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Fayadh escaped the death sentence. The news came in early February: his sentence was commuted to eight years jail and 800 lashes.
Ashraf Fayadh, a 36-year-old poet, is an arts curator who published a collection of poems titled Instructions Within and was arrested by Syariah police in 2013. The Saudi Arabian judge thought him an apostate. He was sentenced to death by beheading or hanging.
There is a story about a Bedouin living far from Damascus, in the interior of Syria, who was disappointed when he rode a train for the first time. "I'm not satisfied," he complained to his friend. "The ticket was expensive, but the journey ended too quickly."
This might sound stupidlike other stories city people make up to poke fun at country peoplebut actually the Bedouin makes modern people aware: reaching someplace 'quickly', which to most of us is the formula of achievement in our times, might not equate the value of experience. Speed produces results but at the same time wards off something else.
It is 2016. At 75, my life lying before me is far less than the life I've lived. This is the age when people are usually uneasy with the present, because in the 21st century the present is increasingly whipped along by the future. The technology surrounding us is not there for right now: fast trains, solar energy cars, hologram communication... life seems to be moving without pausing in the present.
But nostalgia is there in the cracks.
If there is one icon that marks our times, it is the hand phone. The Indonesian word for it is perfect: 'telepon genggam' or 'clutched phone'. We can clutch it any time, anywhere, but it, too, can hold us in its clutches any time, anywhere. Whenever someone sits alone in a corner, or together with a friend in a caf, on a crowded bus or attends a village meeting, out comes the HP from the pocket, eyes scan the messages on the narrow screen, and attention is momentarily diverted. More often than not, conversation stops.
These days, the first thing we see in the morning when we wake up, even before turning on the light, is not the newspaper, not the radio, not the TV. It is the hand phone: the Samsung, Nokia, Motorola...
A militant is someone who makes himself vanish in order to become something effective, terrifying, overwhelming. Saaman, the character in Pramoedya's novel Keluarga Gerilya (The Guerilla Family), is at age 23 already a guerilla leader in Jakarta then occupied by Dutch forces, and he plans a series of killingsincluding that of his own stepfather who is on the other side. Saaman is captured. But he knows he has to die, just as he has to kill. He is a militant.
Some say that the term 'militant' is from ancient Latin, meaning 'mile-goers'. It probably refers to fortitude, including the bearing of pain and exhaustion, voluntarily, when moving towards something whose meaning is greater than oneself.
What can we do with the past, when we stand stunned in the ruins of Hatra?
Just a few years ago in the desert between the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers, in the midst of a flat brownish dried up river basin about 300 kilometers from Baghdad, the ruins of the ancient town of Hadra still lay to the north. The ruins of the city walls rose high. Archaeologists said that the brick wallwhich protected life 2,200 years agowas a kind of circular fortress two kilometers in diameter. It was also an astonishing feat of architecture: if you walked around it you found four gates, eleven bastions, 28 large towers and 160 small towers.
Hatred is strength. Anger is force. Darth Vader understood this. And probably so, too, those who have formulated political words and acts since the 20th century: from Hitler to Donald Trump, from Stalin to IS, from the Ku Klux Klan to Pol Pot, from the Red Guards to the Islamic Defenders Front. They incite anger, they spread hatred, and then they turn both of them into 'ideology' and from then on who knows how many victories are celebrated and how many millions of bodies pile up.
Anger, hatred, violencethey differ from one another and do not always have a relationship of cause and effect. Yet how often we see the three fused, both in history and in imagination.
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