Al-Hashashin
by Yusra Usmani
Prologue
Al-Hashashin: The Hashish Eaters. Legendary militants who invigorated their young recruits with a premature vision of paradise. They were filled to the brim with intoxicants before being sent on their suicide mission.
I.
I inherited the white skin of my Arab ancestors—their strong foreheads, their verticality of stature, their love for conquest, and more than anything, their arrogance. As a child I had everything. All doors were open to me, and praises bounced aimlessly across the room. One day, however, I tore myself open to be put on display, and the question then became whether even a decent soul could be made of me. For all the gibes, and the kicks, and the taunts, and the spit, all I ever became was proud. I, who once sought their approval, now took a sordid pleasure in their derision, and I stood tall like a king in my distinction.
II.
In my white chemise, I approached the sheikh at the altar. He put the chalice at my lip and I eagerly gulped down. When I began to choke, he only tilted further, stifling my coughs as most of the wine poured down my chin. He didn’t stop until the cup was empty. I stumbled back to the pew, with my chemise entirely soiled.
III.
I’ve taken a face from an ancient gallery—this fellow came from a race with a great appetite. The instigator of my every caprice; the fire behind my pupils light.
Crawling, limping; bludgeoning themselves, and their good health, and their good sense; engaging in frottage with the pavement, and the straphangers, and the silver beams of the commuter rail.
Catatonic, sick; purging their sore stomachs of the Quran; face downward, mouth gaping; laying between the toilet and wall.
Brought low by loathsome appetites, they’d turn, and they’d toss, and they’d hysterically cry. Their eyes would roll back, with nothing to do but listen to the bodies' way, and see again the flame that first put them in their place.
IV.
There’s one rectangular room—a deep red colour, and there’s the firm chair that I sit on. At the top of the wall behind me is a flashlight; in front, an observatory window. To my left is a locked door, and in the pitch black beyond it is a short staircase. Upstairs, on the floor, there’s a spread of white sheets, and gently tossing over and under them is a row of houris presenting themselves to me.
V.
Often I’d hear the siren as it goes off,
and takes men with it
Often I’d hear the frontline as it sobs,
and calls out positions
Often I’d hear the armies as they riot,
and as they’re put on their knees
Often I’d see the horizon open,
and roll over the weak
VI.
Walking home from the mosque, my soft shoulders brushed against the rest. I held my cupped hands out, falling over, lurching forward, and dragging myself along the carpets until I found the gate. Whether there was any charity, or words, or glances, my bent-over head couldn’t tell.
Outside there was the minaret and the muezzin sobbing his prolonged sob. I looked up to him, and he looked down to me. I said: “All I ever wanted was to live according to God. How could this have happened to me?”
Suddenly I remembered my girlhood, and the grass that was greener than any green, and the sunshine that was white. I remembered our living room where I would stand, still cherub-faced, and recite the Quran. Then, I saw how I bowed after my last Amen, and how I waited to be petted as I smiled in secret. (So it was my pride! So I’ve never been a muslim, I can never be a muslim—the religion of my childhood; the religion of my arrogance.) Finally I remembered the foyer, and the threshold which I transgressed with the eagerness of a newly-wed, and how I was tugged away by the ear. (My pride!)
Then again I looked back but saw no one looking to me, and my face twisted with a sordid grin. Oh God! Now I really have nothing; I really am nothing.
I walked alongside the livestock. My arm gently stretched over the fence, and I passed my fatal hand over their necks, freeing them one after another until the last fell. In a final shout of exuberance I tore off my dress and gave myself up to the sun.
VII.
So long to our linen
And to our ceremony
So long to my innocence
And to naivety
Now I see it was pride, all pride!
Now I see what can’t be mine
I’ve purged myself of hesitation, of fear
Only ego keeps me here.
Peace and love are at work in me
Though I may not be in peace
Thy kingdom come, on earth as above
Thy will not mine be done
One hand bible, one hand gun
Thy will be done, Thy will be done
VIII.
He had taken the form of a fully veiled figure, and so I was driven that way with an uncontrollable desire. At first I pursued him with some restraint, but my pace steadily picked up. Soon I was panting like a dog and growing lightheaded. Once I had him in my arms, I eagerly seized the veil, only to find another underneath, and then another, until I tore through the last. Then, I fell over, and my lips took his.
I awoke alone on the bloody pavement—filled to the brim with his hot breath.
IX.
I was satisfied with the blow I'd been dealt and laid there for a stupid amount of time, but to my dismay, I only grew sober.
I’ve walked this threshold for too long. Still indifferent, still alone, still belonging to neither world and bonded to both. I despise this life and my obligation to it. Onwards! The most difficult thing to do is what needs to be done.
X.
Into the new day we’re thrown
The rider on his stead
Only calls onward
Further, and once we hear
The bugle’s blow, I'll be yours.
There he is! Great and radiant,
Full of love as he turns
Now all else lies limp,
Scorched with every sin on earth
XI.
My burning brain, my infamous deed
My love for fate and his lead
With trumpets, horns, and orchestrations
With great command of highest station
Still unheard, still unseen
I’d mumble through the streets
And now I hear the bugle’s blow
Over my forehead as I go
Towards the sun plunging west
On towards my journey’s end
XII.
Flags, at their heights
Wave against
The cold wind
The ports are lined
With little heads
Bent in obedience
Still relentless
Are my childish instincts–
Every single one
Not even
Does my stupidity cease
Once the deed is done
I say,
Where the path is shown
I’ll go
And thus I take
Another step
Towards my fate
I remember the girl
Full of tears
As her sail was first set
She has only me
As this wayward boat
Nears its end
Al-Hashashin is available for purchase from The Blasted Tree Store
Featured by The Blasted Tree: June 29, 2023
Yusra Usmani
Contributing Author
Al-Hashashin by Yusra Usmani is a Blasted Tree original collection of poetry
ISBN [Digital]: 978-1-998817-10-8
Cover design by Yusra Usmani