And So Taqx at Sundance Ends

Crossposted from Taqx at Sundance. Read the entire adventure of Taz’s personal experience there – for full effect, start at the start.

It was my last day at Sundance, and the last screening of The Taqwacores. The bands had all left, most of cast had left, the punk rock house was clean again, and really just a condo again. I wore my bootleg praying man shirt, and walked with Dominic Rains, who wore his Jehangir green laced boots, and Bobby Naderi to the theater.

I sat by myself in the second row in a packed theater. Unlike the premier, I wasn’t surrounded by friends or the Taqwacore family. It was just me, up close and personal with the big screen.

I didn’t think I’d get emotional, but I did. I choked up four times in the movie, tears constantly brimming my eyes. Unlike the first time that I watched the movie, this time I was actually watching invested in the storyline of the movie. The first time I watched the movie I was trying to see if my favorite lines, or scenes from the book had made the cut; I was trying to catch inside jokes and overwhelmed by all the real life references to the real life bands. At the premiere I was surrounded by the laughter and comfort of friends. This time I watched it, I watched it for simply what it was, the story of Muslim punk kids struggling to find their place.

The movie opened with Basim’s voice singing Shahria Law in the opening credit, and took us into a journey of life as a Taqwacore. When Jehangir recited the shahadah on the rooftop of the punk house in response to Umar’s challenge, it brought tears to my eyes, reminding me of how as a Muslim, I too have had my faith questioned by other Muslims. When Fasiq was on the rooftop talking about how the bands had called from a gas station and were on their way to the punk house, I too was reminded of that giddy anticipation feeling whenever a taqwacore band was near. When Jehangir gave his khuthbah at jummah prayer at the punk house with that gonzo kind of fear and love, I felt it, cuz at some point in my life, I had felt it too. When Rabeya took her stand at the end of the movie, I clapped because it was metaphorically a stand that as women we were constantly struggling to be heard on. The movie was gritty, punk and raw and full of energy mixed with somber complexity. It felt like what I had pictured in my head. It felt like what I feel as a Taqwacore in real life.

This time I watched it, I appreciated it for what it was – the complex story of what it meant to be an American Muslim in a fantastical tale that had somehow become wrapped up in reality.

The Niche

Heavens they say are the dwelling place

Of light that pours out the merciful

Breath in the hour of “Allah is the

Light of the Heavens and the Earth” at

That moment in the presence, the

Her cheek calling out to the Taqwacores.

The meaning Unity glimpsed at the

Turning curls of nonexistence, making

It known that eternal life is found in

The blackness of those curls,

The curls are the mysteries containing

The Seven verses full of luster and

Hidden pearls,

They are hidden because in the down of

Her thousand ways you will find that,

“The similitude of His light is as if there

Were a niche” there, in meadows

Leading to those multitudes ways they

Call Tawhid, you will find them,

Taqwacores, at play with “O ornament

Of my soul, you are the waters that

Those Seven verses reveal containing the

Ocean full of song and the throne of

Lovers in the mansions of presence, full

Of praise from the laughter of “and

Within it a lamp” that those play

Hands hold to reveal the hidden

Treasure that pre-existence bore out

To pre-eternity to be foretold by non-

Existence at the time when the turning

Gaze says “I am the beauty of your

Looking at the crosswalk where ‘the

Lamp encloses in a glass,’”

As the reflecting symbol of the age of

Tawhid found at the panting house

Whose breathless adoring is found in

“The glass as it were a glittering star.”

This is that star that Taqwacore wore

At the standing posture of Quama

When the ink of elementary nature

Flows out to meet the tablet of

Becoming more in the storehouse hidden

Joy where Taqwacores take the posture

Of Ruku making it know the Name

Which is “lit from a blessed tree” that

Is the mother who brought forth the

Fruits of her labor in the roaring light

Of intoxicated lovers born from the

Bewitching beauty that inner

Knowledge brings from an olive tree,

“Neither of the East or of the West”

But that in the posture of Sajdah where

The Seven verses come to witness

From the place of no-where to the act

Of everywhere, where the hand that

Wrote brought the staff of “Whose oil

Is nigh luminous” bringing Alif, Dal, and

Mim showing that in the fire of

Purifying body and soul, Taqwacore is

Adam, moving hearts to sing to

The two steps dance with the friend

Where need containing alloy finds gold

Even “Though no fire touches it.” And

There you will find the glorifying

Breath with the Alif connecting Waw

With Ya to say

It is “Light upon light” that

Taqwacores signal as if from the

Flame, fumed by “Allah guides to his

Light whom he will” to the tune of

La ilaha illa Llah; Muhammadun

Rasulu Llah, not forsaking the Bismillah

Ir-Rahman ir-Rahim in the field house

Of “And Allah strikes similitude for

Men, and Allah has knowledge of

Everything.”

The Nest

The Nest

Nested in the abode of never-ending

happiness, in the resting place of

coming to the place of no existence,

They had no form.

Beginning from end to start, they are

the limitless ending mirage,

calling out from a place of nowhere.

Some have called them infidels, others

have called them the faithful, but if

you as me, I will say they are the

Taqwacores.

You will not find them in a feverishly

wondering state of without glory of

divine wake moving in their veins from

heart to heart, becoming heedlessly

praying and footlessly singing the

praising Allahu arkbar.

Look among them there, you will find

no good or evil, in fact, there is no

pronouncement from them that carries

this molten plastic waste, no, instead,

they are drunk with the fruitless

yearning of Renunciation’s drinking

cup, for the naming of the name

they call out to the Self naming Self.

So cast away the staring eyes that

stubborn heart calls you to bare at the

crossroad of saving grace.  I am found

dumb struck at the sight of this

tradition obliterating saving tradition.

If this is your state, close your eyes

and open them again, you find them

beyond the tradition of traditions.

You can call them castaways, what

does it matter?  From their lips there

are no names that could be found to

come from the mirage of their

existence worthy of saying

Taqwacore.