s will — we watched as the eldest of our mothers gathered all the pomegranates in safety, placing them in a familiar reed basket, and then proceeded to sweep out from under her old country rugs onto the dusty streets the shadows of our illusions.

And when those illusions had been swept out onto the streets, the children of their children stopped their pranks and games, their soccering and soda fountain dreamscapes. We held our breath as they marched out like soldiers into the dawn; we gazed, stunned as the smallest child amongst them was lifted into the sky, into a chant, her name ringing like bells at dawn — her dark locks scented in cardamom and mint.

And when she was lifted on high, our fathers, behind the children in wedding day drumbeats, cantered by our mothers as they held up picture frames with fully tightened fists urging the men and the children and the babes onwards, onwards - man and woman wrapping their knuckles onto the taught skin of our drums, for their children, for their bounty, and we sang guttural calls from within that had churned for lifetimes, with voices in unison:

Ya hurriya!

And when we sang together, we saw that the dark sunglasses they had worn to cover their eyes against the desert sands proved to be worthless store-bought items — no use to any of them or any of us. We watched with nude eyes as they worked towards the centre of the earth, digging deep holes, boring through rock and lime and hardened ancient clay until they reached the pits below, letting the flowing magma rivers touch their toes as they giggled like babes at play.

I am waiting, still … I watch it until it fills us all, until it absorbs us and we absorb it, until it becomes us and we become it, until it holds us and we hold it in dignity, in prayer, in meditation …

And as they did this, I watched, transfixed, as they began the procession, setting the lumps of palm fat on fire into the flowing magma, offering the world scents of rebellion and a sublime stand against their old humiliation; as it burned, its scented smoke rose and filled our lungs, joining the Nebula. I sat down on the banks of the river next to my ancient mother and watched the smoke rise.

And as it rose, all could share in its perfumed scent save the one man out of every million who we knew had no smell, no sight, no taste, no touch, nor hearing left; those men who had lost all these gifts in unhappy bars and sad brothels — too drunk on power, too full to realise they had rejoiced in the killing-off of their senses.

And when all this happened, I fell into a trance and slept again … my ancient mother beside me with her familiar reed basket of pomegranates beside us.

I slept until I awoke to another place and another time. And when I awoke, the Nebula had risen, my ancient mother frolicking and capering with it, intertwining her being in an all moving grace; and then, inexplicably, I watch as she free falls into the graveyards below where those souls of shattered hearts and those bodies felled by the crackling of our bones lay in wait - as she, my ancient mother sprinkles upon them the now scented seeds of our rebellion.

These souls, though, would not rest a moment until they could see that the Nebula would be all we knew.

And as they wait for rest, I wait, too; I am waiting, still … I watch it until it fills us all, until it absorbs us and we absorb it, until it becomes us and we become it, until it holds us and we hold it in dignity, in prayer, in meditation, and in balance with that far-off point in the galaxy, allowing it to reflect in the sub-molecular structures of our eyes.

I am watching it as it cleanses each particle, each cellular matter of our being so that when we speak, we can hear each word spoken covered in the Nebula, each breath a part of the whole; and with each breath, our love, our freedom.

For the Nebula is all I have now, all we have as we remain but do not tarry, willing the seeds of our ancient mother to sweep though our earth, to take root, to emanate, to bleed through us the dearest-held dignity of the ages.

In the darkness and in the light of the Nebula,
we remain.

About Mohamed Chakmakchi: Mohamed Chakmakchi is an Iraqi writer, actor, and teacher. His writing focuses on the struggles people encounter when faced with great losses, as well as human imagination and creativity. Mohamed graduated with degrees in Spanish and German literature, and studied towards an M.A. at NYU's Hagop Kevorkian Center for Near Eastern Studies.