Today, your little brother died
Like every other day, he left the house at 8 AM.
Like every other day, your mother looked at him walking away, admiring this little boy, her little boy who brought her so much happiness. He was the youngest in the family and, therefore, everybody cherished him.
He was wearing his blue jacket, the one you offered to him.
Like every other day, he stopped by the baker to greet her.
When you went back home, you found his bedroom cold and his bed empty yet filled with his laughter, his tears, his joys and his sorrows. Your sunshine faded away. Caught by the hate, the swallow that had brought spring into your house vanished into another world. Few grams of lead were enough to take away 4.3 feet of mischievousness, 65 pounds of innocence and eight years of your life. Eight years which will stay from now on a simple memory. Your brother should have become your friend, your fellow. He will only belong to the past.
Memories and cries.
You cry and shout out your anger. You want to push away reality, the very reality that caught you unawares, without even warning.
You only want to stay there, alone, sitting on this chair, in this empty room, where the remains of a presence no longer here are lying. In your head: a total void. Nothing, nothing left. They took your brother away. You loved him so much. He is gone. Gone. Gone. Gone.
He left this morning. One morning like so many others, one of those mornings when, at the corner of a lane, he would mess around with his schoolmates, and he would make his way toward school heedlessly.
You will not see him anymore. Even in your dreams, he will flee. You imagine he is behind the door. He is moving forward, step by step. Hardly has he walked a few meters that horrible screams snatch you from your lethargy and completely freeze you. You are all the more frightened as this voice sounds familiar to you. Seized by hot flushes, you try nevertheless to pull yourself together. The yells are getting closer and are grieving you. At this moment, this voice echoes in your head. All those lamentations, all those complaints, all those cries. You know them. They are yours.
But why did that happen today?
Why did that happen to him ? Why ? Why ? Why ?
You are swaying. They are getting closer. Your legs are shaking. You can feel his presence. The sweat is blinding you. He is there. You stagger. Seeing him, you suddenly collapse and burst into tears. You cry for not having rescued him. Down on your knees, your face on the ground, you moan. You cannot say a thing. Words hustle in your head, yet they cannot come out from your mouth. But your eyes are eloquent enough. They tell your pain, your remorse and your agitation.
But it is too late.
His little brother died and yours is still alive. He lived in Ramallah, Beit Jala or Gaza. You live in London, Boston, or Washington.
You are not guilty, that is true. You did not shoot anybody. But in that bullet, there was much more than just lead.
In that bullet, there was your indifference.
His little brother died.
"And say not of those who are killed in the way of Allah, “they are dead” Nay, they are living, but you perceive (it) not."
[Surah al-Baqarah, 2.154]
Never forget that turning a blind eye
to opression
and watching from the sidelines
is itself opression
- Harun Yahya
Allahumma ansur al-Islamu wal-muslimeen
(O Allah! Help Islam and the Muslims)
Ameen.