We, the People

A Literary Anthology
Issue 347, May 2999

No347
 Letter from the Editor:

Dear Reader,
We have curated a selection of diverse writing and responses to an
ancient concept, state of being and hive-mind ingrained into the traditions
of our ancestors. As you know, We, the People, is dedicated to studying our
past and looking to potentially a future enriched by our studies of history.

This issue’s theme is Religion. A few centuries ago, that word would
not have been allowed to appear anywhere on any medium here in the New
Republic. We live in a new age now. A world where we can say the word,
Jesus, like the Christians. Where we can say Muhammed, like the
Muslims! We will no longer hide from our past. I no longer have to hide
that I love Jesus Christ Superstar! We will live to see civilization rise above
it. Our inspired, turn-of-the-millennium anthology-turned-scripture.

Enjoy this freedom.

Editor-in-chief,
We, The People
Nole Ksum
 I

**P’rf’ction**
There is something dreadfully holy about your moments. The ones
that you give me, at witching hour, and falling to sleep takes all of my
power. So there I lie, as the transparent box of my consciousness is filled
with a timeless, dimensionless substance, its mechanics are quite fluid, and
in that space, I am tangent. Once again, the sole figure against Man’s land. I
don’t feel weightless, not quite. I don’t feel a force against which to use my
might. I am swimming through time, my memories all metered and in two-
fold rhyme. Dreams, a lulling coffin.
It’s perfect.
Then, you sometimes overfill the box and there are memories there
that are not mine. They frighten and fight me, taking hostage of my mind.
On my lids there is a shadowy observatory. On it, I see the face of
someone else’s lost beloved. I stay there, calmly possessed. It’s been years
since the last summoning. So I lie as the shadowy apparition forces the
back of my head into my pillow and begs for me to feel its sorrow. Never
mind that this ghost and its lover never lived, it still chooses me to haunt.
I’ve always wanted it.
The kind of strangeness that makes the silent mysterious and the
old wise. That makes the stranger on the subway have glowing eyes that
haunt as they rise and make you wonder: Could it be Jesus??
But even you’ve grown tired of my spiritual ramblings, my useless
points and pontifications. Thoughts that could go on and on into twilight,
along with other things, uninvited.
So you suspend me, in that timeless, dimensionless fluid.
I suspend apparitions across my eyes.
And I feel your presence, a lulling coffin.

-A Believer
 II

I LOVE YOU, JESUS

I LOVE YOU, JESUS
I LOVE YOU, JESUS
I LOVE YOU, JESUS
I LOVE YOU, JESUS
I LOVE YOU, JESUS
I LOVE YOU, JESUS
I LOVE YOU, JESUS
I LOVE YOU, JESUS
I LOVE YOU, JESUS
I LOVE YOU, JESUS
I LOVE YOU, JESUS
I LOVE YOU, JESUS
I LOVE YOU, JESUS
I LOVE YOU, JESUS
I LOVE YOU, JESUS
I LOVE YOU, JESUS
I LOVE YOU, JESUS
I LOVE YOU, JESUS
I LOVE YOU, JESUS
I LOVE YOU, JESUS
I LOVE YOU, JESUS
I LOVE YOU, JESUS
I LOVE YOU, JESUS
I LOVE YOU, JESUS
I LOVE YOU, JESUS
I LOVE YOU, JESUS
I LOVE YOU, JESUS
I LOVE YOU, JESUS
I LOVE YOU, JESUS
I LOVE YOU, JESUS
I LOVE YOU, JESUS
I LOVE YOU, JESUS
I LOVE YOU, JESUS
I LOVE YOU, JESUS
I LOVE YOU, JESUS
I LOVE YOU, JESUS
I LOVE YOU, JESUS
I LOVE YOU, JESUS
I LOVE YOU, JESUS
I LOVE YOU, JESUS
-Ann-Beth Schuyler
 III

A Story They Would Tell

This is the one got all the children to quiet down, sit in a circle and listen.
To listen to the story and started Bismillah and ended Alhamdulllilah.

If you wanted to hear the story you had to wait. Wait, until everyone’s
eaten, happy and full. Wait, until all the tired Tantas and Tontos are in a
jovial mood. Wait, until after all the neighbors have been visited and
presented with some of the day’s best food. Wait! Until your sleepy baby
cousin went home for the night and, of course, he won’t go without a fight.

“Papa, why do we celebrate Tabaski?” A brave little girl a quarter of her

Papa’s height would ask.
Papa, gentle giant, his eyes liked to twinkle behind his glasses. You’d think
tiny stars from the sky had made their home in his irises. His eyes would
twinkle for a bit longer, deep in thought, as if he was pulling the story from
deep within his own memories. Then he’d smile, a quiet, intelligent smile,
the type of smile only a Papa could make.

“Now, “ he’d say, “listen well and quietly.” The stars in his eyes seemed to
call out to all the other children and, suddenly, a circle of tiny bodies would
form around him.

And he’d begin.

Bismillah.
Now, this was a long, long time ago. So there was a prophet, his name was
Ibrahim. Christians call him Abraham.
“Papa, isn’t that your name!” a little boy barely six years old would yell,
seeming to forget that he was asking a question.

Papa never seemed to get angry he’d just smile, as if hiding a secret. Then
he continued, leaving the little boy wondering if maybe, just maybe, by
some otherworldly magic, if the smiling giant if front of him was the same
Ibrahim of his story.

He was one of the very first prophets and a very good man, you know, he
loved Allah very much. In that time there were no Muslims yet. Islam came
with the last Prophet, Muhammad, sallalahu aleyhi wasallam, peace be
upon him. But Allah, you know, has always been here and will always be
here.
 So Ibrahim, he loved Allah and had proven that he would do anything for
him.

At this statement, Papa would put his hand over his heart and from the
look in his eyes you wouldn’t think of him as anyone different but the very
same Ibrahim of his story. Then, suddenly, his eyes became quite grave to
match the tone of his voice.

One night, Ibrahim received a vision from Allah. It was like a nightmare,
really. He had received a frightening message from Allah asking him to
sacrifice his beloved son, Ismail.
This revelation elicited shocked squeals from the young audience.
At this reaction, Papa would laugh a rumbling kind of laugh.

And Ibrahim was even more shocked then you all are.
And once he awakened from the vision he’s confused, saying “What could
this mean? Could this be the work of Shaytan?” But then he continued to
receive the vision, day after day, night after night. He then knew that it
was not the Devil, Shaytan, but actually the true word of Allah. But
Ibrahim, despite his fear, knew that nothing Allah did was without reason.

“What about Ismail?!” One child would start.

“Yeah, was Ismail scared?” Another might ask with a quivering lip.

Maybe at first but Ismail was an extraordinary child, and he too was a
great prophet. He wasn’t scared because he knew both the urgency of
Allah’s word and the strength of his father’s love. Now, this is the best part,
listen.

Then the two travelled to a mountaintop where Ismail was then tied to
something like an altar. Ibrahim takes out his knife and, of course, he can’t
bear to look. This is his own son we’re talking about. But, he knows what he
must do. He says, “Bismillah,” “in the name god,” and moves his hand
towards his son’s chest. And when Ibrahim opens his eyes, they’re full of
tears; I mean of course they are, he’s thinking that he’s struck his own son
with the knife!
Now, imagine his surprise when he finds a lamb on the altar and Ismail
standing next to him safe and sound.

Of course he’s very happy to see Ismail unharmed, but Ibrahim is filled
with fear, thinking that he had somehow disobeyed Allah. But then, a voice
comes down to him the sky, telling him not worry. The voice seemed to fill
the air and it assured Ibrahim and Ismail that they had passed a very
difficult test and proven their faith to Allah.
And so, every year, Muslims around the world celebrate the faith shown by
Ibrahim and Ismail by sacrificing a lamb. On this day, we share all that we
can with our neighbors and those in need. On this day, we ask Allah for our
forgiveness. On this day, we reflect on our past mistakes and attempt to be
as strong as Ibrahim in our faith, and of course, we are not prophets so we
do the best we can.

And most importantly, on this day we appreciate our children and give
them gifts and remind them to be good Muslims.

Alhamdulllilah.

- A M*slim
 IV

Ibrahim, pious man,

Sacrifices his son to prove his own faith.
Or so it goes.
Ibrahim, gentle soul, with shaking hands,
And with a clear conscious raises a knife at his own son.

Ibrahim, violent man, yet, still sage and good.

Every narrative is a diverging path of thought,

For every plot twist and turn there is another.
For every person who sees His violence,
There is another who will praise His mercifulness.
For every Muslim who says Allahu Akbar,
There is a Christian who will say Hallelujah.
For every person struck by fear of terrorists,
There is another to tell you Islam is a religion of peace.

What does one do when faced with such a world?

A world where to every thought, opinion and idea
There is a naysayer.

In an ideal world, people are more like trees.

Unafraid to grow, to branch out from previous persuasions,
Entering new twigs of thought.
Maybe not actually holding those same exact thoughts at the root.
But still allowing oneself to hold the ideas of another to the same height as
your own.

-Thierno Ibrahim
 V

“No,” I said.
“That is not my bed.”
He said, “Why say ‘not my’ if it is so?”
Please take the time
To fake the line
We all know isn’t true
It hurts everyone when you don’t
Care
And stop to
Stare
“No, that is not my bed,” she says
“You must believe what I said?”
Silence must mean no
“So untrusting, I could not have bought it
And it can’t be bought.”
“Once again,” he says, “Why use ‘not my’?”
“Do you sleep in the bed?”
“Where would a body sleep?”
“Then, it is yours.”
“But my heart lies not with my body as I rest!”
Accusations of unfaithfulness from time to time again.

-Mary Magdal
 VI

THE BOOK

When you were small, all you could think about was words. Against the
page, an inky cradle in which you snuggled. The letters moved on the page
and they moved you. Sometimes, they would push too far and suddenly you
dangled strangely from the edge of the world and Maman is screaming at
you, trying to cut you a lifeline. You don’t want to be saved. And your
spindly fingers claw at the last tangent of Man’s land against the world, but
it feels just like paper and the grime and the dirt seep through skin and
callus and crack you. You beg them to choose someone else to possess. But
in your other hand is the book, worn about the edges. Maman says that the
only book you have time to worry about is the one that is written for your
goodness. You think it’s written to spite your badness, not despite it. She
says to look, to pay attention, she is trying to save you. You look to your
left and to your right. No one is sitting on your shoulders. No one is writing
about you. There’s nothing left to read.

-A Bookworm
 VII

GOD

Gone
Off to
Do Good

Just
Evil
Sees
Under
Skin

Must
U
Hate
All
My
Manners
And
Deeds

-Evading Justice
 VIII

I’ve heard that you have found a ‘lovely’ song.

The children of this tune,
Will fill the dunes with revolution.
To say the child is mild I hear a lie,
The havoc it will wreak is unseen now
But will be heard through the many voices it now owns.
I say, to believe I’d ever be wrong?
The bold marker will ever stand alone.
And for what? The truth?
The light, fearful marks of the weak pencils stand behind him.
But that one song will be shared by all.
A shared song is a weapon.
I’d rather not fall to the hands of those empowered by a shepherd.

-A Shepherd

IX
 Art*mis

She looks to her for advice to

Kindly take her lives
Down the path without strife
The things she didn’t think through
Allow her to only blame
The one who cared for her without shame.
“This is not gratitude, how like you.
I told you to look to the stars.
Please don’t aim that far.-
You took it as a challenge
Our word was too misunderstood-
Too far, unable to be salvaged.”
She told you to ask the all knowing stars
Because they have seen things that she thinks
Are not- can not- be
She’s quite young and there is much she does not know
“Even as I carry millions of years on my back
We have not the knowledge you ask.
There, here I am undone
A mortal like you.
Yours Truly,
The Sun”

-Heretic

X
Rapture
You’ve been judged and been found wanting.
Of course, you’ve expected this.
You were too broken, a faulty wiring.
Of course, you’ve expected this.
You have failed to serve, shameless.
Of course, you’ve expected this.
you’ve been found wanting.
you’ll never roll in the sea.

-Anon Believer