The tide was in when the Ayesha Pilgrimage marched down an alley beside the Holiday Inn, whose windows were full of the mistresses of film stars using their new Polaroid cameras, - when the pilgrims felt the city's asphalt turn gritty and soften into sand, - when they found themselves walking through a thick mulch of rotting coconuts abandoned cigarette packets pony turds non-degradable bottles fruit peelings jellyfish and paper, - on to the mid-brown sand overhung by high leaning cocopalms and the balconies of luxury sea-view apartment blocks, - past the teams of young men whose muscles were so well-honed that they looked like deformities, and who were performing gymnastic contortions of all sorts, in unison, like a murderous army of ballet dancers, - and through the beachcombers, club-men and families who had come to take the air or make business contacts or scavenge a living from the sand, - and gazed, for the first time in their lives, upon the Arabian Sea.
By the time they saw the sea they were a lame, tottering rheumy, feverish, red-eyed bunch, and Mizra Saeed wondered how many of them would manage the final few yards to the water's edge.
The butterflies were with them, high over their heads...
It was, on the face of it, surprising that after all the attention the march had received the crowd at the beach was no better than moderate; but the authoritities had taken many precautions, closing roads, diverting traffic; so there were perhaps two hundred gawpers on the beach. Nothing to worry about.
What was strange was that the spectators did not see the butterflies, or what they did next. But Mirza Saeed clearly observed the great glowing cloud fly out over the sea; pause; hover; and form itself into the shape of a colossal being, a radiant giant constructed wholly of tiny beating wings, stretching from horizon to horizon, filling the sky...
Ayesha began to walk towards the water...
Once Ayesha entered the water the villagers began to run. Those who could not leapt upon the backs of those who could. Holding their babies, the mothers of Titlipur rushed into the sea; grandsons bore their grandmothers on their shoulders and rushed into the waves. Within minutes the entire village was in the water, splashing about, falling over, getting up, moving steadily forwards, towards the horizon, never looking back to shore. Mirza Saeed was in the water, too. 'Come back,' he beseeched his wife. 'Nothing is happening; come back.'
...
'Stop them,' Mirza Saeed panted, pointing out to the sea.
'Are they miscreants?' the policeman asked.
'They are going to die,' Saeed replied.
It was too late. The villagers, whose heads could be seen bobbing about in the distance, had reached the edge of the underwater shelf. Almost all together, making no visible attempt to save themselves, they dropped beneath the water's surface. In moments, everyone of the Ayesha Pilgrims had sunk out of sight.
None of them reappeared. Not a single gasping head or thrashing arm...
Human beings in danger of drowning struggle against the water. It is against human nature simply to walk forwards meekly until the sea swallows you up. But Ayesha, Mishal Akhtar and the villagers of Titlipur subsided below sea-level; and were never seen again.
Salman Rushdie, "The Satanic Verses" pp.500-503, The Consortium, Inc. 1992
So does Ayesha's faith run us under a bus, or does Ayesha's faith bring us to Mecca. Of which faith do we speak, and which end do we want.
In a book full of paroxysm and paradox, Rushdie relates this beautiful story; a story that beauty conquers death; a story that resolve for the good, above all religious posture and political machination, lets us march to death without fear and with the dignity of our greater humanity.
It is a perfect match with the discussion earlier in the book of the Brixton riots, in which the the images cast by the powerful were taken up by the rioters to demonstrate that image is not truth - it is merely the illusion offered by the contact lenses gifted us by power.
I leave this site tonight with this question: Will you refuse the faith of power, the faith of nationalism, the faith of ethnic superiority, the faith of 'the market', the faith distilled within you by forces beyond your control? Will you continue to reiterate it?
Will you walk into the sea blinded by that faith, arms flailing, only understanding at the end; or will you walk into the sea with dignity, knowing that what you've done, in whatever small way, was done for us as a species, as equals before ourselves?