The boy in the bulky jacket looked around warily. He was no more than seventeen year of age with the first straggly beard of an adolescent. His young handsome face looked tense but determined. His jeans beneath the jacket was ragged and dirty. He checked once again to see if anyone was watching him then hurried to a dark alcove of a side alley. The alley brought him a safe distance from the crowded market place in internal Lahore but still allowed him to see it. This was the decided safe zone, where he had to wait for 15 minutes before he could do what he had come for.
They were a difficult fifteen minutes. Each moment seemed agony, hammering on his resolve, as a million thoughts flashed through his mind. In those few minutes he lived through every moment of his short painful life again. He saw his mother’s tearful face as she bid him good bye. He saw his sister begging for food in the street when she had been hungry for way too long. He saw his kid brothers asleep on the dusty floor, holding their stomachs, as they fell asleep waiting for food. He saw his short sighted mother, standing head bowed, as a rich lady shouted at her for tailoring her clothes wrong. He saw his old and ill father cough his last breath, before his spirit left his body.
And despite the painful memories, he clung to each minute like it was a fortune. He believed in what he was about to do. But his body rebelled with the anticipation of pain. His heart broke into a sprint hammering inside his chest, reminding him that despite his lot in life… he wanted to live. Cold sweat broke out over his skin and fear tingled the hair on the back of his neck. Purely to divert his attention from his body’s reactions he shifted his attention to the people in the bit of street he could see from the alley.
He saw an old, grey bearded, vegetable vendor, his cart parked along the sidewalk, bellowing prices. He noticed a little boy no more than three bawling to his conservative, burqa*1 clad mother for ‘the flying balloon’ which he had seen a man selling a few paces behind them. He saw two pretty, well dressed, girls, gushing over some jewelry they absolutely had to have. He observed laborers busy at work, at a nearby construction site. He spotted street urchins and beggars trailing behind shoppers. He saw women shopping for clothes and husbands buying fruit or groceries on their way home. They all brimmed with vitality…
Why am I doing this? He asked himself. There happiness and vitality was creating doubts within him. He had been over this a million times already. He had volunteered for this. I believe in this. He told himself sternly. And yet a seed of doubt remained. These last minutes were not a time for self doubt. He knew he was now racing the clock. These few minutes left to him should belong to a last peaceful prayer for courage and forgiveness. He had known friends and other seniors he admired who had embraced this destiny with courage and faith- even eagerness. And yet he remained afraid and doubtful deep within…
He remembered all he had been taught. An image of his teacher for seven years swam before his eyes. Red henna*2 dyed wild beard, green turban, heavy lidded but sharp eyes, and white starched shalwar qamees*3, where his shalwar was always hitched up high to reveal thick ankles. His bushy brows furrowed with disapproval, he had told him that as a Muslim it was their responsibility to wage jihad*4 (holy war) on insolent pagans and those who pretended to be Muslim but were black hearted hypocrites following pagan traditions. “These people could not be convinced! They are spreading evil, immodesty, sin! These half naked women corrupt men. These westernized men do not pray and appreciate the true God. They watch movies with beautiful women wearing few clothes and hear music! Astaghfirullah!*5 Then they convince others to do the same! They corrupt pure children into a twisted pagan version of what they should be. They must be killed even if it costs us our lives! This is war! We will descend upon this sinful nation like the wrath of God himself. We holy men of God will give these people a taste of hell! We will stop this evil!” The Maulana*6 had spoken with so much conviction that the boy and the entire crowd had risen in fury and fervor, cheering and shouting their support.
Two days ago he had been sure of the course he wanted to take... He had been living with the Maulana and other boys like him in a distant village for seven years. It was there he had been trained for jihad. It was the Maulana who had clothed him, fed him, and taught him about religion. It was the Maulana who had taken him from his impoverished mother, with the promise that he would care for him and educate him in the religious ways. And he had kept his promise. But now returning to these streets where he had grown up, new doubts assailed him.
The vegetable vendor looked like a respectable man. He had a gray beard and a prayer mark on his forehead. What if he really is an honest god fearing man? A part of him asked. And the abaya*7 clad woman who was buying a balloon for her child was perfectly modest. Would he really kill these people who were most probably God fearing, honest and respectable- whom God might love? It would be murder!
They will be casualties of war! His other half argued.
His eyes moved to the two teenage girls, wearing tightly fitted clothes, buying jewelry. He had not seen girls in years. There had been few in the village where they lived, and even those wore huge dubattas*8, and ugly work clothes. His gaze caressed their forms, and hungers he had never known roused inside him with an intensity that made him gasp. Their slim bare arms, with the bangles dangling on their wrists made his breath catch and his heart break into a sprint. For the first time he understood what the Maulana had said about immodest women corrupting men.
That’s exactly why they must die! He told himself.
Not like this!
A part of him was not ready to give up. He looked at the laughing girls again. They looked serene and happy. There were other women in the street as well- shopping for clothes, jewelry, groceries. There were men busily working, or shopping or selling. There was a local restaurant at the corner full of people. There were laborers, urchins, beggars, shopkeepers, or helpers. This was the busiest part of the market. That was why he had been sent to this location. And they would all die…
A dim memory of long ago pushed into his head. A memory he had forgotten he possessed. It was of his father telling him some basics of religion. He had been nine. By then he knew how to pray and was being taught basic rules and history of Islam. “The greatest sin is murder” he had said “and the murder of one man is equal to the murder of all humanity. Similarly, he who saves even one life has saved all of humanity. He who kills even one Muslim intentionally would go to hell forever. Even in war against non-Muslims Muslim armies are forbidden from fighting or attacking anyone who is not fighting them. Women, children, even civilian men are not to be harmed.” He had than told him the story of the capture of Makah and than the later conquests of Hazrat Umar*9.
He realized he had been repressing this memory. For seven years he had lived in a culture of warfare. At first, the Maulana taught them the Quran and other religious studies. However during these past three years they were taught the art of making, wiring, and exploding all sorts of bombs. They had been continuously drilled to hate people who were half pagan- who had corrupted the very essence of Islam. They were continuously told how they were the warriors of Allah. How they fought to purify their religion.
They had never been given the time or opportunity to question what they had been taught. They had never seen the results of their deeds. They did not have access to television or radio. All they had heard was what the Maulana had told them. How one of their brothers had gloriously given his life for Islam. How he was shaheed*10 and enjoying Janna*11. How they should emulate him. And they had. Month after month their numbers decreased and new children were brought in for training. And they remained enthusiastic for the glory they envisioned.
Now he saw before him not glory but murder. Not villains but victims. He saw a vision in his mind of blood and bodies violently ripped apart. His mind’s eye imagined for him a street filled with debris and rubble. Shrieks and howls tore the dust clogged air with agony. He remembered the hardship and pain caused by his father’s death and thought of families which depended upon the people he saw.
Do I really want to do this to all these people? Do I really want to doom their families to poverty? Do I want to maim and kill so many?
So you would leave blatant sin as it is? To corrupt more and more each day? Will you let evil reign and do nothing? His other half asked him.
Yes. They do not attack me. Besides they are not all sinners. And I have no right to judge. For to kill them would be even more sin… This is a greater evil then theirs. It shall be no more!
He tore his eyes away from the street and glanced down at his watch. There were barely three minutes left. But his face was no longer tense. It was calm and peaceful. As if a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders. His heart no longer sprinted but beat with a steady even rhythm.
With a smile he turned his back to the crowded market place and ran down the street towards the empty cricket ground…
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*2 Henna is a plant dye/paste applied to hair to give it a reddish tinge. Henna is also used to make decorative designs on the hands of women in Eastern Culture, and leaves a reddish brown mark if allowed to dry.
*3 Shalwar Qameez is the national dress of Pakistan worn by both men and women. Shalwar are loose pajama-like trousers. The legs are very wide at the top, and narrow at the ankle. It is held by an elastic or drawstring at the waist. The qameez is a long shirt or tunic. The side seams (known as the chaak), left open below the waist-line, give the wearer greater freedom of movement.
*4 Jihad means struggle which could be an internal struggle to maintain faith, the struggle to improve the Muslim society, or the struggle in a holy war. Jihad may consist in wars against unbelievers, apostates, rebels, highway robbers and dissenters renouncing the authority of Islam. The primary aim of jihad as warfare is not the conversion of non-Muslims to Islam by force, but rather the expansion and defense of the Islamic state. Today, Muslim authors only recognize wars with the aim of territorial defense as well as the defense of religious freedom as legitimate.
*5 Astaghfirullah literally means "I seek forgiveness from Allah". A Muslim will use this phrase often, even in conversation with another person. When a Muslim abstains from doing wrong, or even wishes to prove their innocence in an incident, they will use this expression.
*6 Maulana is a title given to a Muslim religious leader
*7 Abaya is another name for a burqa
*8 A dupatta or dubatta is a long, multi-purpose scarf that is worn across both shoulders or like a cape around the entire torso. The primary use of a dupatta is to cover the head and/or any inadvertent cleavage and the contour of the bosom.
*9 `Umar ibn al-Khattāb, was the friend of the Islamic prophet, Muhammad (Peace be upon him), and one of his companions. Umar was, for 10 years, the second Muslim ruler after Muhammad's (PBUH) death and is known as the Second Guided Caliph. Hazrat is an honorific added for respect.
*10 Shaheed is a "martyr." It is used as an honorific for Muslims who have laid down their life fulfilling a religious commandment, or have died fighting in Jihad.
*11 Janna or Jannat is the Arabic word for Paradise
