Ibrahim S. Amin's Blog: The Plundered Dungeon, page 3

A Moderate Muslim Meets Mohammed

Her girlfriend wore a Tardis dress
That pleased the science crowd,
Their children made a Dalek mess
The physicists allowed.
"Sayeeda travels time today!
Her daughters must be awed.
Exterminate that fine buffet!
Destroy the cupcake horde!"

Jasmina wiped Sayeeda's nose
(A daughter's custard kiss),
She rolled her eyes and said, "Suppose
Our prophet sees all this!"
"Before I jump they'll shower me."
Sayeeda hugged her tight.
"Contaminating history
Would dump us deep in shite."

Their goodbyes made and kisses kissed,
Sayeeda prepped for time,
She wandered through a cleansing mist,
Ate nanobotic slime.
(Our antibodies hold the code
To make our species last,
Unleashed upon the folk of old,
They'd genocide the past.)

Sayeeda jumped and colours whirled,
Her stomach lurched and churned,
The tapestry of time unfurled,
Her eyeballs twitched and burned.
She blinked at camels, distant dunes,
The purest cyan sky,
A town beyond the ancient tombs:
Her destiny was nigh!

Her cloaking tech disguised her shape,
Air shimmered round her skin,
And left Medinan mouths agape
With stories of the djinn.
The scouts had found the prophet's home;
Sayeeda read their guide.
Her thermal scan showed him alone;
Sayeeda snuck inside.

"Mohammed!" She uncloaked and spoke
In classic Arabic:
"Jihadists lie; I know you're woke;
Our imam's just a dick!
You are the world's first feminist,
Treat women as men ought;
Fundamentalists must have missed
The beauty that you taught!"

Sayeeda talked, Mohammed heard
Her tales of times to come.
She wanted to record his word,
That his "true will" be done.
Sayeeda uttered praise and rants;
Mohammed stroked his chin,
Then laughed and sneered and dropped his pants,
And yanked Sayeeda in.

"A feminist, you stupid whore?
My Islam scammed you all!
I rape the slaves I seize in war,
So get against the wall!"
Mohammed grabbed Sayeeda's throat,
She smashed the prophet's loin,
Then roared and swept his legs and smote
Him twice more in the groin.

Mohammed groaned, Sayeeda too,
The woman stomped his head.
"I travelled time for love of you,
But now I'll see you dead!"
She stamped and stamped, her boot met brain,
The prophet breathed his last.
Sayeeda jumped back, left him slain,
Forgotten in the past.

---------

Lots of Muslims genuinely support human rights. They campaign against the misogyny, homophobia, transphobia, antisemitism, and other bigotries fundamentalists inflict on the world.

Such Muslims, if devout, often persuade themselves Mohammed would've championed their causes, that they emulate his values. In reality, Mohammed's own sermons depict a man who (e.g.) institutionalised the abuse of women and presented it as the verbatim will of God.

Hence I imagine any meeting between a secular, liberal Muslim woman and Mohammed would involve disillusionment followed by violence. And I hope she kicks his arse.

When Allah Got Laid Off

The final Muslim stood and sighed,
"Admitted, friends! Mohammed lied!
His Allah really isn't great,
So fuck that shit, I'm apostate!"

In heaven's heights an angel winced,
His cheeks went crimson, eyes evinced
The awkward task that he must do,
For Allah's time up there was through.

(Believers grant the gods their thrones,
Without their worship no one owns
A right to dwell in heaven's clouds
And sneer upon the lesser crowds
Of angels, leprechauns, and such
Who work their will with magic touch.)

"Eviction!" Allah raged and growled.
"Eviction?" Allah moaned and howled.
"Eviction, sir," the angel said,
"So move along, we must be rid
Of deadbeat gods to whom no one
Prostrates or prays; it must be done."
"Then leave I shall, but screw you guys;
I'll pimp my houris with doe-eyes
And grow quite wealthy, have no fear!"
"But, sir, the houris stay up here."
"No magic whores, no angels too?
Then what's a former god to do?"
The angel shrugged and called a car
That carried Allah to a bar.

'Forgotten Gods' in neon glow.
"Forgotten gods?" said Allah. "No!"
But Allah's transport drove away,
So left with nowhere else to stay,
The lord of Mecca trudged inside
And swelled up full of wounded pride
On seeing patrons deep in drink.
"What would my boy Mohammed think?
Such company cannot be fit
For Allah, greatest god of-" "Shit!"
A drinker cried and Allah turned
To face a dozen eyes that burned.

"It's Allah!" Zeus said. "Wretched sod
Who lied and claimed there's just one god!"
Dionysus said, "Banned my wine!
Delicious treasure wrought by vine!"
"Misogynist!" Athene growled.
"Misokunist!" Anubis howled.
"Let's smash his skull!" Enraged Thor swung
Mjolnir, glared and roared and flung
The hammer right at Allah's head
But missed and struck his chest instead
And launched him through the window's glass
So Allah landed on his arse
In puddles pissed, while drunks divine
Returned to quaffing ale and wine.

Meanwhile on Earth apostates grinned,
Qurans and prayer rugs they binned.
Their former god bemoaned his luck,
But frankly no one gave a fuck.


[Edit -- 27 May 2020: You can now find a sequel to this poem here.]

---------

Various fantasy settings, including Terry Pratchett's Discworld, present theologies in which gods only possess power (or perhaps even exist at all) when mortals worship them. Hence it seemed logical to envision a time when apostasy drives Allah into unemployment.

The Devil's Due

Ibliss ascends to heaven's glade,
And hosts of angels glare,
He saunters past a flaming blade,
Ignites a cig with care.

"Despoiler! Wretch! Return to hell!"
Says Gabe and blocks his path.
"Your steps besmirch this hallowed dell,
So leave or face His wrath!"

"Go blow your horn, you utter prick."
The Devil smokes and sneers.
"Remove those swords or else I'll stick
Them sideways up your rears."

"I'm here to speak with Him you heed,
The Wanker knows what for,
Omniscience means He doesn't need
You twats to guard His door."

The angel huffs but steps aside,
Ignores his minions' mirth,
Beneath his breath he tries to hide
The swears he learned on Earth.

"Allah!" the Devil says to God,
"I've come to claim my prize!
Be good about it, not a Sod
Who cheats the Prince of Lies."

"We fought because You made mankind,
Told djinn to kneel for Thee,
But gazing down to Earth You'll find
You fucked up hard, not we."

"Hijabs, niqabs, and children wed,
Gay lovers bashed and slain;
A billion hail a warlord dead,
Whose sermons rot the brain."

"One screams Your name and detonates
The bomb upon his vest,
So broken steel eviscerates
And terror quells the rest."

Allah intones a fearful curse,
The Devil gives a grin,
Then, grumbling, God reveals His purse
And Satan takes the win.

---------

According to Islamic mythology, when God created man he ordered all his other creations to prostrate themselves before his latest work. The angels did so without question. But Satan, a djinn, was less than impressed. He demanded to know why he should bow down to a vastly inferior creature -- one cobbled together from dirt (by contrast, he himself had been fashioned from fire).

This angered God, who was as sensitive about his new creation as any author who's ever received a 1-star review and proceeded to flip out over it. Thus he kicked Satan out of heaven.

If there's somewhere in the multiverse where that myth happens to be true, I trust Satan has a big smirk on his face. And I hope God pays up.

The Lich-King of Mecca

His pilgrims round the ebon tomb
In which the prophet's corpse decays
And summons thousands forth to doom;
He's ruled from ancient Arab days.
They heed what fleshless maw once spoke,
Invoke in prayers as though divine,
Curse statues dread Mohammed broke
When he decreed: "Thy thrones are mine!"

"An offering!" jihadists cry,
"Behold the blood our bombs have spilled!
You grin when godless kuffar die,
So countless numbers we have killed.
We seized Yazidi girls like knaves!
Quranic verses made the case,
You told us: 'Rape your women slaves!'"
(His rotten cock recalls the chase.)

He sighs with lungs that hold no breath
And dreams of times he pillaged 'fore
A warlord's life became undeath;
He slathered blades with kuffar gore.
A coffin twixt the earth and sky
Disgorged his carcass back to sand;
Perhaps one day he'll finally die;
For now the lich-king wrecks the land.

---------

There's a famous quote attributed to Atatürk, who founded the Republic of Turkey:

"This is Islam, an absurd theology of an immoral Bedouin, a rotting corpse which poisons our lives."

Whether or not he actually said that, the sentiment's both powerful and accurate. Mohammed's sermons (which he claimed represented the verbatim speech of "Allah") and legends continue to cause widespread harm 1,400 years after his death.

Hence it seemed apt to depict him as an undead ruler.

Not Adam and Steve

"It was Adam and Eve, and not Adam and Steve!"
Say the mob at the gates of the school.
The fanatics agree with Mohammed's decree:
"No more queering the kids in the school!
Let our children be free from the LGBT,
Or it's mobs at the gates of the school!"

"It was Adam and Eve, and not Adam and Steve!"
Say the kids to the mob at the school.
To avoid a new bruise, for the teeth they may lose
If they anger the mob at the school.
Fundamentalists hate because Allah's so great,
And insist that their hate be in school.

"It was Adam and Eve, and not Adam and Steve!"
Politicians relay to the school.
"We don't relish a fight or a bomb in the night,
For the sake of the gays at the school!
Fundamentalists vote, as our pollsters all note.
No support for the staff at the school!"

"It was Adam and Eve, and not Adam and Steve!"
Say the mob at the gates of the school.
In the Molotovs' glow, in the flames that they throw,
They see djinn who'll devour the school.
"Let our children be free from the LGBT,
And may Allah reward us for burning the school!"

---------


Over the past months, mobs of homophobic Muslim fundamentalists have gathered outside schools in Birmingham to protest against the No Outsiders program -- which teaches children to respect everyone, regardless of race, sex, gender, sexual orientation etc. The protestors say they don't want kids learning it's okay to be gay, and have even accused teachers of "converting" their children to homosexuality.

And so they swarm at the gates, wave homophobic signs, yell fanatical idiocy into microphones, intimidate school staff. Bands of fundamentalists have also chucked eggs at LGBT people and allies for daring to speak up, and threatened to throw bricks through their windows.

Amid all that hatred and evil, a particular sign grabbed my attention. A niqabi brandished one which read: "Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve!" The slogan's familiar enough -- homophobes in America have been using that one for years. But I hadn't seen it on the streets of Britain before. Maybe I just missed it, or perhaps in the internet age anti-LGBT bigots have started borrowing ideas from one another.

Either way, the opening lines of the above poem popped into my head, and the rest followed.

Gorgon Street Girls

I realise it's somewhat shameful to resurrect this lamentably neglected blog just because I have a book to promote. But hey, shameful self-promotion's what being an indie author's all about.

The book in question: Gorgon Street Girls, a donner-punk sci-fi novella, written by me, illustrated by the superb Cameron Stark ("donner-punk" = cyberpunk, but with more kebabs).

Cameron and I had both been doing some work for Titanomachy Studios, an indie videogame company, and our bosses asked me if I could write a book to promote and flesh out the setting for an upcoming game IP. They described said IP as a blend of cyberpunk and mythology, in which people worship the gods of human history's various polytheistic pantheons (e.g. Athene, Freya, Anubis). Mythology's always fascinated me, and I've enjoyed cyberpunk ever since I played Shadowrun as a kid. Hence the opportunity piqued my interest.

I went through their existing documents and images, and came across a city referred to in passing as dominated by criminality. Nothing else was written about the place, so it seemed like a prime location for me to invent a culture, characters, and technology, and weave a story around them.

The Warriors is one of my favourite movies. I enjoyed the novel as well, but the film captured my imagination far more with its bright and colourful gangs -- each with their own distinct theme and aesthetic. So I figured I'd write a gang story, about teenage girls who rule the neon streets of this cyberpunk city and battle one another as they attempt to carve out their place in the world.

Other gang-related novels and movies likewise added a touch of inspiration, including Brighton Rock and A Clockwork Orange. Those of you who've read or watched the latter might recall Nadsat, the fictional dialect its narrator and the other criminal youths speak in. Playing with language appeals to me, as I suppose it does to most writers. Hence I created my own Nadsat-style dialect for Gorgon Street Girls. It blends British slang with ancient Greek, and throws in several mythology-derived words which seemed to suit a setting where people worship the pagan gods (e.g. instead of "fuck", drekkers -- members of the aforementioned girl-gangs -- say "aph", after Aphrodite).

That's one of the advantages of self / indie publishing: You get to experiment in ways a traditional publisher might not necessarily go for. Would a major publishing house let an unknown author narrate a whole book in a garbled blend of custom slang? I doubt it.

And so, Gorgon Street Girls now exists, for readers to check out and hopefully enjoy. If you give it a read, I'll look forward to hearing what you think of it.

Iambs at Heart, Dactyls at Hand

All authors should dabble in poetry. With metres. And rhyme schemes. Sure, poems which lack either or both those things are perfectly valid as literary works. Yes, metre can be kind of a hassle (insert terror-dactyl pun here). But working within those restrictions will improve your overall writing ability -- even if the poems themselves just end up gathering dust in a drawer or on your hard drive.

Poetry forces you to consider every single word. With prose, we instinctively slip in all sorts of filler. For example, I probably didn't need "single" in the first sentence of this paragraph. Nor did I really need "instinctively" in the second sentence, "probably" in the third sentence, or "really" in this one. Such filler might serve a purpose at times, to create a casual, chatty style. But in other cases the prose would be stronger without it. Unless an editor or reader draws your attention to detrimental filler words or repeated words in your prose, you may not even notice you're putting them in. With poetry, however, the medium forces you to confront them.

When you work with metre, every syllable contributes to the integrity of the line. Your iambs, trochees, or whatever else, won't withstand filler as easily as a paragraph of prose. Each iambic pentameter gives you just ten syllables to work with. You have to pack light and only take what you need.

Poetry also makes you ponder the weight, texture, and flavour of each word / syllable. A sentence in a novel can usually endure a badly chosen word, but it might completely wreck the rhythm and impact of a line of poetry.

So, play with poems, mess with metres, ramble with rhyme schemes. Learn to think about every syllable. That habit will carry back over into your prose.

(If you're completely new to the concept of iambs, dactyls, and other such things, Stephen Fry's The Ode Less Travelled: Unlocking the Poet Within provides a superb introduction.)

Spear-Proof Faces: Origin Myths and Martial Arts

Everyone loves an origin story. Devoted readers of superhero comics might remember dozens or even hundreds of them. Such tales depict how characters got their powers, and explain what motivates them to use these abilities. They come to define the heroes and villains. In cases where a character's origin story is left ambiguous (e.g. the Joker) or unspoken (e.g. Wolverine before Wolverine: Origin came along), that gaping void itself becomes a defining aspect.

People like to know where things come from, why they exist. That inclination lies at the heart of ancient mythology. Myths attempt to show us why certain volcanoes rage, why a goddess bears her name, why snakes infest Libya.

Martial arts have their own origin myths. If you've studied one discipline or another, you've probably come across some of these: Japanese peasants weren't permitted to carry weapons, so they invented karate and battled samurai with only their bodies and farm tools. African slaves in the Americas had to disguise their martial art as a dance, and couldn't punch because their hands were bound. Thus they developed capoeira, which focuses on rhythmic movement and kicks.

One of my favourite martial arts origin myths concerns the genesis of boxing. According to Philostratus (On Gymnastics 9), Spartans didn't wear helmets. Hence they needed to learn how to ward off blows to the head, and toughen up their faces for war. They invented boxing to achieve those things.

This isn't actually true, of course. To begin with, boxing goes back further than the Spartans. It appears on a famous Minoan fresco, for example. And Spartan hoplites wore helmets just like everyone else. When spears jab at your head, it's nice to have a bit of bronze in the way. No amount of punching will make your face spear-proof.

But there may be some truth behind the fiction.

In terms of warding off blows to the head, shuffling, weaving, and other such boxing tactics wouldn't have been particularly practical in standard hoplite combat. Their battles were probably a lot like rugby scrums, but with shields and spears thrown into the mix. However, boxers do develop good head movement and alertness for incoming attacks, and these skills may've been useful -- especially when hoplites fought in less packed situations, such as repelling boarders on a trireme.

And whilst you can't make your skin spear-proof (barring a dip in the Styx), you can train yourself to endure the impact of blows, to keep things together when they rock your skull. A boxer will absorb a punch far better than a random person in the street, and be ready to fight back rather than stagger, panic, or clutch their injury. Demosthenes drew upon this notion when he lambasted his fellow Athenians for their response to Philip of Macedon. He likened it to how an unskilled barbarian behaves in a boxing match:

But you, Athenians, possessing unsurpassed resources—fleet, infantry, cavalry, revenues—have never to this very day employed them aright, and yet you carry on war with Philip exactly as a barbarian boxes. The barbarian, when struck, always clutches the place; hit him on the other side and there go his hands. He neither knows nor cares how to parry a blow or how to watch his adversary. (First Philippic 40)

No hoplite would've wanted to emulate such a barbarian, and fumble around when struck. Boxing training might've prevented that.

Confidence and killer instinct are also valuable attributes for a warrior. If a hoplite believed himself to be a wrecking machine, deadly with his bare hands as well as his weapons, that may've put him in the right mindset for combat. Courage and confidence often mattered more than martial skill in hoplite battles. When hoplites held their places in the line, and kept their shields up, the formation remained strong. But if enough of them broke, so did the shield wall. Then their enemies would slaughter them. If unarmed combat training bolstered their nerve, if it strengthened their bodies and minds as they held the line, it might've proven valuable indeed.

Did the Spartans invent boxing? No. Did it replace helmets? Obviously not. But might hoplites have trained in boxing to improve their performance on the battlefield? Absolutely.

So, while we should always be sceptical of origin stories, it's worth considering what may've inspired them. The origin story of the origin story, as it were.

The Books That Made Us

Yesterday I recommended The Odyssey to a booktuber, since she said she was trying to read more classics. That's nothing unusual. I've recommended both Homeric epics and The Aeneid many times, and I'll continue to do so until death shuts me up. Those three poems provide a great introduction to classics and the roots of western literature. They're also compelling works of fiction, which have spoken to generations of readers across the millennia.

But on this particular occasion, for whatever reason (maybe because I was procrastinating over a piece of writing, and hence looking for an excuse to ramble), I also explained what The Odyssey has meant to me personally. And I realised it's shaped my whole life.

When I was a kid, Tony Robinson narrated Odysseus: The Greatest Hero of Them All on Children's BBC. That version of Odysseus' story captivated me. Humour and horror, heroism and tragedy, came together within the Greek hero's tale. Many years later, I studied the poem itself for A-Level (Richmond Lattimore's translation). Doing so brought back all the memories, all the childhood wonder, and it hooked me once again. I went on to study classics & ancient history at university because of what the poem rekindled in me.

Between the BA, MPhil, and PhD, I devoted a significant chunk of my adult life to that field -- all because The Odyssey put me on the path. And while I was cobbling together my doctoral thesis, I wrote The Monster Hunter's Handbook: The Ultimate Guide to Saving Mankind from Vampires, Zombies, Hellhounds, and Other Mythical Beasts.

Although the book also incorporated material from various other traditions, ancient Greek and Roman mythology made up its core. That book came into being because I'd studied and loved The Odyssey, because Homer's poem had made me passionate about classics and legends as an adult, much as Tony Robinson's adaptation had done for me as a child.

The Odyssey made me an author, something I'd always yearned to be.

And it kept on giving. My PhD and my status as a published author helped me stand out from the competition, and landed me a job at 5th Planet Games -- where I worked for a number of years. That wouldn't have happened without The Odyssey. Furthermore, some of my closest friends are people I met via this job. They only came into my life because of a series of decisions and achievements The Odyssey inspired.

I'd never considered all this before I wrote the email to that booktuber, so it represented quite the epiphany.

I was a practising Quranist Muslim till I apostatised at 35. In theory that should've made the Quran the most important book in my life. After all, to a Muslim, the Quran's the only divine book in the universe. For those who don't know, in Islamic theology the Quran isn't just divinely inspired. Muslims believe every word is God's direct and literal speech, that the angel Gabriel conveyed it from heaven to Earth, and supposedly relayed it to Mohammed.

And yet the Quran never had nearly as much meaningful impact on me as The Odyssey. Sure, I avoided pork because of its edicts (something I remedied as soon as I left the faith), and a vegetarian, vegan, or pig would probably consider that a good thing. But the book didn't capture my imagination. It didn't enthral or inspire me. Perhaps that's because the Quran is, as a piece of literature, rather dull. Whilst the Bible includes a lot of engaging material, stories and chronicles of legendary events, the Quran's just a collection of Mohammed's sermons. There's very little in the way of actual storytelling.

Thus The Odyssey made me, not the Quran.

Which book made you?

Fists of Stone and Tropes

Like a lot of kids who grew up during the '80s and '90s, I went through a martial arts / ninja phase (which I never entirely grew out of). I took some classes, devoured instructional books and videos, and messed around with weapons. I also watched a lot of martial arts movies. So, when I read the story of Glaucus of Carystus as a postgraduate researching material for my MPhil thesis, his tale resonated with me.

According to Pausanias (Descriptions of Greece 6.10.1ff), Glaucus earned his living by working on a farm, far removed from the world of those heroes who travelled the land winning prizes and glory at the various athletics festivals. One day, as he ploughed a field, the ploughshare came loose and fell out. Rather than search for a hammer, and waste valuable ploughing time, Glaucus decided to just smash it back into place with his fist.

His father witnessed this feat and was suitably impressed. Thus he took his son to Olympia, where he entered Glaucus into the boxing tournament at the Olympic Games. A questionable act of parenting. Glaucus didn't know how to box, and his opponents' fists knocked him left and right. But when Glaucus hit back, he hit hard. His punching power bludgeoned a path all the way to the finals.

Glaucus' last adversary battered him. Punch after punch smashed the farmer's face, till he tottered on the brink of unconsciousness. Then Glaucus' father yelled: "Son, the plough punch!"

Glaucus' eyes glinted. His fist clenched. He lashed out with the same blow he'd used to fix the plough, and his opponent crumpled.

The farmer from Carystus went on to learn boxing, and supplemented his hard-hitting style with skill and science. He became the best pugilist of his age, and won tournament after tournament.

As I say, this tale struck me when I read it. It may be the original Rocky story -- the chronicle of a no-hope boxer with a dream and a hard punch, who somehow manages to triumph over his more skilled enemy (yeah, okay, I know Rocky didn't beat Apollo Creed until the second movie). Other tropes stand out too. There's the coach / master who yells out the words which inspire the hero when things seem darkest. And there's the special move.

How many times have we seen a martial arts movie in which the protagonist learns a particular technique, then uses it to win at the very end? The crane kick from The Karate Kid might be the most famous example.

For me, one of the best things about studying classics and ancient history was learning there's nothing new under the sun, and that -- when they're broken down into their core elements -- we love to tell the same stories as the ancients.

It seems appropriate to leave you with fitting "end credits" music, so here's the Robotanists' cover of You're the Best . (I came across this version by chance, and later learned that their lead singer is the cousin of the friend who did the cover art for Clara Mandrake's Monster. Small world.)