She looked away and
told him her book was going to draw a line where Islam ran from the peninsula
down to Papua New Guinea and no island of our many thousands had remained
untouched by the great wind blown out from across the desert. Her book would
capture the role of encirclement and plantation and the myth of the woman who
brings shame to her family by flying free of the labyrinth. But too close to
the sun or too near to the sea’
‘Islam is a beautiful
religion,’ I heard my Dada say, ’but it is not mine’
He then told her of
his history. Or what he told me he did. She did not shudder nor flinch and
denounce him as his own daughter and son in law had had done but a distance
grew up between them. We did not see her around much anymore which was a shame.
I liked her.
I
was back in my cell. There was no way out unless you breathed and wondered at
the interminable silence and the long nights of prison with a voice deep and
strong within you. Just hearing it sound through all the shapes and patterns
within me brings a reminder of not only what you have lost but also what you
have been given as the greatest gift, the gift of life itself.
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