Sad, eerie world we never saw com­ing

Cape Argus - - METRO - EBRAHIM ESSA | Dur­ban CLLR YAGYAH ADAMS Congress | Cape Mus­lim

CIN­E­MAS house the ghosts of movies that are con­tin­u­ously run­ning from mid­night to morn­ing. Show­ing to a house-full au­di­ence of vir­tual on­line view­ers, spooky films like Phan­tom of the Opera, Drac­ula and Franken­stein.

There is no hu­man op­er­a­tor in the pro­jec­tion room yet the ma­chines run end­lessly. The show must go on.

Or­gan mu­sic haunt­ingly per­vades the air in the foyer dur­ing in­ter­val. Pop­corn ma­chines churn but­tery, golden and white puffs end­lessly to in­vis­i­ble cus­tomers. The toi­lets have a queue of ex­oskele­tons wait­ing their turn. There is no sign of an usher or a man­ager. But things move in an or­derly man­ner, ex­cept some who rush af­ter de­lays in the toi­let.

The cur­tains at the door close au­to­mat­i­cally af­ter in­ter­val. No­body leaves the the­atre at the end of the show. Shows are con­tin­u­ous. There is a change of movies ev­ery Fri­day but the theme of the movies re­main. Old silent movies us­ing live mu­sic in a vir­tual orches­tra pit come alive some weeks. Fa­mil­iar faces of ac­tors like fa­bled Lon Chaney ap­pear again and again, in sound and silent ver­sions of The Hunch­back of Notre Dame, The Phan­tom of the Opera...

Chil­dren of vir­tual au­di­ence want­ing to visit the toi­let amid a show in­sist on par­ents ac­com­pa­ny­ing them, es­pe­cially while watch­ing vir­tual Jack Ni­chol­son en­coun­ter­ing his own ter­ri­fy­ing ghosts in the cor­ri­dors of The Shin­ing Ho­tel.

Such is a sam­ple of the sad state of a life we all took as un­change­able and di­vinely de­signed by heaven.

The same melan­choly scenes are most prob­a­bly en­acted on the silent floors of fac­to­ries that once did not per­mit staff with­out ear­muffs. Mas­sive ma­chin­ery con­tinue work­ing with­out move­ment, mon­i­tored by op­er­a­tors from the Phan­tom Zone, pro­duc­ing noth­ing for no­body. Ar­chi­tects and con­struc­tion en­gi­neers sit at the grave, the sites of what were in­tended for gi­ant sky­scrapers, hands in prayer, eyes to­wards the sky...

Mil­lions of fam­i­lies at home, des­ti­tute, wait­ing for manna from some­where.

Su­per aliens ap­pointed by up­stairs, adorn­ing strange pro­tec­tive gear con­tinue their heroic work in med­i­cal lab­o­ra­to­ries, work­ing in a nether world, like zom­bies day and night to try to re­turn some hu­mans, safely, back to what was termed Earth.

The ma­jor­ity of this real world – the an­i­mals in hu­man form and black, brown or white – limp around, dazed, con­fused. Un­con­scious of any new re­al­ity. For them, like al­ways be­fore, this is just another one. world ac­knowl­edged the sa­cred day and lo­ca­tion of Arafat in Saudi Ara­bia. The plain of Arafat was the lo­ca­tion where the Cre­ator al­lowed Adam and Eve to meet af­ter they were ejected from Heaven and left to wan­der the earth. It is where pil­grims have their sins for­given. It is where Muham­mad gave his last ser­mon. Arafat rep­re­sents a sa­cred site of di­vine love.

Those who look be­yond eth­nic­ity, cul­ture and dogma etc can ex­pe­ri­ence di­vine love. The Cre­ator is mer­ci­ful and com­pas­sion­ate and does not dis­crim­i­nate on the ba­sis of eth­nic­ity, cul­ture and dogma.

The Cre­ator cre­ated hu­mans in a nat­u­ral state of good­ness. We are not born with anger and hate.

We need to see each other through heaven’s eyes to un­der­stand our true pur­pose. In the be­gin­ning as in the end, love mat­ters. Hu­man his­tory con­sis­tently re­jects ha­tred and cel­e­brates tales of love.

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