Memories of Islam
by Seneca III
Memory is a strange thing: it is always there, but so often hidden in plain sight that it exists only as a faint background buzz. Apart from dramatic or highly emotional moments, it does not on the whole tend to be conjunctive. Thus, insights into the connections between several apparently disparate events or moments on the winds of time are rare — at least in my case… others may have a better grip on the synapses in their neural network.
Sometimes, however, something, either subliminally or consciously, triggers a cascade of disjointed memories that fall into place for no reason at all as if in a completed jigsaw puzzle, and present a cohesive picture rather than a collection of random pieces.
This happened to me recently for reasons I cannot fathom as one evening I was just having a quiet pint and mulling over a report on the more recent Muslim atrocities that I had read about that day. Suddenly, it was if several doors into my memory rooms all opened at once, and from their dusty corners fragments came tumbling out to self-assemble into a jigsaw. That completed jigsaw illustrated an obvious reality that had escaped me on the ground down all my days in the Middle East and the Indian sub-continent — on the whole Muslims lack a sense of humour as we in the West understand and practise it.
Humor, of course, has many faces, some heartwarming and some downright cruel, and I found that what little humour Muslims display in their daily lives tends strongly toward the latter. The word ‘dour’ doesn’t even begin to describe them; it is if they view their whole existence through a grey lens, wallowing in a sea of ideological morbidity with only thoughts of savagery and brutality to cling onto whist one hand holds high a book of legends and the other an unsheathed scimitar. Their gender slaves are little different, and their offspring are raised likewise.
They will never integrate with us in the West, and a physical relocation back to whatever failed homeland they or their immediate ancestors came from is the only solution. Whatever that takes to accomplish.
— Seneca III, in a dark and foggy Middle England but a few days away from the winter solstice in this year 2019.
For links to previous essays by Seneca III, see the Seneca III Archives.