Paxety Pages

A Periodical - Internet Edition


Daily News and Commentary
Mahone Speaks
Lehamic's World
Cuba Libre
Bluenotes and Three Heads
Feature Articles
Tales and Humor
Our Animal Companions
9/11 Memorial
Guest Appearances

Site Meter

Muslindigo Children
Friday, August 25, 2006   By: Mahone Dunbar

Islam Meets The New Age

Muslindigo: The Indigo Children Of Islam

For those of you who haven't noticed, the world is evolving. Yes, I realize that this is hard to conceive, what with Islamic fundamentalism devastating the planet with war and violence and threatening to send us headlong back into the middle-ages via apocalypse, and because Al Gore hasn't yet been divinely appointed as World President, but trust me, things are changing for the better. This is evident, New Agers say, in the number of advanced beings being born into our midst. These evolved beings, our superiors, are recognizable by their indigo auras; hence, their designation as Indigo Children. For those of you with poor or underdeveloped aura-reading skills, there are other indicators to go by.

Advocates for Indigo children explain that they ‘act like royalty, have no guilt, and that things like waiting in line drive them crazy’ (Am I an Indigo?). So, parents, these are not signs of social maladjustment, but signs that you possibly harbor an advanced being in your home. Other parents claim their Indigos are psychic, can see the future and talk to angels. To those who attend psychic fairs and healing-touch workshops, or live in California, such powers are easily confirmed.

Retired psychotherapist Doreen Virtue, author of the book "The Care and Feeding of Indigo Children," explains that even when Indigo children get angry, their anger is advanced: "(Indigo children) . . . temper seems geared toward philosophical and existential issues. Everyone I interview says (Indigo children) are angry at the state of the world." (Are we to presume this means war-mongering George Bush, the Zionist conspiracy and global warming?)

Carolyn Kaufman, mother of three indigo children, speaks of the "energy" of Indigo children. Energy like her son, Tomy’s, can make teachers pull their hair out, or make parents throw up their hands or seek medical alternatives. (God forbid, Carolyn, that someone should suggest the employment of better parenting skills.) Carolyn, as the mother of three Indigos,  is a very busy person, so busy, in fact, she forgot to add another M to Tomy’s name.

(Note to non-California readers: hyper activity in Indigo children, like other perceived negative activities, is benignly characterized as "energy". A child can be said to have a particular "energy," as in, his energy is starting fires in unusual places. But any failure to correctly understand an Indigo child’s "energy" is the fault of unevolved society, which restricts, confines, is intolerant of, ignorant of, etc., the wunderkind’s magical power. Usually, "energy" is heard in conversations in which terms like holistic healing, empowerment, alternative therapy, global-anything . . . consciousness, warming, karma, you name it, they believe it - are bandied about. Medieval peasants, who in retrospect appear very perceptive in dealing with "energy," would have understood this very well; the Indigo kids are witches)

The question on my mind is How widespread is the Indigo phenomena? One of my neighbors has two daughters, nine and seven, who, according to her, are precocious and advanced beings who will one day put Mensa in its place. I gave her a call and asked her if she were familiar with the idea of Indigo children, then read her the list of Indigo attributes. She seemed to think her kids qualified on most every level. "Do you mean," I inquired, "they use non-verbal communicative skills, such as telepathy, to communicate with you?"

"Sure," she said. "Sometimes I'll give them an order. Then they'll look at me without saying a word and send me the message, ‘Shut up and die you crazy bitch!’"

This proved that Mahone has a smart-assed neighbor, but not much else. My question about the universality of the Indigo phenomena was still unanswered. So I approached it from another direction: Does the Islamic community have an experience with Indigo children that is comparable to other cultures?

First, in order to approach the Islamic community, I needed a liaison. A lawyer friend in Atlanta supplied me with the name of Imam Bob, an individual of Caucasian persuasion who converted to the religion of peace while serving time in a Georgia prison. Bob, my friend explained, for the price of a non-pork meal, would be happy to introduce me to the community of Muslims that congregated in the Little Five Points area - a community filled with aging-hippies, a rainbow of immigrant populations, youthful thrill seekers, vegetarian collectives, communal drum-alongs, and a business community dedicated to, apparently, rock n’ roll bars and grocery collectives. In such a diverse community, naturally, a variety of belief-systems coexist in harmony. The beliefs center around many things, but the binding element to the diversity seems to be the fact that all are involved with some aspect of New Age philosophy. If there was an Islamic Indigo movement, it was here that it would be found, and Bob would know about it.

After meeting with Imam Bob, and treating him to a burger, vanilla shake and fries at the Tasty Burger on Piedmont - the place of his choosing - he informed me that there was indeed an Muslim Indigo movement centered in Little Five Points and that, fortune being with me, they were having a meeting today. After getting Bob some fries to go, we headed off. We wound up at a ‘recycled-fashion’ shop whose basement served as an improvised mosque and community center for the Muslims in the area. Inside, all of the signs were written in Arabic. Imam Bob opened a door that led to a descending stairway. He accompanied me halfway down the stairs, paused and pointed. "Turn left at the bottom. First door on the right. Then he hastily retreated up the stairs.

"What? You're not staying?" I asked as he paused on the landing.

"No. May Allah protect you with his infinite mercy, infidel," he said. Then was gone.

Cautiously, I made my way down the stairs, turned left, and opened the door.

Apparently, Imam Bob had made a mistake. This was a room for food storage, for in the center of the floor, arranged in a series of semi-circles, where lumpy sacks of potatoes. I turned to go . . . then one of the sacks moved. Ah, I realized, not sacks of potatoes, but women in traditional Islamic garb. I paused to let my eyes adjust to the dim light, then slowly took in my surroundings.

Except for the fact that the women were dressed in burqas and hijabs, and that the decorative posters on the walls depicted severe-looking bearded men instead of Big Bird or Bert and Ernie, and that the mobiles which hung over the cribs were made of toy sticks of dynamite and itty bitty grenades, it could have been a scene from almost any nursery-child-care facility in town.

Off in the corner another group was sitting with their young daughters, practicing their Arabic version of yodeling. This homey touch made me realize their uniqueness as human beings; they were more than a group of animate burlap bags. Actually, with the yodeling and all, I realized, they weren't that different from a group of north Georgia mountain women sharing fellowship, or a clique of high school girls deeply into Goth . . . save that these women were psychotic to the point of making the Manson Family girls look like a bunch of pussies . . . or whatever.

In the back of the expansive room I saw that blindfolded child trying to navigate her way between some randomly placed tables and chairs as several other children watched. From my research, I realized immediately what was going on. They were doing an exercise in telepathy, where one child at a time is blindfolded and allowed to wander around the room while the other children telepathically guide them around obstacles like tables, chairs and support columns. After a few seconds of watching this exercise, I concluded that these guiding children were perhaps mischievous . . . that or terribly bad telepaths, since the blindfolded child immediately walked into a wall. I heard the group leader explain to the telepathic senders, as another mother tended to the blindfolded child's nasty bruised forehead, that Jews had obviously polluted the air with impure thoughts, as often happens.

As she called for another volunteer, I turned away, and then noticed a mother nearby with an infant snuggled to her breast. The tenderness of the scene personified the maternal bond; the pair reminded me of an icon of Mary and the Christ child. The mother was starring lovingly at the infant, who was returning her gaze.

"Pardon me," I asked quietly, smiling in spite of myself. Is your baby telepathically communicating with you now?"

"Oh, yes, she is."

"What is she saying?"

"Can't you hear her?" She held the baby up for me, as if to improve reception. Other than some drool, she produced nothing I could discern. I shook my head again.

"She is saying," the proud mom explained, ‘Please, momma, please: pack my ass with plastic explosives and leave me in a restaurant in the business district where Jews congregate.’" The mother eyed me intently. "Do you know perhaps where I can get these plastic explosives for her?"

Many of the Muslim Indigo children, it turns out, have apparently been sending the same message to their parents. "Uh, I have to check with a friend of mine who is in the military. I'll get right back to you." I hastily walked away. Glancing nervously over my shoulder, I saw the mom lifting the baby to her ear: "Saturate you with lighter fluid, my love! Ignite you and fling you at a bus full of Jews. Marvelous idea, my little angel of Allah. "

I had to get out of this place.

I was headed for the door when a five-year-old girl approached me.

"I know what each Jew and infidel is thinking," she declared.

"Oh?" I replied. "And what, for example, am I thinking right now?"

"You are thinking that we are deceitful and murderous people, and that Islam is not a religion of peace."

Damn! She was good. "No," I said, looking at the exit all the way across the room, "that’s not what I'm thinking at all."

At this point, she was joined by several other children, who formed a semi-circle around me and began starring at me intently. "You . . . are trying to hide your thoughts. Aren't you?" my mini-nemesis said.

I shook my head vigorously, and tried to block any intrusion into my mind by holding tightly to a single thought: I began thinking of a brick wall.

"You're . . . you're thinking of a brick wall," the feminine mite announced. "You can't hide your thoughts from us forever."

Fighting panic, I began pushing my way through them, headed for the exit. I took the stairs in stride, three at a time, knowing their short legs could never catch up.

Outside, on the sidewalk, in the sunshine, I thought myself safe. Suddenly, I saw a women in a burqa pushing a baby stroller toward me. I screamed, instinctively kicked the stroller, which tipped into the street and dumped its bundled contents directly in front of a MARTA bus. As I ran, I heard an organic crunch, followed by the wailing voice of a women - bereaved not because of the infant’s death, but because her Muslindigo child had been deprived of a chance to die in the service of the Jihad.

Now, days later, as I sit and type this, with my thought-reading-proof tinfoil hat in place (the little bastards will never find me), I can only give the world this warning:

Beware of the Muslindigo children.


(c)1968- today j.e. simmons or michael warren