I bear the torment of your sadness In the embrace of my sleep May it transform into Glad tidings For the days of your people This exploration is To find your throne Which has disappeared From our hearts
For my love to you King
It was undeniable that he acted like a king. All his commands were to be obeyed, although he never asked for it directly, he hurt others and disrupted the peace in our family. He knew how to toy around with the opinions and feelings of others. He was not stupid, but smart and cunning.
And here I was bowing to him again. This was not the first time. I had come to pay homage to him on numerous occasions. That day was no different.
I waited for the van at Hougang interchange. It would be sent by the government to take guests to the ‘palace’, just as in the past horse carriages were sent to welcome dignitaries. But I was not of any importance — just an ordinary person with a little heart.
The van arrived at 1pm. Several commuters alighted. Almost all of them look depressed. A few smiled or smirked and waved their hands without any perceptible reason. I realised they resided at the ‘palace’ and had been given permission to return home or wander for a prescribed period. Clothed in dark blue shorts and T-shirts, they could take care of themselves but were still under close supervision.
I boarded the van and sat in the back row. Others, including two maids in the ‘palace’ uniform, boarded it too. All the passengers looked pensive. I began to think that the ‘palace’ had the ability to spread an air of melancholy as had been rumoured. I shivered and began to feel restless and out of sorts.
The van moved and turned right at the traffic junction, then turned right again and passed by a polyclinic and stadium next to a large canal. During the journey through the housing estate, I chanced upon the realisation that moderation in hopes and actions could be the key to a stable and peaceful life. Perhaps.
From far, I saw the ‘palace’ complex situated on a knoll covered in greenery. There was no ornamental gate at the entrance, but the complex looked neat and tidy — surely as a result of efficient operation and maintenance.
The van climbed the slope, turned left and then right twice before arriving at the main lobby of the institute of mental health with the corporate name of Buangkok Green Medical Park, which is the ‘palace’ for patients with mental disorder. It was called the infamous Woodbridge hospital before.
I stood still for a moment after I got off from the van. My eyes scanned the surroundings. Several inhabitants and visitors roamed freely in the concourse. I saw a brown marble statue with yellow spots beside a spiral staircase. It depicted a bent figure that supported another firmly and earnestly.
I was uncertain whether I could be like the statue for I felt really tired attending to his endless whims and fancies. I do not know when he could take care of himself sufficiently and with ease. There were always problems that emerged in his life. If these were limited to him, perhaps it would not matter. But it was not uncommon that the predicaments he faced dragged the entire family into turmoil. Undoubtedly, he acted like a cruel king who tortured us although he may not have realised it himself.
There were several stalls at the side of the lobby selling handicrafts of the residents of this ‘palace’. The institution attempted to paint a picture that there is still hope for them to return to normal life. I smiled cynically. What could be sold to reach that state, I wondered?
I was almost certain that it’s just an empty wish, specifically for the king who I am seeking audience with. Honestly, I was beginning to lose hope. I was there to fulfil a moral duty towards a person who shares our parents’ blood. Blood is thicker than water, they say. But if it is sullied blood or water keeps on flowing, I would have to divert it so as not to destroy the peace and harmony of our lives. But it has not reached that critical state yet. We are still praying.
I reached the lobby of block 4 after walking through several meandering walkways. I took the lift to the third storey of the palace. I was not allowed to enter the visiting hall after I registered myself with the palace guard at the counter. They were no gongs, drums and flutes to welcome me. There were no performances. I was shocked by the new experience.
I was confused and nervous haunted by the wild cries, wailing and chanting from a group of inhabitants in the adjoining room. They were prancing and swaying their bodies without care. Were they zombies, clowns or buskers who are having fun?
God forgive me. My chest palpitated heavily. I took a deep breath. I did not know what to expect next. I left it to the one and only King.
(An earlier version was published in 2021 by Kitaab International)
Isa Kamari has written 12 novels, 3 collections of poetry, a collection of short stories, a book of essays on Singapore Malay poetry, a collection of theatre scripts and lyrics of 3 music albums, all in Malay. His novels have been translated into English, Turkish, Urdu, Arabic, Indonesian, Jawi, Russian, French, Spanish, Korean, Azerbaijan and Mandarin. Several of his essays and selected poems have been translated into English. Isa was conferred the S.E.A Write Award from Thailand (2006), the Singapore Cultural Medallion (2007), the Anugerah Tun Seri Lanang (2009) from the Singapore Malay Language Council, and the Mastera Literary Award (2018) from Brunei Darussalam.
He obtained a BArch (Hons) from the National University of Singapore in 1989, an MPhil (Malay Letters) from Universiti Kebangsaan Malaysia in 2008 and is currently pursuing a PhD programme at the Academy of Islamic Studies, Univeristi Malaya. His area of research is on the problem of alienation and the practice of firasat (spiritual intuition) in selected Singapore Malay novels.
About the Novel: The Throne is an unflinching exploration of schizophrenia set against the backdrop of modern Singapore. At once realistic and allegorical, it charts a man’s descent into alienation from his turbulent youth to his fractured adulthood. Blurring the boundaries between poetry and prose, the narrative becomes both intimate confession and universal parable.
More than a story of illness, The Throne meditates on the fragile yet fertile nexus of madness, creativity, and spirituality. Within this tension lies the possibility of healing—a reconciliation born of suffering, sacrifice, and an enduring search for meaning.
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I grew up in a town that was once part of another municipality. Originally called “Binuwangan,” this islet now requires villagers to take a 15-minute boat ride from a small port. My town was named after the Spanish Governor General Jose Francisco De Obando y Solis on May 14, 1753.
I was born in the early 1960s, and it is perhaps an understatement to describe the town as purely rustic; it also boasted forested areas, enchanted trees, shallow fishponds, sprawling rice farms, large vegetable gardens, poultry, and piggeries. I enjoyed both land and water.
Flooding was practically unheard of during my childhood, except for one devastating tropical storm that I believed was the end of the world, characterised by sharp lightning, roaring thunder, incessant rain, and dark, billowing clouds that lasted for days. We lived in a bungalow but had to relocate to a two-story house owned by our grandparents just a few meters away from our residence. Sources indicate that Typhoon Patsy was a Category 4 typhoon that struck the Philippines in November 1970.
At the age of seven, I was perhaps naïve regarding the widespread and severe damage the typhoon inflicted on my hometown. I never imagined that such a catastrophic flood would happen again in my adulthood. I was terribly wrong.
After graduating from college, I noticed a gradual decline in my hometown. Hectares of fishponds in a neighbouring town were reclaimed by the national government to make way for a housing project.
Ironically, the reclaimed area now faces frequent severe flooding due to high tides, inadequate drainage, a weak dike, and powerful typhoons. Similarly, my coastal hometown also experiences these issues. Even during past summers, the area has been flooded despite the scorching heat. When bodies of water are reclaimed without proper infrastructure, towns that were once unaffected become permanent catch basins, eroding and eventually succumbing to salinity and acidity. Residents are being forced to leave their homes and are uprooted from their origins. It is paradoxical that my hometown is famous for a fertility festival, yet water, which is supposed to be life-giving, has now become an agent of death.
The disappearance of material items is always tragic, as they are physical remnants of our memories that are taken from us, making it impossible to recover and restore them. Our memories are often intertwined with the physical objects we hold dear; however, in their absence, our memories become hazy and dim. As we age, our memories become less reliable.
In 2009, Typhoon Ketsana struck the Philippines on a sunny Saturday morning. I remember this vividly, as I was conducting lectures on research and writing at a graduate-level seminary in Manila. After class, a few students invited me to lunch, but it had already started to rain lightly before class ended. The rain intensified as we made our way to a fast-food chain. Unfortunately, the power was out, and there was no food available. Little did we know that the entire city would soon be submerged in a torrential downpour, equal to a month’s worth of rainfall.
Hungry, we attempted to navigate flooded roads, moving from one fast-food restaurant to another, but to no avail. Eventually, we found our way to a friend’s flat in the late afternoon as the water gradually receded. We stayed there for a bowl of hot noodle soup, some biscuits, and herbal tea to warm our spirits during a friendly conversation. However, I couldn’t go home because it was still raining in the evening. I decided to spend the night at the seminary, as I felt it was unsafe to commute.
Upon returning home, I was greeted with chaos—my clothes had turned into rags. My photo album, filled with memories of my childhood, grade school classes, family reunions, social activities, overseas travels, friendly letters, employment certificates, and published articles and poetry, had been washed away in the flood. Bags, millstones, jackets, family heirlooms, and wooden cabinets had also disappeared. My cousin and her family, who had been staying with me, left in a hurry—it was a matter of life and death. Neighbours informed me that the flood inside my home had reached chest-deep, while the water on the street was up to people’s necks. One’s grief is synonymous with lost belongings.
During the 2020 COVID-19 Pandemic, Typhoon Vamco caused extensive damage to our country. Years prior, my siblings and I faced the difficult decision to sell our family home due to persistent flooding. I relocated to an upland neighborhood in Rizal province, where a former student resided.
I initially slept in a small space that served as a community pharmacy, part of our church’s development project. The room had a leaking roof due to overhanging branches and stray cats, while its concrete walls remained unfinished. During heavy rains, the room would flood, requiring basins to catch the leaks. I endured two sleepless nights as the rain and strong winds threatened to blow off my roof. With no electricity, I had to sleep in the dark on benches. My eldest brother, who lives abroad, was concerned for my safety, as he could not reach me. Technology is not always reliable, especially during natural disasters.
Nature can cause devastation to communities that exploit and misuse natural resources. Quarrying is widespread in my area, leading to the erosion of protected landscapes. Montalban has an estimated 16 to 20 active quarrying and rock-crushing plants. Operations are closely monitored for their impact on the Sierra Madre Mountain Range and nearby river basins, particularly in a village called San Isidro.
During typhoon season, silt, mud, and rain flow downstream, causing significant damage to life and property, as seen in many villages during Typhoon Vamco.
In 2025, Rizal Province was declared as in a state of calamity as the province was severely flooded when Typhoon Wipha made landfall. Flats had been constructed on tributaries, and agricultural lands converted to commercial areas, which exacerbated downstream flooding. Additionally, rivers continue to be large dumping sites for household and industrial waste, and flood control measures are inadequate. Protected landscapes are also being sold off.
Climate change is intensifying the severity of floods, and our aquatic ecosystem is greatly impacted by the belief that nature can survive without human intervention. Communities must take responsibility for their actions and work to restore the environment, which could enhance nature’s resilience to future challenges.
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Manuel A. Alindogan, Jr. or Jun A. Alindogan is the Academic Director of the Expanded Alternative Learning Program of Empowered East, a Rizal-province based NGO in the Philippines and is also the founder of Speechsmart Online that specializes in English test preparation courses. He is a freelance writer and a member of the Freelance Writers’ Guild of the Philippines (FWGP).
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Lily West in front of Mount FujiPhotographs provided by Suzanne Kamata
In Lily West’s travel memoir West goes East she recounts venturing from her native England overland toward India in the early 1970s with an impulsive American named Ed, a pro-Palestine fellow hippie whom she meets en route, on a shoestring budget. With the brazenness that comes with youth, they become entwined with all sorts of shady characters, finding themselves the guest of a charming conman in Amman, and being mistakenly deposited in a brothel in Cairo. Among other adventures, they rescue a polar bear from heat stroke in a zoo in Khartoum, are arrested twice in Egypt (and not for climbing to the top of a pyramid, which they do), and find themselves spectators at a public hanging in Iraq.
Many of the places they visited, such as the West Bank, Sudan and Afghanistan, are even less accessible now. West, by the way, is one of the few people who have traveled to every country on earth recognised by the UN. Although she made these travels as a man, she now lives in Japan as a woman. This award-winning book is a wild ride into the treacherous terrain of a bygone era. Lily generously agreed to answer a few questions.
Suzanne Kamata: First of all, congratulations on launching this book into the world! It has had a very positive reception, including an award for NomadMania Best Travel Book 2024. In the introduction you write that you hadn’t intended to write a book about traveling with your friend Ed, and that the idea came to you decades later. Can you tell us about the writing process? Also, how did you manage to recreate the scenes so vividly?
Lily West: I had often been urged to write a book, but never found the time or energy to do so. Then a friend introduced me to a publishing agent from English Agency Japan, who on hearing some of my travel stories, begged me to write a sample chapter which I eventually did. Then he demanded another and another until somehow after a year the book was finished. I guess the scenes in “West goes East” had remained vivid in my memory, because I had had some fifty years to remember them.
SK: Could you tell us a bit about the road to publication?
LW: The road to actual publication was a long one. My agent took six years only to come up with two concrete offers from publishers. Lots of offers that turned out to be pie in the sky though! I rejected both, the one because they wanted to edit the book down to half its size, the other because they wanted the chapter about Israel and all mention of Palestine removed. No! So, the manuscript continued to sit in my computer. Then Harry Mitsidis, the founder of the NomadMania extreme travel group, and arguably the world’s most travelled man, came over to Japan to verify that I really had been to the 193 UN member countries and thus was qualified to join the group. He was amazed that I was so easy to verify. Luckily, I had sent a postcard to my parents from every country I had been to. And my parents had kept them all! So, we became friends; I mentioned to him that I had written a book, and he asked me to send him a couple of chapters. He was so impressed that he said he would write a foreword and get the book published on Amazon. (This was technically beyond my ability!)
But he made it a condition that I include an epilogue about Lily’s much harder and longer journey, the journey to be accepted as the woman I knew I was. To be honest, I wasn’t very keen on this, because nowhere in the travel book do I mention or hint that I am a “transgender” woman. In fact, in 1972, the year the events in the book happened, it was still my Big Secret, something which could never be divulged to anyone, so I can understand its absence. However, as requested, I wrote the epilogue, which I have heard has caused some readers to cry. Naturally, Harry also wanted Lily West to be credited on the cover as the author, which was fair, because Lily had written the book!
SK:What was the first foreign country you ever visited? What activated your wanderlust?
LW: Well, I was brought up in England, but my mother was German, so we went there most summers. But I think you mean the first country visited by myself. I’ll give you two. I HATED the cruelty of school so much that at 17, I ran away and hitchhiked to Madrid which improved my Spanish enormously. Then that summer the local Education Committee paid for me to spend three months in the Soviet Union studying Russian. My German grandfather collected stamps, interesting enough, but what fascinated me were the names of the countries. Not just looking at the exotic names, I knew I wanted to go and actually see them! So, after I graduated, I said goodbye to England and set off on my second overland trip to India, as described in West goes East, but this time with no intention of returning.
SK:Early on in the book it becomes clear that Ed has the potential to get into trouble. You write that you were unlikely traveling companions, with very different personalities, and yet you stuck together. Was there any point in your travels that you at least considered going your own way?
LW: Yes, in Baghdad over the Donkey Boy incident! I was so angry with him! But we had gone through so much together that it would have been difficult to split up. Of course, I knew we would part in Delhi, and I would be going off on my own, which eventually landed me in Japan. (After I had been there just under a year, Ed arrived with his wife and son.)
SK: What does it mean to you to be a UN master (one who has visited all 193 countries recognised by the United Nations)?
LW: The end of one lifelong journey! This April, I took part in the largest gathering of UN Masters ever. 64 of us in Azerbaijan! Some had taken considerably less time than the 49 years I had taken, but Harry Mitsidis explained that many more people had been in space or climbed Everest than had visited every country in the world, so we had achieved something very special. Now I do appreciate meeting people from every country and know I can chat about their homeland. 2016 was a significant year for me, as that was when I finally visited No.193, Equatorial Guinea. I was very happy that I had managed this, but to put things into context, something more meaningful for me happened two months later when I was invited to join a 500-strong group of foreign women in Japan. Actually, that was more important for me!
SK:You’ve visited every country in the world recognised by the United Nations, but some have changed greatly since you first visited them. Are there any such countries that you would like to return to? And why/why not?
LW: There are some countries I don’t want to return to, because war has changed them almost irreparably. It would be too sad to see Syria, Iraq, Palestine, or Afghanistan. Or for that matter my two visits to Israel sufficed for me to see what this country was like. Whereas others such as Vietnam, Cambodia, Uzbekistan or Peru have become too touristed and I would rather remember them as they were. I visited Africa 30 times, but on my final visit in 2017, I survived a bad car accident in the Comoro Islands, in which my head broke the windscreen. Surely the Gods were telling me that’s enough!
SK:What is Ed up to now? Has he read the book? If so, what was his response?
LW: Sorry to say that Ed passed away suddenly in 2022. Yes, he had read the book at the insistence of my agent. I knew he would not be happy, even though his full name and where he came from are never mentioned. He wanted all reference and memories of his hippie past erased. For instance, he destroyed all the photos he had taken as well as his diaries. He never told his wife about my book; in fact, she only learned of it from me after his death. She bought the book, read it and then paid me the biggest compliment anyone ever has regarding West goes East: “Thank you so much, Lily. You brought Ed back to life!”
SK: You mention in your epilogue that female Japanese students responded to you differently as a woman; “less daunting,” you wrote. Have you noticed any difference in how you are treated when traveling as a woman versus traveling as a man?
LW: Yes and no. Generally, I find people, especially women, are kinder and more friendly to Lily. Of course, it’s always easier to talk to someone of your own gender. Also, I’m more outgoing and confident in myself as a fellow woman in the company of other women.
But like any other woman, I find myself much more on my guard, while not being paranoid about men, just more watchful in their presence. Luckily, Japan is safer for women than let’s say the UK or the US, but as a woman, I can’t take that personal safety for granted as I would if I were a man.
SK:I realise that this is a book about your travels with Ed, but you drop tantalizing hints about other episodes in your travels. For example, in the epilogue, you write that you and your Japanese partner were taken hostage on a trip to the Central African Republic. What???? Could you share a bit about that?
LW: Very long story from 1996. Fifteen of us were on an overland truck going from East Africa to West Africa. We had budgeted 10 days to go through Congo, but the “roads” were that awful, little but bog holes and mud, that it took us 56 days. During which time three passengers died: snakebite, malaria and cut to pieces by our own tyre chains. However, we felt lucky it had not been more!
Within two weeks, there were no more shops and as cook, I had to go into the villages and exchange stuff for food. Luckily, I found they wanted empty bottles in which to store the poison they used for hunting. I was the cook, but I wouldn’t use meat because I am a vegetarian. One evening, the two Australians who did most of the digging came back from a village with some meat, which they barbecued. A couple of days later, we ran into the first Westerner we had seen, a Belgian in the lumber business. He invited us to eat with him. One of the Australians started to tell him about the meat they had had. The Belgian asked where the village was, then he raised his and asked “Did it have fur?” No. “Did it have a hoof?” No. “I think you ate a baby!” One Australian just vomited, but the other said: “Tasted OK!”
And so, in such a dilapidated state, we finally reached the ferry over the Congo River to Bangui in the Central African Republic. By this time, we were down to 9 or 10 functioning members, for this didn’t really include a French Canadian, our only native French speaker. But he had lost his mind, and would never speak to anyone again during the rest of the trip. So that left me as the only actual French speaker. Anyway, we were at last on the ferry, chattering away about which hotel in Bangui we were going to stay in and really excited about having a shower as opposed to bathing in rivers with crocodiles and snakes.
We parked our truck on some waste ground by the river and I went exploring. The town of Bangui seemed eerily quiet as I found my way to the Novotel. Entering the hotel, I knew all was far from well when I saw a cloud of flies buzzing around the dead man at the check-in desk. Back at the truck, I told the others about the hotel and that we had better leave Bangui first thing in the morning. Everyone agreed, but at about 4 o’clock in the morning, soldiers arrived and started to knock down our tents and force us on to our truck. Those who argued or were too slow were jabbed with their rifles.
So off we went with two armed soldiers on the truck to guard us, but where were they taking us? Back to Congo or somewhere to shoot us?
We hastily formed an escape plan. At a given signal, the two hefty Australian diggers knocked the soldiers to the floor and stood on their guns, while the driver drove like mad overtaking the accompanying jeeps. I had found where the US Embassy was and it was there we headed. All other embassies were closed. We had one American in our group, so we figured that was our best chance. At five o’clock in the morning, our English driver smashed into the gates of the US Embassy at full speed. But the gates were so sturdily made that they did not give way!
In the shock, the soldiers recovered their guns and were screaming “Tirez-le!”, (Shoot him!). The driver got out of his cab window, flung himself into the embassy grounds and hid behind a wall. The soldiers opened fire and lights came on the embassy. They forced the co-driver to turn round and we were taken to a large building where we were all herded into an underground cell at gunpoint. To make matters worse, we could hear the screams of someone being tortured.
At noon, our driver arrived accompanied by personnel from the US Embassy and the Central African Republic Army as well as government officials. Slowly I pieced things together.
The soldiers who had captured us had taken part in a failed coup d’etat and now needed us as human shields to get past the checkpoints and out of Bangui. A deal was struck. They would take us 700km to the Cameroon border where they would set us free. Everyone shook hands and we set off. It took several days to drive, for we had to stop along the way many times as the soldiers constantly tried to intimidate us. Once they lined us up firing-squad style, but shot over our heads. Their idea of a joke, I guess.
However, after 500km, we reached the town of Bouar, which was rebel-held territory, so they felt safe and saw no reason to release us. They kept us in the camp, under guard with no indication as to what might be our fate. After ten days or so, I determined to try to find a way to get out of this camp. Most of the others seemed to sunk into despondency or were just too sick to move.
There were 30 soldiers holding us and I tried reaching out to those who seemed a bit more friendly. I persuaded two of them that we were running out of food, so they took me into the market. The next day, I asked them to take me in again, this time with Takako, my partner. Then while they were drinking beer in a bar, she and I ran for it to another bar which I had spotted the day before.
Were there any foreigners in Bouar, I asked. Yes, there were two and someone offered to take us to their house. The two foreigners turned out to be French Jehovah’s Witness missionaries! By this time, I would have joined! And as I hoped, they had a radio. It was hidden under the floorboards and they let me use it to contact the US Embassy. “You still there”, was the surprised response. “We’ll get you out in the morning,” they promised.
Very early in the morning, a helicopter landed and after more bargaining, the rebels finally let us drive to the Cameroon border. We crossed the border and those of us who could still walk were in the very first bar on the Cameroon side celebrating. Suddenly, in walked the rebel soldiers still with their guns! Oh, no, surely not, I almost exclaimed! Then, the two I had befriended came up to me and asked me to translate. “Don’t worry! We’re so glad we didn’t have to shoot you and would like to buy a beer for you all.” I answered: “We’re also very glad you didn’t shoot us!” To general laughter, everyone raised their beer bottles: “Salut!”
Three days later we arrived in Yaounde, the capital of Cameroon. With our driver, I went to the British Embassy to report the three deaths, all Commonwealth citizens. The Ambassador listened as we told our story.
Then he stood up and shook our hands: “Jolly good show, chaps! Let me get you a drink!” The brandy was welcome.
Takako and I were able to contact our families for the first time and reassure them that we were not dead as they feared. We flew to Europe from Cameroon and then on to Japan, arriving three months late. Astonishingly, I was able to keep my job. While I know I went to Africa for adventure, sometimes you can get more adventure than you bargained for!
SK:Wow! What a harrowing experience! Thanks for sharing that! Are there any other travel memoirs or travel writers that you admire and would recommend?
LW:The Roads To Sata by Alan Booth, In Patagonia by Bruce Chatwin, An African in Greenland by Tete-Michel Kpomassie.
SK:What’s next? Will there be another book?
LW: I could write another book, yes, but I doubt that I am able to write another book that would be as good as this one. I feel that this is my masterpiece. Every time I look through it, I think, wow, I wrote this! Many travel books nowadays have the author writing about doing many different trips over the years, one chapter per country. I certainly could do one of those too, but I, and others, think that a major strength of West goes East is that it is a story of one continuous journey rather than many short ones. It describes eight months of travelling overland from Syria to India via Afghanistan in 1972, in a world that no sadly longer exists and the people we met along the way, both locals from those countries and other Westerners.
SK:Thank you so much! I, for one, am glad you got this book out into the world.
Lily West and her Japanese students. Photo provided by Suzanne Kamata.
Suzanne Kamatawas born and raised in Grand Haven, Michigan. She now lives in Japan with her husband and two children. Her short stories, essays, articles and book reviews have appeared in over 100 publications. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times, and received a Special Mention in 2006. She is also a two-time winner of the All Nippon Airways/Wingspan Fiction Contest, winner of the Paris Book Festival, and winner of a SCBWI Magazine Merit Award.
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Angel Ramon is best known for his B-movie horror books. The Frogmaster, as he is called because he unleashed a whole swarm of killer frogs onto the zombie genre, is quite popular in the independent horror community.
With Requiem of a Lost Nation, however, he takes a completely different path. Instead of entertaining B-movie horror, he explores his own family history and the generational trauma caused by the Salvadoran Civil War. Loosely based on the life of his beloved mother, the novel follows Otilia, who, after emigrating to the United States, returns to El Salvador to come to terms with her harrowing experiences during the Civil War that lasted from 1979 to 1992.
This is done in a rather interesting way, as the novel alternates between chapters set in the present day (2019) and chapters depicting Otilia’s childhood, particularly the events during the outset of the Civil War atrocities 1980-1982. Together with diary entries and reports by British journalist Jon Snow—whose original reports can actually still be found on streaming services—the book leads us into the complexities of Salvadoran culture and politics. We learn about the country’s social divide, its invisible walls, and the Red Scare.
What makes this especially interesting is that Otilia—just like the author—comes from a very conservative background. Raised in a wealthy household, she was heavily influenced by her father, whose hatred of the communist rebels shaped her worldview. Looking back, however, she revises many of these beliefs and arrives at a more balanced perspective. That saves the novel from descending into one-sided accusations. In the end, it boils down to the idea that “both sides were to blame,” or, more poetically: “War was a demon indeed. It didn’t care who got hurt.”
Talking about demons: just to be clear, despite the monster on the cover, this is not a horror novel. It certainly deals with the horrors of war, which can easily be described as demonic, but there are no supernatural elements. More importantly, it isn’t about suspense or the specific atmosphere of dread that Lovecraft once described as essential to horror fiction. Requiem of a Lost Nation is best described as historical fiction.
Especially during the first quarter of the book, I learned a great deal about Salvadoran culture, its social structure, and the causes of the Civil War. Unfortunately, from that point on, it falls a little short. This is mostly due to its rather limited level of analysis. Ultimately, the novel tells us that both sides share responsibility and that war and forced migration can result in identity crises and generational trauma.
My overall impression is mixed though, because the novel uses some rather obvious foreshadowing, and for a historical novel there are simply a few too many convenient coincidences to remain believable. On the other hand, the integration of Spanish dialogue works very well. The passages are paraphrased seamlessly, so readers who don’t understand Spanish won’t miss any important information, while the original dialogue adds considerably to the atmosphere. Unfortunately, such strengths are offset by a handful of odd sentence constructions. Besides these criticisms, I am always appreciative when genre authors step outside their comfort zone. Ramon certainly deserves credit for taking such a personal path and writing the book he clearly felt he had to write.
This requiem is not over yet. While the novel reaches a natural stopping point, it leaves several plot threads and foreshadowed events unresolved. A second volume is planned for late 2027 and will presumably focus on Otilia’s life in the United States.
Andreas Giesbert is a reviewer of speculative fiction, board games and more based in the Ruhr Valley. He mostly writes for online magazines such as www.zauberwelten-online.de, or Ginger Nuts of Horror.
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Fresh with the caress of dew, Fragrant with the scent of rose, Joyous with the chirping of birds, Invigorating with a hearty breakfast, Captivating with a painted sunrise,
Cheery with a calm soul, Solid with a clear mind, Clear with the demands of responsibility, Firm with steps to work, Blessed with the dedication to make a living, Earnest with the utterance of In the Name of God, Dependent on the destiny of efforts, Submitted in consistent devotion, Echoed with His Beautiful Names,
God is Beauty and loves the beautiful, Reveals the face of His Benevolence, Expresses the layers of His Majesty, So, everything returns as beautiful things, To His Beneficence and Mercy.
Alone
Life is lonesome In cold nights like this, when family could not understand, I no longer cry while reading the Qur'an. The Original Mantra
The original mantra came down from heaven, Following the sin of having a will, Bestowed with freedom of choice, Taught the Word and Names of everything. The ordained natural mould Does not change.
We are Adam, venerated, To whom the angels bow. We are Adam, vile, Befriended by the Devil till the end of Time, Who destroys the earth With hands that have wants, With souls that are free to act, Betray and rebel, Self-sufficient and disobedient.
The original and revered Word and Names We sully with despicable acts, We taint with wild thoughts. The natural mould handed down from prophets We smash in arrogance.
Alas, the original mantra from Adam Is conditioned by political and social norms To suit its locale, The abode of each people, That is perfected and purified by The Mercy of the Worlds.
The spring that flows from heaven, Has freedom to worship as its undercurrent, Envied by the angels. The ultimate pleasure is to Return the freedom to The Owner of the Eternal Mantra.
O Believers! Do not die Except in a state of total submission.
Prostration
Dirtied hands feel the heat, Palms on the earth Next to the forehead. My heart is grounded, Asking for mercy. The cool pouring of Love and forgiveness.
Intimacy
I pick up grains of sand On my journey home, No longer unfamiliar, Though dirtied and bitter. I wash with prayer and zikr, The last accompaniment To brighten the impending grave-pit. Descending from the peak, Wishing for a clear spring At the foot of the hill, To submerge My entire soul in You.
*zikr—remembrance
Gift
I realise: The palpitations in my chest Are not the flow of my breath, But a gust of Your mercy. The stirrings of love Do not arise from my soul, But from Your grace. My complete surrender is Just Your Embrace.
Mirror of Revelation
O my soul breeze, I want to gaze at Your face By the mirror of revelation.
Your whispers Stir the base of my heart in tenderness. Longing for the original song— Without rhythm and melody, Only silent whispers,
One in ecstasy, Longing sustains existence: Existence in perpetual longing. The self is broken to pieces by doubt.
O my soul breezes To return to One, Obliterate in Light.
Isa Kamari has written 12 novels, 3 collections of poetry, a collection of short stories, a book of essays on Singapore Malay poetry, a collection of theatre scripts and lyrics of 3 music albums, all in Malay. His novels have been translated into English, Turkish, Urdu, Arabic, Indonesian, Jawi, Russian, French, Spanish, Korean, Azerbaijan and Mandarin. Several of his essays and selected poems have been translated into English. Isa was conferred the S.E.A Write Award from Thailand (2006), the Singapore Cultural Medallion (2007), the Anugerah Tun Seri Lanang (2009) from the Singapore Malay Language Council, and the Mastera Literary Award (2018) from Brunei Darussalam.
He obtained a BArch (Hons) from the National University of Singapore in 1989, an MPhil (Malay Letters) from Universiti Kebangsaan Malaysia in 2008 and is currently pursuing a PhD programme at the Academy of Islamic Studies, Univeristi Malaya. His area of research is on the problem of alienation and the practice of firasat (spiritual intuition) in selected Singapore Malay novels.
The Lost Mantras is a collection that blends spirituality, Malay cultural heritage, and universal human experience. First published as part of Menyap Cinta (Love Greetings, 2022, Nuha Books KL), these poems are like a bridge between mysticism and everyday life, where traditional images (betel, jasmine, kris[1], oil lamps, setanjak[2]) are woven with Qur’anic echoes, prayers, and existential questioning. The collection carries a Sufi resonance—always circling back to longing, humility, surrender, and beauty as signs of God. The poems are not only lyrical but also function as cultural memory: they preserve Malay traditions, communal practices, and village life, while situating them in a cosmic framework of faith, sin, and redemption. The use of Malay customs, rituals, and objects is powerful: it asserts that spirituality is not abstract but embedded in heritage. This makes the collection uniquely Southeast Asian despite its universal in appeal.
A piece of white cloth, although clean, does not begin to tell a story. It absorbs whatever that is spilled, wet, becomes damp, then dry. That is thought without rigour, that is feeling without limits, that is life without mindfulness.
And the canting teaches perseverance, and the canting develops decorum, to contain the hot molten wax, focus the flow through a pinhole. The deliberate and gentle movement of the fingers, controlled drawing of patterns, limits that are artistic, sensitivities that are cultured, leaving boundaries, traces of white dried wax.
The cloth is coloured by choice, according to taste and temperament. The resultant pattern is soaked in boiling water. Control and limits melt, leaving behind principled white lines.
Behold and gaze intently. If satisfied, it is dried on the clothesline. If not beautiful yet, it is redrawn— a representation of the worth of a dynamic personality, moulded from both freedom and control, the dance of the canting and molten wax.
MY LOVE
You who are far, do you pine for me? I am near, always.
Silence is the antidote of longing. Distance is the bond of affection. Prayer is the host of love. Gratitude knocks on acceptance.
Mutually, let’s not doubt My Love.
WORDS
Words that are upheld become the Self, that are lettered stab and be stabbed till unspoken.
For a Saint, every word is a trust. The heart of every word is Silence.
FITRAH (Natural Tendency)
Alif Between you and me perhaps is just a page of forgetfulness, so I need not feel arrogant to declare that I have a God while you have not returned to the fitrah.
Ya Your end might be nobler than mine, for you have cried when attesting of Him in the spiritual sphere, while I am still in doubt, gazing at God’s face till now.
Arabic letter Alif and Ya: From Public Domain
Isa Kamari has written 12 novels, 3 collections of poetry, a collection of short stories, a book of essays on Singapore Malay poetry, a collection of theatre scripts and lyrics of 3 music albums, all in Malay. His novels have been translated into English, Turkish, Urdu, Arabic, Indonesian, Jawi, Russian, French, Spanish, Korean, Azerbaijan and Mandarin. Several of his essays and selected poems have been translated into English. Isa was conferred the S.E.A Write Award from Thailand (2006), the Singapore Cultural Medallion (2007), the Anugerah Tun Seri Lanang (2009) from the Singapore Malay Language Council, and the Mastera Literary Award (2018) from Brunei Darussalam.
He obtained a BArch (Hons) from the National University of Singapore in 1989, an MPhil (Malay Letters) from Universiti Kebangsaan Malaysia in 2008 and is currently pursuing a PhD programme at the Academy of Islamic Studies, Univeristi Malaya. His area of research is on the problem of alienation and the practice of firasat (spiritual intuition) in selected Singapore Malay novels.
The Lost Mantras is a collection that blends spirituality, Malay cultural heritage, and universal human experience. First published as part of Menyap Cinta (Love Greetings, 2022, Nuha Books KL), these poems are like a bridge between mysticism and everyday life, where traditional images (betel, jasmine, kris[1], oil lamps, setanjak[2]) are woven with Qur’anic echoes, prayers, and existential questioning. The collection carries a Sufi resonance—always circling back to longing, humility, surrender, and beauty as signs of God. The poems are not only lyrical but also function as cultural memory: they preserve Malay traditions, communal practices, and village life, while situating them in a cosmic framework of faith, sin, and redemption. The use of Malay customs, rituals, and objects is powerful: it asserts that spirituality is not abstract but embedded in heritage. This makes the collection uniquely Southeast Asian despite its universal in appeal.
KANSAS Kansas. White clouds scud across the blue sky. Weeds quiver under a relentless sun. Black Angus cows stand knee deep in pond water as a Gator driven by a teenager speeds by and the blue pick-up in the driveway needs gas and Casey’s is open eighteen hours a day. Kansas. Where the blue bowl sky stretches forever. Do folks really live in Tonganoxie? Topawingo? Baxter Springs? Chalk Corner? Kansas. Do the red brick houses with white wood shutters in Baxter Springs cost less than those in Anderson Acres with aluminum shutters? Do oleanders grow along the sidewalk? Will the teenager from the new housing development mow the yard every other week or will American Lawns and their electric powered mowers driven by men who only speak Spanish and have callused hands do it instead? Is the school home to the Bulldogs? Or is it the Knights? Kansas. Do folks earn their beans and bacon at Iron Bull? At Willow’s Plow? Or E-A-R-P? What is a Why Burger and does Door Dash deliver? Is the Help Wanted sign still in the Waffle House window? Kansas. Do Prairie Dogs really land at Prairie Dog landing? Is the Haunted House really haunted? Does Mrs. Stella Green still own Green’s Landscaping? Did Miss Fortune come to work this week? Kansas. Where the restless wind blows. Where the hot sun shines and white stars stud the night sky and soon snowflakes will fly and Casey’s is open eighteen hours a day.
Pete Peterson’s poetry has appeared in Painted Pony, Baseball Bard, Summer Time, Borderless and other journals. Reach him at petersonwriter9391@gmail.com
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Bulang Bidang worn by commonersGetam Budu worn by the learned Isa Kamari wearing the sejantak (Malay headgears). Photo provided by the author
THE KRIS
Heppp!
Hold tight the hilt of faith. Insert the base pin of endeavour into the hollow of destiny. Adorn the ring with carvings of identity. Gild the heart with gold on the transverse base piece. Welcome the strong spirit on the elephant’s trunk. Ensure the side finials are neat, although spiky. Meditate on the rejuvenated fallen tree at the base of intention. Sprinkle spilled rice grains on life’s damascene. Complete the trio pattern with golden showers. Dance in the rhythm of odd waves. Honour loyalty of the blade on the forehead. Make sure the thrust is sharp on target. Once the blade is drawn out, the task must be accomplished. Adorn the self’s sheath with morality. Cleanse the rust of misdeeds with lime. Accompany every move with the fragrance of perfume. Warm up intuition with smoke from the freshness of incense. Slip the calling of the motherland at the waist.
Heppp!
It is unforgivable for the warrior to surrender before the fight. It is not death before its time. Mantras of faith and honour will always be revered, will always be upheld.
Ciiiss! Come, forward!
THE SEJANTAK (Traditional Headgear)
Aduhai, hai, hai, hai!
The head is a guard, the head is a warrior, the head is a seat of kingdom, the head is a treasury of culture, knowledge, and identity. It’s only right to uphold it. It’s only proper to revere it.
Aduhai, hai, hai, hai!
A piece of cloth to block the sun, woven from thread to absorb perspiration, tied in accordance with locality, decorated in accordance with tradition.
Aduhai, hai, hai, hai!
Bulang Bidang is simple in readiness. Bugis Tak Balik walks alone. The Eagle Slices The Sky with might. The Rooster unsheathes its spurs. The Young Admiral conquers the ocean. The Getam Budu is wise and intelligent.
Aduhai, hai, hai, hai!
Although humans are equal, the head determines the fold and pattern of adornment. It elevates the have-nots to the haves, removes the yearns of the haves from the have-nots. The head shines in resplendence, pulsates in the veins.
Aduhai, hai, hai, hai!
The setanjak narrates: The Malay has a place. The Malay has a tradition. He moves forward with confidence, acts with wisdom, the intuitive who and what the self is.
Aduhai, hai, hai, hai! Beta Dendam Tak Sudah (This Never-ending Feud)
IRON
The origin of iron is not iron. Iron comes from the word. The word comes from Hu! Iron remains as iron without forging. The forging begins in fire. The fire melts the hardness of metal. The metal is folded and hit repeatedly, in layers, sieving the pure. It needs the wild rage of fire, knocks upon knocks.
At last, the iron tells its tale in the reveal of the damascene patterns. The blade is dipped into water. Ciiiiiiss! Ciiiiiiss! Ciiiiiiss! Aspirations rise as steam, penetrate seven layers of air.
The origin of iron is not iron. Iron comes from Hu!
Only the expert smith knows how to select the best iron ore. Only the brave smith dares to befriend the fire. Only the knowledgeable smith forms beautiful and beneficial damascene patterns. The inheritance returns to its owner. The knight returns to the other world.
Hu! Hu! Hu! Ciiiiiiss!
THE ROUTE
Given the shortest route that is clear and beautiful, you procrastinate from valley to valley.
Although painful, slowly but surely, I will scrape all meanings of Beauty except for Truth.
Bugis Tak Balik — Malay headgear worn by warriors. From Public Domain
Isa Kamari has written 12 novels, 3 collections of poetry, a collection of short stories, a book of essays on Singapore Malay poetry, a collection of theatre scripts and lyrics of 3 music albums, all in Malay. His novels have been translated into English, Turkish, Urdu, Arabic, Indonesian, Jawi, Russian, French, Spanish, Korean, Azerbaijan and Mandarin. Several of his essays and selected poems have been translated into English. Isa was conferred the S.E.A Write Award from Thailand (2006), the Singapore Cultural Medallion (2007), the Anugerah Tun Seri Lanang (2009) from the Singapore Malay Language Council, and the Mastera Literary Award (2018) from Brunei Darussalam.
He obtained a BArch (Hons) from the National University of Singapore in 1989, an MPhil (Malay Letters) from Universiti Kebangsaan Malaysia in 2008 and is currently pursuing a PhD programme at the Academy of Islamic Studies, Univeristi Malaya. His area of research is on the problem of alienation and the practice of firasat (spiritual intuition) in selected Singapore Malay novels.
The Lost Mantras is a collection that blends spirituality, Malay cultural heritage, and universal human experience. First published as part of Menyap Cinta (Love Greetings, 2022, Nuha Books KL), these poems are like a bridge between mysticism and everyday life, where traditional images (betel, jasmine, kris[1], oil lamps, setanjak[2]) are woven with Qur’anic echoes, prayers, and existential questioning. The collection carries a Sufi resonance—always circling back to longing, humility, surrender, and beauty as signs of God. The poems are not only lyrical but also function as cultural memory: they preserve Malay traditions, communal practices, and village life, while situating them in a cosmic framework of faith, sin, and redemption. The use of Malay customs, rituals, and objects is powerful: it asserts that spirituality is not abstract but embedded in heritage. This makes the collection uniquely Southeast Asian despite its universal in appeal.
Title: The Tree Within: The Mexican Nobel Laureate Octavio Paz’s Years in India
Author: Indranil Chakravarty
Publisher: Penguin Random House India
‘For me, India was an accident.’ – Octavio Paz
The Mexican Nobel laureate poet and essayist Octavio Paz (1914-1998) was a writer of lightening insights and electric intelligence. His impassioned poetry is meditative, with a precision of language that is imbued with a strangely sensuous quality. In fact, language and poetry per se were some of his key thematic concerns. The announcement on the cover of this book states that The Tree Within is the enchanting story of Octavio Paz’s passionate love-affair with India where he served as Mexico’s ambassador in the 1960s but reading through this very detailed 518 pages well-researched biography of the Nobel Laureate poet one realises that it is a lot more.
Immersing himself in India’s rich cultural life and contemplative traditions, Paz travelled widely, forged deep friendships with some of India’s finest minds, and produced several of his most inspired poetry and essays. It was here that he met the love of his life and until the day he died, he continued to refer to India as the place where he experienced what he called his ‘second birth’. It is difficult to find similar cases in our history when a major creative figure from abroad drew inspiration from India’s culture for one’s own works over such an extended period. His writings became a bridge between continents, blending Eastern and Western sensibilities in ways that enriched the literary landscapes of both. In India, where the erotic and the sacred blend in ecstatic union – unlike in the West, where the two are scrupulously kept apart – he saw the possibility of a new synthesis through the dissolution of dualities. Interestingly, Mexico belongs to the western hemisphere but is generally considered non-West, like India. Blending biography, cultural history, and literary criticism, The Tree Within is a luminous testament to the enduring alchemy between India and the world through one of the greatest writers of the 20th century.
The book is divided into ten stand-alone chapters, and one can move to the topic of one’s choice. The first two chapters entitled ‘Family and Nation’ (1914-36) and ‘Paz Before India’ (1936-1951) serve as the background of Paz’s lineage, his growing up, and his passionate engagement with India can be understood in terms of the seeds planted early in his life through his family as well as the national cultural ambience where the idea of India was inscribed. All of them played a role in reinforcing his attraction towards the country. Unlike T.S.Eliot, Paz became politically active from an early age, with an initial inclination towards anarchism and Marxism and a subsequent rejection of Communism. He witnessed the Spanish Civil War firsthand, and he also had a close relationship with the surrealists in France.
It is only in the third chapter, ‘The First Sojourn’ (1951-52), that India is physically present when in 1951 Paz, then 37-years old, was assigned the task of opening a new embassy in New Delhi. It recounts his long sea-journey to India and his experiences and poetic output during that brief period of six months. To some extent, he externalised his inner unhappiness on India during his first trip. India of that time had little to offer him by way of intellectual excitement or fulfilling companionship. Things were in disarray when under Nehru as the new nation-state had just been born a few years ago. In New Delhi, Paz stayed at the Imperial Hotel, which became his residence during his entire stay. He also carried a lot of baggage in terms of Western cultural prejudices towards India. India not only smothered his senses; the grinding poverty and rigid mores of life left him disgusted.
In Chapter Four, ‘Paz and Satish Gujral: In Light of Mexico’ describes the personal friendship between Paz and Satish Gujral, one of India’s leading painters and how Paz shaped his development as an artist by inserting Gujral among the maestros of the Mexican mural movement. In fact, the influence of the Mexican mural movement on modern Indian art through Gujral would not have been possible without Octavio Paz’s decision to send him to Mexico. The meeting with Nehru and Indira Gandhi through Satish’s brother I.K. Gujral also offers interesting information. The following chapter, ‘Coming Home, Going Away’ (1953 -62) traces Paz’s life and creative evolution from the time he left India to the time he was sent to India as Mexico’s ambassador in 1962. This ten-year period between his first sojourn in India in 1952 and his return as the Mexican ambassador in 1962 involved many defining moments in his personal and professional life which shaped his creative evolution as a writer. The extent to which he had already immersed himself in Indian philosophy is evident from the ways he assimilated his experiences and insights of his first stay in the writings of the next decade even when their themes had little to do with India.
‘Making Poetry, Making Love’ (1962 -68) is an account of Paz’s travels through the Indian subcontinent (he was given additional charge of Pakistan, Afghanistan, Nepal and Ceylon), his relationship with Bona Tibertelli with whom he spent an idyllic vacation across the Indian subcontinent, his unhappy marriage with Elena Garro, his meeting and eventual marriage with his second wife, Marie-Jose Tramini, and the poetry that grew out of that amorous experience – all find ample space in this chapter. The way in which their love affair unfolded is wrapped in secrecy. It is also said that he developed some unsavoury practices for a man of his position. Nevertheless, it was the most bountiful period of an unimaginably productive life.
Chapter Seven named, ‘The Poet as Diplomat (962-68), recounts his role as a diplomat and his pioneering bridge-building efforts. His life stands as a shining example of how the advantages of diplomatic life can be used for maximizing literary output. The title of the next chapter ‘Paz’s Indian Friends: Surrounded by Infinity’ is self-explanatory. It recounts Paz’s close personal friendships with major Indian painters, musicians, writers and thinkers. We are given details of the close relationship with Indira Gandhi, and Paz throws interesting light on Indira by contrasting her with Nehru: “Indira was concrete and sober. She never forgot the old maxim that politics was the art of the possible…”
Among the literary figures, mention is made of Santha Rama Rau, Nirad C. Chaudhuri, Mulk Raj Anand, Raja Rao, Satchidananda H. Vatsyayan, and many others. The story of Paz’s dramatic resignation in October 1968 over his own government’s massacre of students at the Plaza de Tlateloco is explained by the author through studying archival documents. The next chapter ‘Under Western Eyes: Visiting Writers and Artists’ tells the story of famous international writers, musicians and painters who met Paz in India and forged lifelong bonds and collaborations based on their common love for India.
The final chapter ‘Paz After India’ (1968 -98), traces the continued presence of India-related themes in Paz’s body of work, particularly his prose, ever since his departure from the country. Leaving India was not easy for Paz and Marie-Jose. Over the next three years, he would drift around the world, accepting fellowships, residencies and lecture assignments. Though Indian themes gradually faded out of his poetry, in prose it continued to engage him till his last days, thirty years after leaving India. Even in old age, Paz continued to maintain epistolary contact with his Indian friends and welcomed distinguished Indian visitors to Mexico with his characteristic Latin American warmth. ‘Cantata’ tells the knotty story of Paz’s legacy in Mexico and how India has periodically remembered him, one as late as February 2023, at a large international conference held in IIC[1], New Delhi, on the cultural links between India and Latin America. There was unanimity in the acknowledgement that the Mexican poet had created a permanent, direct bridge between India and Latin America that no state-led enterprise could have done.
Before concluding, a few words need to be said about the author of this book. An academic and a filmmaker by profession, Indranil Chakravarty’s interest in Hispanic literature and culture comes out clearly through the translations he made of Paz’s poems. His enormous labour to bring out this volume comes out in the manner he reconstructs the inner journey of the poet by delving into multilingual archives, declassified diplomatic files, personal letters, and intimate interviews. The labour that has gone into selecting the innumerable photographs that don almost every page of the book, many borrowed from the website zonaoctaviopaz.com (an ongoing repository of photographic and news material on Paz put together by a group of Mexican scholars) clearly exemplifies the author’s emphasis on visual imagery too. In Acknowledgements, he clearly mentions that he has merely tried to fill up the missing information on the poet’s India-years. He entirely agrees with Ramchandra Guha’s contention that an autobiography or memoir must be understood as a pre-emptive strike against a future biographer. The poet’s memoir of India elides most of the aspects that are interesting to us today.
O, incense from rock and root! In the name of God and salutations to the Prophet, I sprinkle you onto the charcoal ember in the incense burner inherited from Elders. Ssseesshh! Ssseesshh! Ssseesshh! Billow across the span of humanity. Sharpen our senses, elevate our spirits, as an adornment of prayers for peace, as an accompaniment of the dead. Send blessings to the world of jinns and humans. The doors of servitude open, the purpose both are created. You are the balm for tormented souls. You welcome the mind into the realm of remembrance. Focus the soul on complete devotion to the One, the only One. Those with vague knowledge only see smoke of superstition, stupefied as rose water is sprinkled.
Ssseesshh! Ssseesshh! Ssseesshh!
O, this servitude is indeed fragrant! O, this worship is indeed mystical and intimate to the One, the Only One. When the kris blade is smouldered by smoke, after washed with lime juice, in the name of God and salutations to the Prophet, the blade is dried and withstands rust, preserving inheritance and the calling. Culture and religion are intertwined, knowledge and understanding of the sacred realm that bless the worlds of jinns and humans. The doors of servitude open, creatures of the One, servants of the only One. O, this servitude is indeed fragrant! O, this worship is indeed mystical and intimate! Ssseesshh! Ssseesshh! Ssseesshh! Allah! Allah! Allah! My Lord!
DEBT
Hey, bestower of pleasure! Hey, the saving hand! I think I have been to hell: My soul is charred by sins, My mind is bombarded by doubt. I have rebelled against Me for fulfilling my desire. I think I have been to heaven: My soul is at peace with gratitude. My mind is still in acceptance. Everything has its place. Everything is measured. I am accepted by Me, mutual and pure. But return my will, return my future, return my entire me to the world and reality, from mere illusion, from every expectation. I want to live. I want to live. I want to live in a bit of doubt, in a pinch of rebellion, to learn by myself, to be in place and measured. Hey, bestower of pleasure! Hey, the saving hand! Let me pay my debt in feelings unsatiated.
THE MOUNTAIN God, smash the mountain in my soul. Obliterate the entire me with your Grace and Love. I could no longer bear the sufferings of alienation.
FIRASAT (Spiritual Intuition)
People nowadays do not know firasat. People nowadays do not use firasat. Purity brought down from Elders— the first intuition without veil, the stirrings and effects of unity of experience: Nature, knowledge, and actions unified, moved by the eye of the soul, nurtured by the discipline of the mind, based on strings of reiterative knowledge, demonstrated by signs from layers of Nature, validated by proofs in actions and breaths. The mind, soul, and spirit moulded in the self and surroundings. Ever since it is compartmentalised by thoughts that distinguish object from subject, dissecting issues to the atom, limiting conclusions and acceptance, denying possibilities and visions, veiling light by separation of knowledge. Is not this world a mirror? Is not this universe a sign? Is not this life a labyrinth? Is not a problem interlinked? Science, philosophy, psychology, history, and religion are only points of view that need to be reunified, that need to be rejuvenated as a whole with stirrings and effects of firasat that will pierce layers of existence, that will open secret doors of the manifest, symbolic, transcendent, and immanent worlds. Are not all that fall from the sky, grow on the surface of the earth, and return to the sky a belief in the unity of everything? So, the dust that floats in the air remembers the moment of attesting of the spirit that is gently blown at the boundaries of seven worlds. "Am I not your Lord?" The Malay testifies in firasat: "Yes, we affirm!"
Isa Kamari has written 12 novels, 3 collections of poetry, a collection of short stories, a book of essays on Singapore Malay poetry, a collection of theatre scripts and lyrics of 3 music albums, all in Malay. His novels have been translated into English, Turkish, Urdu, Arabic, Indonesian, Jawi, Russian, French, Spanish, Korean, Azerbaijan and Mandarin. Several of his essays and selected poems have been translated into English. Isa was conferred the S.E.A Write Award from Thailand (2006), the Singapore Cultural Medallion (2007), the Anugerah Tun Seri Lanang (2009) from the Singapore Malay Language Council, and the Mastera Literary Award (2018) from Brunei Darussalam.
He obtained a BArch (Hons) from the National University of Singapore in 1989, an MPhil (Malay Letters) from Universiti Kebangsaan Malaysia in 2008 and is currently pursuing a PhD programme at the Academy of Islamic Studies, Univeristi Malaya. His area of research is on the problem of alienation and the practice of firasat (spiritual intuition) in selected Singapore Malay novels.
The Lost Mantras is a collection that blends spirituality, Malay cultural heritage, and universal human experience. First published as part of Menyap Cinta (Love Greetings, 2022, Nuha Books KL), these poems are like a bridge between mysticism and everyday life, where traditional images (betel, jasmine, kris[1], oil lamps, setanjak[2]) are woven with Qur’anic echoes, prayers, and existential questioning. The collection carries a Sufi resonance—always circling back to longing, humility, surrender, and beauty as signs of God. The poems are not only lyrical but also function as cultural memory: they preserve Malay traditions, communal practices, and village life, while situating them in a cosmic framework of faith, sin, and redemption. The use of Malay customs, rituals, and objects is powerful: it asserts that spirituality is not abstract but embedded in heritage. This makes the collection uniquely Southeast Asian despite its universal in appeal.
