fic (fullmetal alchemist)
title: there is no god (but God)
fandom: fullmetal alchemist
character/pairing: Scar
rating: T
wordcount: 1,000-ish
summary: Scar, Ishbal, atheism. Or not.
notes: Gen. Spoilers for chapters 58, 107, and 108.
I am not Muslim, although I have chosen to interpret Ishbal/Ishvar as an Islamic country, and to equate Ishbala with Allah. My interpretation of this faith is drawn heavily from Orhan Pamuk’s Snow (which deals with political Islam within contemporary Turkey) and excerpted religious texts; I have also read several accounts of agnosticism and atheism. Additional characterization is drawn both from the source text (here, the manga, particularly chapters 58 and 107), readings about religious and post-monastic life, and a very long conversation I once had with my priest about prison conversions to Islam. No disrespect is intended; if you feel that I could improve in this aspect, please do not hesitate to contact me and let me know how.
“no god but God” is a disambiguation of the Shahada, which is the Muslim declaration of belief in the oneness of God. A single honest recitation of the entire phrase (ā ʾilāha ʾillallāh, Muḥammad rasūlu-llāh, or, in English, there is no god but God, and Muhammad is the messenger of God) is all that is required for an individual the become Muslim; such a recitation is known as the Kalima, or word, and is spoken publicly.
+++
The first thing he learns in the years of his childhood is his name, followed by the names of others; they are gifts. There are some in his village who insist on speaking the names of Ishbala at all times, who consider this task appointed by their God; but when he tries it, haltingly, his mother frowns at him.
“Ishbala, glory to him in all things, gave me the charge of motherhood, and blessed my womb with two fine sons,” Kadife says, wiping a smear of honey from his chin. “You dishonor me by not calling me ‘mother.’” She kisses him on the forehead, above and between his eyes, and he feels the truth of her words, the warmth of her love, the blessings of his mother and of Ishbala.
His mother is very beautiful and very devout. She has soft brown skin that smells like a spiced kitchen, and she wears soft loose clothes that he buries his face in; the hems are always, always frayed from the sand. Kadife talks to him and her voice has the sweet sound of water pouring from a canteen, thin and precious.
His father, Muzhir, does not say much of anything. But he takes the boys to the house of prayer, and makes room for them on either side of his carpet; the boys kneel alongside their father, and the one who will be called Scar remembers these things about the good man Muzhir: his strong back, his devotion to his God, his great love for his sons. Now that Scar is a man by anyone’s definition, now that he has suffered, he can still recall the great love that lived in his father’s house.
+++
Scar originally became a priest as a way to speak directly to his father; he remembers calling the men of the village to the evening prayers, and seeing his father turn and unroll the patterned rug Kadife had knotted in the first years of his parents’ marriage. Scar was filled to the brim with the glory of God, for how else can a man be grateful for his earthly father? The devotions gave words to the song in his heart, and when he entered his parents’ house Muzhir embraced him, and kissed both his cheeks. Kadife, who he still called Mother, met him with food in her hands and blessings on her tongue.
+++
Scar walked into Amestris, the Eastern city, with a straight back and empty hands; but he covered his face with canvas, and he stood in the shadows like a thief. He stayed on the streets for hours, and with each man he killed, Scar fought the urge to pull the fabric from his shoulders, to kneel, to pray. Scar told himself that in turning his back on God, he had also turned away from the life of prayer; but everyone believes in something, and Scar knew that the old faith followed him like a dog, or perhaps he followed it; he had a feeling it would remain even when the last alchemist was dead and gone.
They still shook and wounded him, these multitudes of godless men.
+++
His brother, too, used to carry him to and from the house of prayer, and say the holy words aloud with him. Scar was young, and once he had embraced his brother and cried, “My brother, you must live forever!”
He had not answered, only laughed in a way that was kindness itself; Scar was sent inside to his mother, to help with the duties of the house and to break his fast. Scar had only been eleven, just old enough to abstain during daylight hours, and the new hunger left him feeling heady and clean.
His mother blessed him, and gave him dates; he ate them, one by one, until the cramp in his belly unfolded itself and the dizziness slipped back into his skull, where it had come from and where it would stay until the morning. His mother’s smile was like the sun, wavering across a long horizon; his mother’s faith was like a mountain, and its shelter nourished him as much as the fruit fed him.
+++
There is no god! The homunculus bawls at him. But Scar was a priest once, and he has known the soft touch of doubt for years upon years; Wrath’s taunts do not hurt him. Indeed, the words can barely touch him, though the sound of them lingers in his ear before passing him by. He presses on, paying very little heed to much except where his fists and feet must move, and to the heady pulse of the earth beneath him. There is blood-that is the way of this world-and Scar feels a great weariness fill him up, though it does not fully encompass him; every angry thought he has harbored in secret, for all the years of his life, trembles and crumbles and drops away, for there is room left in him for little else but this exhaustion.
The homunculus falls, and a death follows.
Yes, Scar thinks at last, looking at the empty shell of a body, remembering the words of the thing-which-is-no-more, intended as poison and delivered without any sting, for Scar knows the truth of the world still, even in exile. There is no god. But God.
All this, and the war still not over with.
+++
And later still, hope is handed to him. Scar receives it hesitantly, like fruit and lentils and honey at the end of a long fast; his belly and heart are weak from the absence of nourishment. It has been many years since he looked another Ishbalan man directly in the eyes, more years still since Scar had the right to offer up wisdom that was no his own, but was for the betterment of all good men.
He thinks: all things work together to accomplish the will of Ishbala. He has died twice, he has been utterly lost. Perhaps he can be found again and remade, in the image of his God.
“Muzhir” is a Muslim name meaning “Witnessed.”
“Kadife” is a Turkish name meaning “velvet.”
For the sake of pronouns, I had to call these people something! I did not inflict a name on Scar, though there were definitely times when my desire to do so verged on the edge of violent psychosis.
fandom: fullmetal alchemist
character/pairing: Scar
rating: T
wordcount: 1,000-ish
summary: Scar, Ishbal, atheism. Or not.
notes: Gen. Spoilers for chapters 58, 107, and 108.
I am not Muslim, although I have chosen to interpret Ishbal/Ishvar as an Islamic country, and to equate Ishbala with Allah. My interpretation of this faith is drawn heavily from Orhan Pamuk’s Snow (which deals with political Islam within contemporary Turkey) and excerpted religious texts; I have also read several accounts of agnosticism and atheism. Additional characterization is drawn both from the source text (here, the manga, particularly chapters 58 and 107), readings about religious and post-monastic life, and a very long conversation I once had with my priest about prison conversions to Islam. No disrespect is intended; if you feel that I could improve in this aspect, please do not hesitate to contact me and let me know how.
“no god but God” is a disambiguation of the Shahada, which is the Muslim declaration of belief in the oneness of God. A single honest recitation of the entire phrase (ā ʾilāha ʾillallāh, Muḥammad rasūlu-llāh, or, in English, there is no god but God, and Muhammad is the messenger of God) is all that is required for an individual the become Muslim; such a recitation is known as the Kalima, or word, and is spoken publicly.
+++
The first thing he learns in the years of his childhood is his name, followed by the names of others; they are gifts. There are some in his village who insist on speaking the names of Ishbala at all times, who consider this task appointed by their God; but when he tries it, haltingly, his mother frowns at him.
“Ishbala, glory to him in all things, gave me the charge of motherhood, and blessed my womb with two fine sons,” Kadife says, wiping a smear of honey from his chin. “You dishonor me by not calling me ‘mother.’” She kisses him on the forehead, above and between his eyes, and he feels the truth of her words, the warmth of her love, the blessings of his mother and of Ishbala.
His mother is very beautiful and very devout. She has soft brown skin that smells like a spiced kitchen, and she wears soft loose clothes that he buries his face in; the hems are always, always frayed from the sand. Kadife talks to him and her voice has the sweet sound of water pouring from a canteen, thin and precious.
His father, Muzhir, does not say much of anything. But he takes the boys to the house of prayer, and makes room for them on either side of his carpet; the boys kneel alongside their father, and the one who will be called Scar remembers these things about the good man Muzhir: his strong back, his devotion to his God, his great love for his sons. Now that Scar is a man by anyone’s definition, now that he has suffered, he can still recall the great love that lived in his father’s house.
+++
Scar originally became a priest as a way to speak directly to his father; he remembers calling the men of the village to the evening prayers, and seeing his father turn and unroll the patterned rug Kadife had knotted in the first years of his parents’ marriage. Scar was filled to the brim with the glory of God, for how else can a man be grateful for his earthly father? The devotions gave words to the song in his heart, and when he entered his parents’ house Muzhir embraced him, and kissed both his cheeks. Kadife, who he still called Mother, met him with food in her hands and blessings on her tongue.
+++
Scar walked into Amestris, the Eastern city, with a straight back and empty hands; but he covered his face with canvas, and he stood in the shadows like a thief. He stayed on the streets for hours, and with each man he killed, Scar fought the urge to pull the fabric from his shoulders, to kneel, to pray. Scar told himself that in turning his back on God, he had also turned away from the life of prayer; but everyone believes in something, and Scar knew that the old faith followed him like a dog, or perhaps he followed it; he had a feeling it would remain even when the last alchemist was dead and gone.
They still shook and wounded him, these multitudes of godless men.
+++
His brother, too, used to carry him to and from the house of prayer, and say the holy words aloud with him. Scar was young, and once he had embraced his brother and cried, “My brother, you must live forever!”
He had not answered, only laughed in a way that was kindness itself; Scar was sent inside to his mother, to help with the duties of the house and to break his fast. Scar had only been eleven, just old enough to abstain during daylight hours, and the new hunger left him feeling heady and clean.
His mother blessed him, and gave him dates; he ate them, one by one, until the cramp in his belly unfolded itself and the dizziness slipped back into his skull, where it had come from and where it would stay until the morning. His mother’s smile was like the sun, wavering across a long horizon; his mother’s faith was like a mountain, and its shelter nourished him as much as the fruit fed him.
+++
There is no god! The homunculus bawls at him. But Scar was a priest once, and he has known the soft touch of doubt for years upon years; Wrath’s taunts do not hurt him. Indeed, the words can barely touch him, though the sound of them lingers in his ear before passing him by. He presses on, paying very little heed to much except where his fists and feet must move, and to the heady pulse of the earth beneath him. There is blood-that is the way of this world-and Scar feels a great weariness fill him up, though it does not fully encompass him; every angry thought he has harbored in secret, for all the years of his life, trembles and crumbles and drops away, for there is room left in him for little else but this exhaustion.
The homunculus falls, and a death follows.
Yes, Scar thinks at last, looking at the empty shell of a body, remembering the words of the thing-which-is-no-more, intended as poison and delivered without any sting, for Scar knows the truth of the world still, even in exile. There is no god. But God.
All this, and the war still not over with.
+++
And later still, hope is handed to him. Scar receives it hesitantly, like fruit and lentils and honey at the end of a long fast; his belly and heart are weak from the absence of nourishment. It has been many years since he looked another Ishbalan man directly in the eyes, more years still since Scar had the right to offer up wisdom that was no his own, but was for the betterment of all good men.
He thinks: all things work together to accomplish the will of Ishbala. He has died twice, he has been utterly lost. Perhaps he can be found again and remade, in the image of his God.
“Muzhir” is a Muslim name meaning “Witnessed.”
“Kadife” is a Turkish name meaning “velvet.”
For the sake of pronouns, I had to call these people something! I did not inflict a name on Scar, though there were definitely times when my desire to do so verged on the edge of violent psychosis.