Archive Sections: letters | music | index | features | photos | arts/lit | satire Find Iranian singles today!

Taste of hatred
I start rotting in a world without soul, surrounded by women in black chador with eyes that never sees, with a heart that never feels, with a brain that never wonders

Azarin A. Sadegh
April 24, 2007

Raising my hand, still keeping the grape in between my fingers, looking at the people around me at the table.

I raise my hand, pushing a little bit harder, hearing the sound of smashing of something, maybe a grape.

The woman sitting in front of me, wearing a black chador with soulless eyes, looking at me, reflecting back my disgust by watching her creepy face. She is absorbed by her food, devouring the meat, chewing with force the rough rotten piece of dead animal, blood pouring by the side of her mouth. While breathing, the "IB-Islamic Bitch" looks at my guilty hair, with despise. I return her the favor by staring at her filthy black chador. Her hands, bloody, cutting the meat, her mouth full of potential vomit, swallows the decaying  pieces, with pleasure.

"IB" is finished with the food, triumphant.

And I feel lost, losing the battle to a nonsense feeling of hatred, blowing me apart, throwing far my empathy for humanity, peace or forgiveness.

My hands betraying me by letting go of the grape, numb by this overwhelming feeling of failure.  Hatred, like a tropical storm, pouring hard, thundering on my numb flesh. I am chewed. I am swallowed. I start rotting in a world without soul, surrounded by women in black chador with eyes that never see, with a heart that never feels, with a brain that never wonders. I feel blown away by this unbelievably strange sensation of emptiness. I am empty of kindness. My cheek feels hot and nobody has slapped me ... not yet. The juice dripping off my fingers.

I raise my hands, my empty hand, trying to find something to hold my heart inside, unfolding the hatred, reaching to the other side of this unbearable feeling of failure, ripping off scarves, tearing apart the blue darkness of hopeless beliefs in a humanity that has been chewed, munched, decomposed since god appeared upon them. A human-eating god contemplating the emptiness of his kingdom. A god, killing the ones who didn‚t believe, and stoned the ones who loved. A god with no soul, defining justice with the eyes of the blind.

I raise my hand, putting my finger on my empty mouth, pressing hard, to silent my pain inside, bloody as the dead meat. To silent my outrage over cruelty of absolute. To silent my sighs at the sound of crashing of this wall keeping dreams andillusions.

I raise my hand, pressing my mouth, feeling hatred sucking my heart, vanishing my hopes, sitting in front of me looking like a shadow, dark. Smashing humanity with its teeth of pretentious wisdom, with forced lies telling stories of a heaven where little girls shall be raped forever and free men will be burned for the sake of eternity.

I raise my hand, questioning my being, defying nothingness, touching the scare of an old wound still bleeding, wondering if any loss can still justify the depth of absurdity of my hatred, this sharp hatred of sickening women with black chador chopping my body, devouring my soul, ...

I turn my head for not looking at this sight. Not looking at this image representing my endless failure, endless hatred, endless anger, ... I bring down my hand, I touch the table and my fingers, burned, feels the hot liquid in my bowl. I close my teary eyes to cut this exact moment, to rub it off any memories, to put it back to the flow of forgotten truths at the backyard of my imaginary godless heaven. Comment

For letters section
Azarin A. Sadegh

* Advertising
* Support
* Editorial policy
* Write for
* Reproduction

Azarin A. Sadegh



The Persian Gulf
A Political and Economic History of Five Port Cities 1500-1730
by Willem Floor

Copyright 1995-2013, Iranian LLC.   |    User Agreement and Privacy Policy   |    Rights and Permissions