Belated shock at the number of references to punishment and Hell-fire overtook any initial pleasure, threatening to invade and engulf the tranquillity gained through the logical grammatical constructions of the Holy Qur’aan. The words curling upwards, forever upwards, pointing to a Heaven unseen.
Flick. Flick. Flick. Mercy. Fornicators. Punishment. Paradise. Hell-fire. Forgiveness. Torment. Repent. The translated words leap from the page with every flick, escaping into the present and invading the past.
The juxtaposition of the incongruous, images lost in translation, vividness lost within the narrow gap between direct understanding and translated text, burst forth from the pages, like comforting demons. The idle blank space between the interpretations of the meanings and the curling Arabic text screams out to be read. Recite. Read. In the name of your Lord.
Flick. Flick. Flick. Prayer. Salah. Charity. Zakah. Repetition a comfort; the acknowledgement that humankind is forgetful. Reading reminds. Again the gap between English and cursive Arabic yearns to be read, pleading in the infinitely loud way that only silence can. The white space a white noise, aching beautiful, coveted by none, pining for a perfection only achieved through divine understanding.
Flick. Flick. Flick. The pious. Al-Mutaqoon. The disbelievers. Al-Kaafiroon. The All-Merciful. Ar-Rahman. Tangible and intangible mingled together in the most important Book you’ll ever read. Seemingly irreconcilable, disturbingly violent, yet so delicately loving; an hourly minute balanced against the shortest infinity. Again the gap screams, writhes in agony at the silent space it inhabits, the white noise between the languages, pushing against the bars of an invisible prison.
This space inhabited between the languages is where atonement lies; like an informant, a spy, an absent partner, it waits, silently screaming in anguish. It begs to be decoded, deciphered and laid to rest, perpetually waiting for the understanding we award to so many others. Here is where salvation lies, within the neglected, hidden in plain sight, so clear and yet so obscure; a deliverance so potently real, tangibly intangible, readably unreadable.
Once the idle blank space has been conquered, mastered and perfected, maybe there’s hope to be reconciled with the Maker. Like the unread gap, there’s a yearning, a yearning for the unread gap; a time where we can sit and smile together, reminiscing about a time when we were once strangers. For now, we’re held perpetually in our stasis, waiting, yearning, silently agonising.
Flick. Flick. Flick.
