I Am Noor

To Dream of Beasts: Raindrops Before the Torrent

Sunday-
    I remember now, Sketchbook, the horror that it is to dream.

    Beneath a lovely willow, I  recognize the beauty that was Nasarheen-- my mother, no more than 24 years old, pink-cheeked and a celestial vision in her silken jade abaya. Her hair is tucked away beneath a white-laced hijab.
    But while I can see her clearly, she cannot see me. And she isn't alone; standing in front of her is a menacing figure with a long, sleek black pony-tail.
    His back is to me, so I can't see his face, but no Indonesian man wears his hair in such a way.
    There is a sinking feeling in my chest. What would he want with Mum?
    "Go away!" she buries her face in her hands and begins sobbing.
    "You leave with me."
    "No!"
    "You have no choice," the man snarls, lurking over her the way a shark circles a lone seal swept out to sea. "It's mine. Ours, really. You won't deprive me of it."
    As Mum stifles her cries and shakes her head repeatedly, my distress grows, and I look around for someone, anyone, to rescue her. But in this dream-world, there is no one forthcoming. I can see roads, buildings, and parked vehicles near the willow tree, but there is no savior in sight.
    "Inshallah, I shall be free of you!" my mother declares, with a fervor I do not recognize.
    She wipes her nose and looks up at him, freezing in terror as his bulk begins to swell. Within moments, the figure has become a hulking, burly giant-- but her defiant expression is unchanged.
    "Inshallah, Inshallah, Inshallah!" he retorts in a mocking voice. "Do you think this Allah can save you?"
    "I have nothing that is yours!"
    "Oh, but you do. You just don't know it yet."
    I open my mouth to scream, to tell him to leave my mother alone or else I'll fight, but my voice has constricted. I have no more power to speak than a mermaid with new legs. My feet feel as though they are sunk in lead.
    Mum raises her clenched fists to her temples and rocks back and forth, alternately weeping and reciting verses from the Quran.
    "Ya Allah, make him leave! Banish him back to the sulphur pit where he belongs!"
    There is a sudden crack reminiscent of thunder, and Mum nearly leaps from her abaya in fear.     All around the willow tree, raindrops have begun to fall. Before they can touch the soil, however, they coalesce into a whirlwind of storm water that envelops Mum's tormentor.
     Now, he no longer has a form. He has become an amorphous, poisonous smoke threatening to swallow my mother alive.
"There is no use blubbering to your God!" it brays, all the while shifting and thickening. "You wanted this, and Allah saw your sin! You think he'll forgive that?"
    "Allah is most merciful. He forgives whom He wills!" Mum shrieks. "Ya Allah, astaghfiru lillah, astaghfiru lillah [forgive me]..."
    "Allah won't forgive you, and I won't either. You're stealing from me!"
    "I will see to it that my womb is barren. I'll use a hanger if I must!"
    The smoke-beast utters a throaty peal of sinister laughter.
    Mum struggles to stand. She cannot. Swooning from terror and weak-kneed, she collapses back against the willow trunk, a petite hand clutching at her heart. But her beautiful voice rings clearly:
    "A-ozu billahi mena shaitann arrajeem [I do not feel safe in this place]!"
    The beast surges forward to envelop her, but at the last moment an unseen shield deflects it. The beast disperses into emptiness.
    Finding my voice at last, I stretch out my arms and run toward her. "Mum! Thank goodness you're alright!"
    She looks at me as I make my approach. The frost in her doe-like eyes snares my heart into a vice.
    "I do not want you," she tells me.

    I'm looking at you now, Sketchbook, scarcely able to see my own scribbling. My tears have blurred the lines, creating damp holes into some of the pages.
    Having woken in a gasping, sweaty mess (at none other than 4 this morning), I turned the fading filaments of this nightmare into written word. A teacher of mine back in 9th grade once told me that penning one's troubling dreams was therapeutic.
    If I saw him now, I would laugh in his face.
    It is 5 AM. By now, Mum should be up for Wudu, but I cannot hear her yet.
    Out of habit, I reach for the image of the Immaculate Mother on my bedside table, but a thought occurs to me: if my dream-mother could not bear to see me, then how much less so would the Queen of Heaven?
    I am too miserable to say my morning rosary.
    So, for the first time in 12 years, I won't.