LI Writing Contest 09 - The Entries!

Jihad

" It is for the sake of Allah, it is jihad, do not be shy in the path of Allah, the fires of hell will not touch your body.." As Abu Fahad spoke, Jamil's mind drifted off. He went back to the time when his entire family was blown up in the Afghan bombings during US occupation. He remembered his vow today, as he stood in front of Abu Fahad, the man who will make his dream come true; of shahada and eternal peace.

" I will make a difference. I will kill at least one criminal in return for what they have taken from me even if I have to die for it". That was what he had said.. Having no family, no job, in fact nothing at all , this was his vow, his promise to himself.

Soon afterwards he met khalil, a recruit of some kind. Jamil couldn't understand why it would need recruitment for a job like this. Keeping in view the current state of the country, perhaps all Afghanis would like to blow someone up.
He promised him revenge for his family's death and that was all Jamil needed.

It was long and hard struggle. The weapons training, the bomb making, the Intelligence lessons. Though at the end of it, none of the skills were needed. He snapped out of his thoughts as Abu Fahad asked him something.

" These people support the government that kills our kind every day. They are as guilty as their soldiers." Abu Fahad was saying. Jamil nodded, and Abu Fahad continued.." Yousef here will take you there. Both of you have a great responsibility to Allah and Islam. You will be martyred in the name of Allah and you will live forever. Make sure that whatever happens, do not let yourself be caught alive, do not let the infidels take your honour away." Jamil nodded," I understand commander".

Today was the day, both Jamil and Yousef were selected because of the intense revenge they had in them, for the task. They were to blow themselves up in a train, full of people in India. This thing was so common by now that when Jamil asked Yousef how he felt, he said "It is now almost a fashion", they had laughed nervously at the joke.

All the commanders and alot of Mujahideen were gathered today, it was supposed to be a big operation. The "mujahideen" were going to go out on a killing spree followed by the bombs in the panic ridden train station.

Just before they parted, Mustafa came in, to give the final blessings, the one who was rumoured to be the "Amir of the mujahideen" for their country. So this is how he looks like. Jamil suddenly recalled his family, his innocent little brother, only 14 years old, his father, mother, his sister, 19 years old, who could have been married by now. He felt his heart ache with pain.

"It is for the sake of Allah", Jamil said "Allah forgive me" were his last words as he pressed the button in the building full of "mujahideen". Warriors sacrificed to save the lives of innocent people. No more innocent blood will flow, jamil had thought, as he shed more blood...

Snapshot

A click and a whirr and Ismail froze his son. It didn’t matter that Samir was asleep, one arm curled around his soft gorilla. It didn’t matter that the boy squirmed, scratched his round nose and nuzzled into his azure pillows. It didn’t matter that he had to leave tomorrow. Ismail smiled, put the camera down and tiptoed to his side, crouching to kiss his forehead.

He wiped a stray black hair from Samir’s cheek and gazed at the chest of drawers opposite, yellow hallway light glancing off the lens of the camera on its surface. The idea of all those immortal frozen moments in that little black box almost destroyed dull, mundane thoughts of divorce papers and lost cases and broken skulls spilling scarlet across prison cell floors.

Something buzzed against Ismail’s thigh. He winced when Samir twisted – but relaxed when the boy shivered, pulled the blanket tighter round his shoulders and slept undisturbed by the sudden gust whose faint aftermath feathered his hair.

Thank God his phone hadn’t woken the boy. Ismail would just close the window after the call, which, mobile flipped open and slapped to his ear, he answered in the living room. “Gordy, I told you, I’m fine.”

“Nice Gordy from work?” a woman’s voice replied with a recognisable pinch of irritation.

“He keeps calling. I don’t even work there anymore, remember?”

“Didn’t stop the sweetheart coming for dinner all the time. He should become a marriage counsellor.”

Gordy did have a way with people. And clients. Ismail rubbed his furrowed brow to erase the memories gathering behind it, Gordy’s solemn frown, Mrs Khan weeping and Tariq’s bloodshot, hopeless eyes.... “Asalaam alaikum,” Ismail spoke into the phone. “How are you, Atia?”

“Walaikum asalaam. I’m fine. So it’s about that stuff on the news?”

Nosy  no, curious  as ever. “Yeah.” He gazed at the three photographs upon the mantel. “I just hope the family are okay.” He remembered Tariq and his broken camera phone and his breaking spirit. “I’d hate if this destroyed them.”

“Like it destroyed us?” No bitterness in her voice. Sadness maybe. Annoyance. “If you’d listened to me in the first place - ”

“Not again.” He held a picture, tried to return the smile worn by each of its subjects. Atia, hair a black banner by her right shoulder, held Samir’s arms, blurred background foliage painting mother and son’s joy with autumn warmth. “If I’d known the case would take so much time  ”

“You’d have taken it anyway.” Maybe a tad bitter. “Remember? ‘The biggest credit card fraud case the firm’s ever had.’ Your words.”

He closed his eyes, certain from her tone that her sloping cheeks now framed red lips twisted in a half-sneer that wrinkled her nose and lowered her brow. He said, “You didn’t call just to scold me.”

“No.” She sighed between gritted teeth in that familiar exasperated hiss. “You’re right. I shouldn’t be angry you left me with Samir while you fought great, famous legal battles. It’s just unreasonable.” Sour Atia: mix three parts sarcasm to two parts bitterness. Serve chilled. “Especially considering you lost anyway and your precious client got his head smashed in this morning.”

His set jaw trapped the insults tangoing on his tongue. “Finished?” He looked at the photo of he and Samir at the botanical gardens, the pair crouched against a backdrop of pretty blue flowers whose names he’d forgotten. “We went to the zoo today. He loved it. We took loads of pictures and I bought him this cuddly gorilla he wanted.”

“Maybe it reminded him of you. But cuddlier.” The phone filtered her acidic titter into tinny dissonance.

His fists unclenched when he focused on the final picture, the three of them waving in Bradgate Park. “Can we stop fighting? I want us - ”

Something crashed and skittered outside.

“What the hell?” He dashed to the window, peeped through the curtains, ignored Atia’s frightened nagging and peered at the alleyway this part of the ground floor flat overlooked.

Amber streetlights at the alley’s head illuminated the toppled wheelie bin, rubbish-laden bags strewn like vomit round a drunk. An orange quadruped turned left at the alley’s end and disappeared behind the wall. He knew it passed his bedroom before loping back into sight and onto the street.

“Bloody foxes,” he muttered. “Everything’s fine.”

Atia’s words exploded into his ear: “Was it in that alleyway that’s where your room is and that’s where Samir is and you didn’t leave the window open like you always do did you Ismail you stupid  ”

“I’m checking on him.” He darted to the bedroom. “But I don’t want to wake him.” He hung up, despite and because of her hysterics.

Samir snored. The room looked undisturbed, at least in the light the hallway afforded. Ismail crept toward the curtains beside the chest of drawers. Teeth gritted, he parted the rippling, blue fabric folds and glared out.

Nothing. No men, no animals, no psycho killers that staggered between the two. Only a garbage pile to scoop into the bin after checking the flat. He shook his head. But his pulse spiked as he slid the window shut. He didn’t remember opening it so wide.

* * *

Ismail squinted as sunlight glanced into his retinas. He blinked the small queue into focus, the customer entering his PIN while the assistant tuned the radio until a newscaster’s voice crackled out of the static.

“We’re getting the pictures now.” Samir grinned, waved his gorilla and spoke into the mobile, “Daddy said we can go to the park later, because the photo shop closes early on Sundays.” Chestnut eyes lighting as he relayed the events of the past day and a half, Samir wandered to the shelves and inspected blister-packed cameras with the faint sneer of a food critic.

Ismail wondered where the kid learned that expression and wished he’d taken a photo to help solve the mystery. A departing customer blocked his view and he realised he was now second in line. He fumbled for his receipt, heart rate climbing. So close to his frozen moments-

“In other news, police have confirmed that Fahim Khan...”

The name squeezed his eyes shut. In the darkness spoke the tear-streaked face of Tariq Khan. “He wanted out.” Stressed palms wiped his hair into a crown of black flames; veins reached for brown irises; cracked lips released a hoarse whisper: “Tell them I had proof.”

Droning clatters shook the ground. Ismail’s eyelids unfurled and revealed the lorry, a blue-white blur that made a baseball-capped pedestrian stagger, adjust his sunglasses and hurry past the window.

Samir described the vehicle over the phone then rattled a cardboard camera at Ismail, who raised his eyebrows and said, “We already have one.” Perhaps his voice and the background traffic hubbub would muffle the rest of the report. A vain hope.

“Khan, convicted last year for his role in one of Britain’s most serious cases of credit card fraud, was found dead in his prison cell yesterday morning. Thomas Grant, a fellow inmate, was charged with his murder…”

Motorcycle growls drowned the report’s remainder. Ismail would have smiled had he not recalled Tariq’s words.

“Tell them about the photos I took, the video I made with my phone, tell them the others saw me and smashed it and threatened me,” Tariq had struggled to say over his mother’s sobs. “Don’t let this happen, he’s my brother!” His voice rose to a shout that Mrs Khan’s coughs couldn’t dampen and Gordy’s counsel wouldn’t soothe, echoing around the room to thunder in Ismail’s mind. “Prison would destroy him!”

“Sir?”

He looked up.

The shop assistant’s brow lowered over wide blue eyes. “Everything all right?”

Ismail blinked, saw he was now at the queue’s head and nodded. “Daydreaming.” He gave the assistant his receipt.

Samir giggled. “Okay, Mummy. Asalaam alaikum.” He blew a kiss and beamed. “Here’s your phone, Daddy.”

Ismail slid it into the case attached to his belt, ruffled his son’s hair and felt his own cheeks redden as he grinned back. Mountains could crumble, sky and sea fall and boil, and one of the boy’s dimpled smiles would restore light and joy to Ismail’s soul, but-

Atia would collect the child today at five, like always, leaving Ismail for another fortnight with nothing but memories. And photographs, of course, which the assistant handed over.

Father and son exited, warmth bubbling through Ismail’s chest. It cooled when he noticed he gripped the photos tighter than his son’s hand. “Want to see them?”

“I want to play football!” Gorilla bounced upon knee, chest and head before Samir’s enthusiasm evaporated. “Couldn’t we park closer?”

Double yellow lines had forced them to park halfway down De Montfort Street across the road. At least there was time to enjoy the pictures.

The photographic Samir’s balloon cheeks lifted his lips, cobalt sleeve creased as he indicated a gorilla pacing the grass like a shadow through algae. Ismail shuffled through, saw the boy laughing before flamingos, craning to meet a giraffe’s gaze, waving at lumbering elephants, staring at llamas and lemurs and leopards and lions, a conga of coloured gloss to a traffic cacophony.

He stopped at the photo of his son nestled in azure pillows, arm a brown crescent against his teddy ape, and felt his heart simmer. When he slid the picture to the bottom of the pile, he saw the remaining photograph of Samir asleep and frowned. In the foreground, head tilted as his right arm bent toward the boy and his left reached beyond the image’s border, stood Tariq Khan.

Ismail’s blood froze. Between his lips hissed a breath. Below his rib spiked a blade. Around his right shoulder clamped an arm. And into his left ear spoke a voice.

“That came out nicely.” The voice’s owner smirked under sunglasses and baseball cap. The knife corkscrewed shirt and flesh. “Shh.”

“What do you want, Tariq?” Ismail’s jaw locked and he glanced ahead at Samir spinning his gorilla like a lasso within inches of amused passers-by who’d see Khan’s arm round Ismail, miss the concealed blade the former pressed into the latter’s left side, and assume they were old friends catching up.

“You know, you really should close your windows at night. Can’t be too careful with all those weirdoes around.” Tariq’s cackle shivered down his neck. “And I need your phone.”

Ismail tore it from its case. “Here. Go.”

The knife withdrew, the left hand took the mobile, and the right fist knuckled into his chest. “You haven’t seen my snap.” Opening, the fist revealed a cellular phone upon whose screen sprawled shoulders, an arm, a head against scarlet. “Oops, wrong one.”

The blade jabbed into place, shutting Ismail’s eyes. They opened to a different image. Crimson streamers down chalk. Swollen prunes. Blue planets in purple nebulae. Perception fused these elements into the cheeks, lips and eyes of a man’s face. Bruised. Bleeding.

Gordy.

“What have you done?” His heart thumped the fist’s edge. The knife’s edge pierced fabric. “Where is he?”

“Gordon Morris? We’ll visit him. Guy’s convinced that if he contacts anyone, I’ll kill you and the tot.” Tariq grinned through his grimace. “You two are more fun to follow anyway, but kids are cute. Might have bought Samir a camera if that bloody lorry hadn’t startled me.”

Samir faced them through afterimages of Gordy’s beaten face. Ismail’s twisted gut sucked the shout from his throat. “Look, I’m sorry about Fahim-”

“Aren’t we all?” Blade pricked skin.

Samir’s cheeks bracketed his puzzled smile. Ismail said, “Let’s talk about this.”

“Exactly why I’m here, mate.”

The boy ambled toward them. Ismail shook his head. “I’ll take Samir home and-”

“He’ll come along.”

Ismail glared into the sunglasses, twin reflections phantoms before Khan’s eyes. “He’s a child.”

The fist drummed his breastbone. “This is a phone, but if I use it Gordon gets beaten to death.”

“Daddy,” Samir asked, gorilla swaying by his foot, “who’s that?”

“An old friend, little man,” Tariq answered before Ismail could, then released him, held the knife behind his own back and gripped the boy’s shoulder. “Let’s go for a walk.”

* * *

Key, Khan, Samir and simian slotted, stood, sagged and swung before Ismail like a paper chain. He unclenched his fists, inhaled the spice in the air, thumbed the photos stuffed in his pocket. His heart still pounded its bone-cage’s bars. Even knowledge of the area–a side street off Evington Road, near the mosque–didn’t calm it. Knowledge was powerless when Tariq had his son, his phone and a blade.

Khan nodded at the house. “Fahim and me were doing this place up.” Lock clicking, the door opened. “Profits would have paid for Mum’s special care.” He entered the gloom with the boy and the toy.

Floorboards amplified the trio’s steps while pipes moaned copper whale song that slowed Ismail’s pulse enough for him to ask, “How is she?” Courtesy couldn’t hurt.

Tariq closed the door. His shades glinted in the sunlight shafting from the window above the staircase to which he turned, head inclined, lips wrenched downward by emotion snared in puckered shadows along his jaw.

“Tariq, I’m sorry.” Too quick. Too quiet. Hollow. The nothing Ismail felt coloured his cheeks. He looked at his son, who gazed at the ape, which faced a cluster of dark ellipses on the floor.

Khan swallowed. “She wasn’t the same after the trial. Her firstborn behind bars.” He and Samir ascended the stairs. “Broke her heart.” The light the window cast made Tariq a silhouette, which paused. Lowered its voice. “Broke mine.” Louder: “So I did something about it.”

Ismail wanted to tear his gaze from the maroon dots salting the steps he climbed, or from the empty street beyond the window he passed. He wanted to look Khan in the face and talk him down or yell his defiance. Instead he murmured, “We appealed.”

“Your learned friend Mr Morris appealed, badly. You’d already resigned.”

The acid in Tariq’s voice snapped Ismail’s vision off the ground, but produced shame that allowed him to focus only on the open closet at the end of the bedroom Khan led he and Samir into. The boy stumbled. His shoe scraped floorboards specked with crimson trailing rightward into an alcove that had distracted Samir as he passed and chilled Ismail as he reached it.

In the alcove - wrists bound to a radiator, constellation of scarlet a spattered halo beneath his ruddy jaw, tape-gagged mouth, and swollen eyes - lay Gordon Morris.

The chill in Ismail’s chest cascaded to his gut and simmered. He clenched his teeth. He’d seen the empty street outside, no brutes to follow through on Tariq’s threat. Tariq’s lie.

And now -

A hollow slam spun Ismail around to see Khan stepping away from the closet whose door was padlocked shut and shaking with the pounds of tiny hands and feet.

And now Tariq had imprisoned Samir.

Ismail’s heart thumped a war beat that marched him toward Khan and shot a right cross for his face - but felt only air, heard only the rattle of sunglasses across floor. Tariq had swung out of the way.

Ismail attempted a left hook. But a glint in Khan’s grip became a blur that seared across Ismail’s cheek, spreading fingers of pain which pulled his chin into Tariq’s knuckles and slammed Ismail to the ground.

The closet door began to rattle. It stopped when one smack thundered the woodwork. A second smack gave birth to muted yells. Ismail looked up and saw Tariq pounding the door a final time. Samir wept in response.

Khan sighed, turning. “Kids, eh?” His smirk warped the edge of the bruise his left eye sat in. “Might want to wipe down that shaving cut.”

Ismail ignored the tendrils seeping from that slash for his neck, ignored the mockery in Tariq’s voice, ignored even the words in his mockery, and focused on his black eye. How easy it would be to give him another and complete the collection of injuries Gordy had started. The thought made Ismail grin.

The grin made Khan wag the knife like a finger. “Behave, or I stop wrecking your life and start ending it.”

Ismail’s scowled a smile as he stood. He’d show Tariq wrecking. He’d show him damaging and fracturing and shattering. Or he would have done had he not heard a grunt behind him. He turned, saw Gordy’s bruised eyes shine with calm so intense it crumbled Ismail’s boulder fists. Gordy uttered a single, muffled syllable and shook his head.

“That’s good advice,” said Tariq.

And Ismail didn’t shout or rage or smash his head in. It was almost funny. This craziness was just a misunderstanding. “We’re nobody, Tariq. Me, Gordy, we’re just a couple of lawyers. We didn’t kill your brother.” Anger-tinged logic ironed creases of panic from his voice as he faced Tariq, who now held Ismail’s phone in one hand and his own in the other. Ismail said, “The animal whose life you want to ruin is a prisoner called Thomas Grant.”

Tariq looked up from the phones. “Grant is an animal.” Pain flickered across his eyes. “And you two put Fahim in his cage.” He turned his attention to the mobiles. “You put him there when you stopped fighting.”

“Stopped?” Ismail took a step closer. “I fight so hard I lose my wife and my kid and it’s still not good enough? You weren’t the only one this case destroyed.”

Tariq stared at him. “You’re right.” He raised Ismail’s mobile to eye-level. “Maybe you’ll want to help me fix things.” A flash and a whirr and he’d taken a picture.

“What are you doing?”

Khan pointed the phone at Gordy and snapped another shot. “Great resolution on this thing. No photos in the album, though.” He looked at the screen, mouth a zigzag of concentration and derision. “Bad memories of camera phones?”

Fury crept up Ismail’s throat. “You haven’t answered my question.”

“I’m giving you,” Tariq said, fiddling with the phone, “motivation.”

Ismail wouldn’t need motivation to go and shake Tariq down for the key to the closet’s padlock. Only permission. He looked for it over his shoulder, in Gordy’s eyes. Didn’t find it. Then Ismail’s phone rang.

Tariq rattled the mobile. “It’s for you.” He threw it to Ismail.

Atia’s name flashed onscreen. Ismail didn’t answer. Khan had obviously sent her the pictures he’d just taken. “Enough, Tariq.” He dropped the mobile. Stomped it. Transformed 80 quid’s-worth of phone into scrap under his heel.

Tariq said, “That was mature.”

Ismail looked past him to the padlocked closet door and walked toward it, uncaring that Khan obstructed his path, until Tariq flashed out the knife and pointed it at his throat. He halted a foot from the blade. “Give me the key, Tariq.”

Khan stepped closer. “Chill.” Rested the blade on Ismail’s collarbone. “I’m releasing him soon, anyway.” Pivoted the knife to nudge Ismail toward the closet. “It’s part of Plan B.”

Ismail moved as the blade required until they stood beside the closet door. “Just let Samir go.”

“After we’ve sent a few shots to your ex-wife-to-be.” Knife at Ismail’s throat, Tariq looked at his own mobile. “Found her number eventually.” He brought the phone level with the knife. “Let’s get some father-son-father’s-colleague bonding shots.” He smirked. “You’ll all need to undress.”

Outrage crystallised along Ismail’s ribs. Khan must have been playing some sick joke.

But Tariq pointed the knife at Ismail’s eye. “Now.”

So Ismail unbuckled his belt. He glanced at the closet door as he pulled the belt from his waist. He stared at Tariq’s black eye as the strap hung from his own grasp. He watched that eye become a target at which he cracked the belt.

Buckle-end first.

Tariq screamed. His phone hand released the mobile to clutch his face. His knife hand waved the blade as he lunged for Ismail, who crunched a kick into Khan’s knee, which bent backward and flipped Tariq onto his side. The knife sailed out of his grip toward Gordy’s prone form.

Ismail dashed to his friend. Gordy stared at the blade laying inches from his thigh. He was silent until Ismail used the knife to cut his bonds, helped him stand and watched him tear the tape from his mouth.

“Thanks,” Gordy said. “I did my best.”

Tariq yelled a laugh. Ismail lurched toward him, pressed an arm against his chest and the knife-edge under his chin. “The key.”

Khan’s head rocked back and forth, words grunted between lips crinkled by pain from his ruined kneecap and punctured cheek. “Balance things. Complete what you started.” He stared at Ismail, eyes glistening with sorrow. “You want to.” Or joy. “Kill me.”

Ismail glared at the man who’d slashed his face; imprisoned his son and beaten his friend; attempted to annihilate his family in one perverted swoop. And Ismail didn’t want to kill him. He just wanted to tell him the truth. “I did stop fighting for Fahim. I chose my family above yours.” He moved the blade away. “And I still do.” Gordy helped Ismail up, then searched Tariq until he found the key, which he gave to Ismail, who walked to the closet, footsteps in time with the repeated thump of Khan’s rocking head against the floor.

“You have to end it.” Tariq groaned and coughed.

Ismail un-padlocked the closet door and opened it. Samir staggered sobbing into his arms, against his chest. Ismail kissed his head, lifted the soft gorilla Samir dropped, watched him hold the dusty toy close.

Gordy said, “Let’s see this scumbag’s other pictures.”

Ismail placed a hand over his son’s screwed-shut eyes and turned to see Gordy fiddling with Tariq’s mobile. Khan froze, eyes wide. Gordy followed suit. “Ismail.” He passed him the phone.

The image on its screen shook recognition through Ismail’s chest. He’d seen the picture earlier, seen the body sprawled against scarlet, but hadn’t registered the colour as blood leaking from the body’s head, or that the face was visible.

And the face belonged to Fahim Khan.

“You’d have done the same,” Tariq murmured. Blood trickled through the fingers of the hand clutching his cheek. “If all it took to free your boy, your wife or your mate from some hellhole was a phone-call to a psycho like Grant.” His voice cracked. “He even sends you proof.”

Ismail held Samir’s head to his chest. Looked at Gordy. They could have consoled or condemned Tariq. They chose to head for the door, Ismail readying Tariq’s phone.

“Go on, call the police.” Tariq lay back. “Make a fuss. Let the media vultures have a peck.” He stared at Ismail through unshed tears. “You’ll never see Samir after this trauma. You’ll never get back with Atia.” He sat up. “If you’d listened, if you’d balanced things and taken my life to compensate my brother’s, you’d be inside and wouldn’t care you’d been destroyed. Like I won’t.” He looked at the floor. “Like Fahim didn’t.”

Ismail dialled the first of three nines.

“Make a fuss. She won’t let you near him,” Tariq whispered. “Call the police, and you’ll never see him smile again.”

Ismail raised the phone to his ear, because Tariq was wrong. Atia could leave with Samir and never return, but the smiles would remain, preserved and protected in Ismail’s pocket or on his mantel. Nobody would steal his frozen moments.

On the streets of Jerusalem

The evening was cool and calm as the sun began to set over the Holy City of Jerusalem. A fresh breeze travelled through the air, rustling the leaves as it whistled passed them. I inhaled the cool air, refreshing and tranquilizing my soul.
Gunshots sounded vaguely in the background, as was the norm on the trouble-ridden streets of Jerusalem.
My gaze wandered upon my surroundings. To my left, I saw kids chasing and running after one another; I smiled at their youthful innocence. In the distance I saw armed soldiers patrolling the area. Like clones, they stood all dressed in the same uniform, their eyes moved back and forth, as if anticipating potential “trouble.”
Opposite their station, a group of people young and old had clustered into a small group. With slingshots in hand, they stared back, standing their ground ready to fight if need be.
Unrest and tension stirred in the air, unsettling my nerves. The fresh breeze was replaced with the smell of trouble.

And yet, amazingly, even through this unrest and tension, the sound of the call to prayer boasted through the atmosphere, its awesome tunes lifting to clouds gathering worshippers for the evening prayer.
Holding him securely in my arms, I made my way to the Masjid, with a 6-month-old Sufyaan wrapped warmly in my Khimaar. I fixed my eyes at his miniature human features in amazement and smilied at his distinctively shaped sword-like birthmark as my glance fell upon his neck, where it was neatly placed. Like perfume, his unique baby odour drifted gently up my nostrils. I placed my hand on his head soothingly as he began to wriggle awake. Soft cries sounded in my ears, their discomfort piercing and pulling at my heartstrings in concern. I held his cheek close to my face and softly kissed it comfortingly. With the tips of my fingers I massaged his small scalp gently, continuing in repetition until finally his petite eyelids closed and his soft purr-like snores drifted, like music, into my ears.
I had finally reached the Masjid as the Iqaamah sounded. Hurriedly I placed Sufyaan beside me and stood in line with the other worshipers.
It was during Sujood when chaos broke out. One by one, soldiers stormed through the Masjid, breaking down doors as they scattered their bullets ruthlessly, shooting aimlessly. Cries of anguish echoed through the Masjid as they charged through the men’s section first. Screams of terror by both children and adults sounded as lives were taken unjustfully and worshippers snatched forcefully.
Women frantically grabbed their kids and ran, some only making it a short distance before they too fell prey to the enemy's bullet or else were kidnapped.
Fearing for both our lives, I too turned for Sufyaan. Panic arose inside me as I found him to be missing. I looked to my right and left, behind and in front of me. And yet, still no Sufyaan. Tears welled in my eyes and worry overswept me as I tried pushing every frightening possibility behind his disappearance aside. I knew I had to stay as focused and remain as calm as possible. It was hard as I heard soldiers make their way up to the sister’s room, the sound of bullets still sounding strong.
At a distance, I saw a soldier at the corner of my eye. Beads of sweat ran down my forehead as my frantic search continued. It was a race against time. I knew I had to get out of there or else I too would fall prey to their bullet.
Guilt and sorrow penetrated through my soul . My life or my son. A split second decision had me heading towards the nearest exit as bullets whistled passed me, hitting the wall close by.
I ran out of the Masjid with tears staining my face and blinding my way as the thought of my son being parted from me, and I not being able to comfort his helpless self, pinched me, weakening my heart, body and soul. Guilt tore me in half as the contemplations of a 6-month-old Sufyaan without care and security, grasped my soul. Like a strong grip, they refused to let go.
I kept running and yet my legs barely carried me as painful thoughts ran through my mind. My world was taken from me, and I had nothing else in me except to run to safety. And that I did. I kept running until I had reached the security of the nearest hospital, empty handed and broken hearted without my little Sufyaan with me.

20 years later...
In a cold tiny isolated room, I lay motionless. The pain in my leg throbbing violently, thus awakening me from my unconscious state. I shiver from cold as a chilly breeze stirs outside. I felt weak and numb, confused and alone. I tried to remember what had happened for me to be stuck in this troublesome predicament.
I recalled myself strolling through a Masjid wherein its walls were riddled with gun bullet holes and although very slightly, were still stained with the blood of innocent worshippers. Within its whole building the screams of anguished worshippers lingered in the air, as if preserved and recorded within the building’s structure, even with the passing of two decades.
I continued laying there motionless, staring at the ceiling recalling back to the Masjid. I further recalled back to worshippers praying peacefully when chaos and terror broke out as soldiers stormed the Masjid, forcing us to flee with our lives and children; as if history was bought back to life. The familiarity of the saga ripping me, as memories of my missing son stirred inside me. Even after many years, my wounds had refused to heal, as the pain continued to grasp violently at my heart, leaving behind a bitter and longing sorrow. I wondered what had happened to him . All terrifying possibilities stung my eyes with anxious tears.
I wiped them away as I fled seeking safety but alas! This time I was unable to reach it. This time I was being chased. The second I saw him, my knees turned to jelly, as he advanced towards me with his well built and sturdy figure. I knew I had to stay strong. I told myself my weakness was in my head and not in my body. It was a battle between wishful thinking and reality. Wishful thinking had won.
A large well-built enemy soldier continued advancing towards me, as I continued advancing away from him, trying to catch my breath at every opportunity I had. I dodged him through the streets, hiding behind the rocks and rubble of walls destroyed by the turmoil of war. I frequently looked behind me to see where he was, and breathed a sigh of relief when I noticed he was no longer chasing me. Although I was given a break, I knew I couldn’t discontinue, as my life was still at risk. I looked around me to see my next shelter only to spot the gaze of a young masked man following me. I felt surprised. It was as if he was trying to tell me something, almost warning me, but our distance made it near impossible for me to grasp his message.
I had spotted my next stop and as discretely as possible I headed towards it, looking around me cautiously. I gasped in terror when I see the enemy soldier coming towards me. Without a second thought I turned around and headed in the opposite direction running as fast as possible my feet taking over one another in a repetitive rhythmic stride.
Suddenly I unexpectedly tripped, and in extreme pain I fell to the ground, clutching my ankle in agony. I was breathing hard, gasping for air, and my heart was pounding. I glanced towards my enemy, and saw an evil look in his eyes. I knew why he was after me, but I was eager to deny him, even if it resulted in a horrible death. I tried getting up and continuing. I was determined to put up a fight and get away, even if it meant crawling.
Taking advantage of my weakness his footsteps came closer to me, fixing his gaze sternly on me, expressing his filthy intent well. I fixed mine sternly back at him, knowing well what he wanted, knowing well that my weakness would only motivate his intent. I tried staying as strong as I could, determined not to give in without a fight. I tried staying strong and fought him with everything I had. What he threw at me, I threw back, even if a little. He lunged for my Hijaab. I grabbed his wrist and twisted it hard. He let off a slight cry in anguish. I couldn’t help but express a sly smile, but made the mistake of disclosing it as he attacked me in revenge. I continued fighting back as hard as I could, my fists making contact with his face several times. But it was to no avail as he fought me off easily and using his fist, he clobbered me over the head harshly and in a state of unconsciousness I thus fell in.

And now here I was beaten down and weak, like a mouse being helplessly tossed around by its preyer cat. Scared, frightened and alone I was, locked in a small room. A window it contained, and no carpet had it had, only sand and rocks, some small while others were larger. Its door was securely and evidently locked. It seemed isolated from everywhere else, and an unresting silence it possessed.
I needed to move as numbness was beginning to overwhelm my body. I battled against my body and throbbing leg and managed to sit up. I tilted my head up to look out the window and around at my surroundings, trying to see if I could familiarize anything of it. Indeed, many things looked familiar, for how could I forget the war riddled streets of The Holy City.

My gaze wondered further around me. In the distance, something had caught my eye. Three young men concealed by the tress they were hiding behind, looked towards me. Save one of them, all had their faces hidden behind the turbans they wore, leaving only their eyes exposed. I managed to recognize the masked one as the unknown youth from before. My heart couldn’t help but warm up to them as they seemed pious, strong and brave. I knew they wanted something from me, ‘but what?’ echoed the voice at the back of my head. They seemed to know that something was wrong and they looked as if they were keen to come towards me, but something seemed to have stopped them. One made a desperate indication with his eyes; a message it seemed. I couldn’t figure out what he was trying to say. I squinted my eyes, cringing them in confusion. He indicated to me once more, this time his message more desperate as he nodded his head frantically towards something. I frowned puzzled, trying to figure out his message. I needed not to, as suddenly I heard a noise behind me. I turned around and there standing in the doorframe, was the enemy solider. My heart sank as I knew that he came to finish off what he started, but I was still determined not to go down without a fight. I fixed my gaze on him sternly once again despite my inner self-crumbling, as he grabbed my wrist and pushed me to the floor. I fell back, my head whacking against the wall behind me. I cringed in pain as my head spun and the urge to throw up nearly overwhelmed me. I exerted all efforts into defending myself, but it was only so much I could do as he seized my neck violently. I opened my mouth to scream, managing only a muffled and faint noise as his grip tightened against my throat. I froze with fear, and tears ran down my cheeks uncontrollably as he winked at me expressing his plan well. I felt his smoke breath close to my face. Humiliation and grief overwhelmed me, as my honour was about to be snatched from me and I lay, unable to defend myself from my tyrannical enemy. My whole body battered and numbed from the brutal beatings it had unjustfully copped, and bruises had began to form.

I couldn’t bear it much longer, even if it cost me my life, I had to do something. As discretely as possible, I moved my palms over the sand closest to me “kneading” my fingers through the sand grains until I felt something large and rough brush against my hand. I breathed a sigh of relief as I grasped the rock firmly in my hand.

I mustered all the courage I could and with all strength, I slowly lifted my arm, closing my eyes tightly as I aimed for his temple. My arm swayed across the air. I breathed a sigh of relief and yet was startled, as I felt his weight forced off of me. Slowly and wearily I opened my eyes, only to see the masked youth holding the enemy soldier pinning him firmly against the wall. He placed one arm firmly across his enemy’s chest, and in his other hand a dagger he held, positioned ready for use. I smiled remembering how he had previously seen me in trouble. On the soldiers face terror was “tattooed” and sweat dripped down his forehead. His eyes read fear, knowing what was about to come of him.

I watched on with enthusiasm when suddenly my eyes noticed something move. I gasped as I saw the soldier pulling out a dagger from its sheath placed on his waist. Its blade glistered as he raised it aiming for his victim. I screamed to alarm the oblivious youth. A sigh of relief overcame me as he backed off quickly just as the blade of his enemy knife swung past him, barely missing him.
Rapidly, he placed his dagger in front of him defensively as the soldier, in a mad rage lunged towards him, stopping short as the youth’s weapon was placed in anticipation to fight, as if almost daring his enemy to strike.

And there they stood, face-to-face, staring fiercely at one another, their weapons clenched tightly in their hands. Evident from their body language, the fire of hatred was enlightened in their hearts. Evident also was their strength and personality; their eyes exchanging glances of fury with one another. Neither was going to give in before the other; both were hungry for victory.
With weapons in position to strike, they slowly circulated one another. Their glares still holding strong, refusing to turn away. After a short while, finally, the solider tool a strike at the youth. The youth lifted his dagger and managed to block the soldier. The tips of their blade rhythmically moved through the air, as each one of them fended off the other with a corresponding reply. The soldier didn’t attack or lunge, except that the youth defended and fought off. I felt my heart fly in deep admiration at the courage and determination of the youth.

The battle persisted, and the fighting was intense when the youth was placed in a position of vulnerability. The soldier took his chance to attack, as he saw the youth kneeling back on both knees. Grasping his sword tightly with both hands, the soldier raised his weapon high above his head, slicing the air as he bought it down, aiming it at the middle of the youth’s head I gasped! I thought he was finished. It didn’t seem to bother him though as he held the handle of his dagger horizontally high in front of him and blocked the soldier off. They were locked in this position, eyes still fiercely glaring at one another. Finally the youth pushed himself up, fending the soldier off and pushing him back forcefully, causing him to lose his balance. He quickly regained it, lunging at the youth, lowering his dagger and directing it towards the youth’s abdomen. He jumped back slightly as to avoid the weapon of his enemy. He lost his balance as he tried to regain his footing, hence finding himself in a position of vulnerability once again. His enemy truly now had his victim. My heart skipped a hundred beats. I wish I was able to help him, but I myself was still helpless. He raised his sword…I couldn’t watch. I felt sick. I turned my face in the opposite direction. My tears welled in my eyes as I heard a loud thud and a cry of anguish. I turned around to see the youth laying helpless on the floor, his dagger rolling out of his lifeless grip and landing near mine, as if almost giving it to me.
I took it quickly as the soldier came towards me, predicting my next move. I grabbed the dagger and waited for him to come closer, as to get a better chance. With all energy, I aimed it at him, his blood splatting onto me, as a frown of pain formed deeply on his face. I breathed a sigh of relief as his unconscious body fell helplessly to the floor.

Still without energy, I managed to life myself and drag my body over to the motionless youth. With hands trembling, and tears filling my eyes, I slowly and carefully removed his face cover.
My heart tears a part when behold, the deceased yet most handsome face of Sufyaan was revealed before me, his unique sword-like birthmark easily identifying him. His handsome face with eyes- although hidden beneath his closed eyelids-expressed an illuminated soul. A smile almost ear to ear, played on his lips as if witnessing something pleasant and tranquil. His handsome face with light pouring from it, whiting his dark complexion. Its intensity so white, almost making it difficult for me to see. Even his blood seemed to be omitting a sweet fragrance.
Helpless with emotion, I threw myself over his dead body, my tears blinding me as I bury my face close to him, their abundance practically saturating his skin.
I place my arm across his chest, holding him close to me, his blood still flowing, staining my clothes. I ran my fingers gently around his face, and kissed his forehead wanting my very senses to pick up on every last detail of him. I wanted to know him, if not by person then by his physical traits, my way of “salvaging“ what little I knew about my vanished son. I wanted to know what his skin felt like, what his body odour smelt like, how his hair was styled; everything and anything so that his memory would deeply diffuse through my soul, in hope to have at least reserved something about him with me before he was to be placed in his grave.
Affectionately, I moved my arm across his chest, my hand brushing against something in the pocket of his shirt. I scrunched his pocket in my palm curiously and reached into it pulling out a wrinkled piece of paper folded in half. Tears drop involuntarily from my eyes and Yet again, I lower my head in grief as the following was inscribed thereupon:

“Dear my beloved mother,
Though we have been physically apart,
the loved one has never been absent from the heart

Lest our paths should cross again,
this note I have therefore keenly written and saved.

If you are ever to receive this, you will know
That my dream of martyrdom has been fulfilled

Thus if you have received this whist I have been slain
Know that I have kept it with me, in hope that our paths should cross again


These last words of mine, are to you from me,
when ironically my first from you, have been prohibited

these last words I say to you even though my voice you are yet to hear
I none the less say: Do not weep, do not feel regret O mother of the Shaheed."
-Sufyaan

Overcome with emotion, my heart wept, and yet my eyes had refused to, for they simply had run out of supply.
I wept over my loved one who had been taken forcefully from me, only to see him dead when reunited once again. I wept over the death of a hero who had sacrificed his life for me. And yet, even through my grief, an immense sense of tranquillity descended into heart in full knowledge that the Lord did not let a good deed go to waste.

Broken

The darkness of the sky was not illuminated by the moon or the vast arrangement of stars tonight; it held a peaceful, dark blue tint which was as beautiful as any moonlight ray. The wind shuffled the leaves; untamed yet gentle, having no mercy on any thing in its path. The wind can overpower its surrounding elements; adding fuel to a fire, casting turbulent waves at sea, or tearing the roots of trees from the ground; its puissance is often underestimated.

Tonight, although, was an average autumn night; weather wise. This night marked the beginning of a new start, which, ironically, would be a contradiction to the season in which it took place.



The alarm was scheduled to go off yet was briskly stopped before it could produce the slightest sound; he had not slept tonight. The calmness and peace of mind which were vital for one to acquire a sense of drowsiness had long ago left him. Weeks would pass where he would run on little to no sleep, catching quick, often disrupted afternoon naps. The day time was the only time where he would feel tired, with the reassurance of the ongoing world around him, he felt less vulnerable.



But at night time, he felt as though the world sat on his shoulders; and burdens weighed heavy on his heart. With no sound apart from the shuffling leaves and occasional vehicle, he would feel greatly exposed.



Tonight he would end it all. Ramadan was over but the atmosphere which it brought each year was still strong within him. Ramadan, the month where one would feel the weakness of his body yet the strength and power of his faith, had been one of the reasons which convinced him to start a new life; a life with purpose. The blessings of Ramadan had been showered down upon him this year, and he would not take for granted this gift, which had touched his heart and inspired goodness within his soul.



The house was quiet; all were still sleeping. Soon, his mother would walk past his room to awake his younger brother Munir for fajr prayer. Afterwards, she would knock on the door of his sisters’ room and awaken them too. Not long after, their footsteps would be heard, a few whispers between his mother and father, a laugh or two between his sisters, as all would prepare for prayer. Never would a knock be heard on his door.



He kneeled down quietly.



His mother had long ago stopped trying; he was much too stubborn and had a quick temper, unlike his father. She spent had spent countless nights and poured endless tears when she prayed for her child. A child which she bore in her stomach for nine months and, when he was born, wished nothing but goodness and love for him, son who she loved dearly, oppositely to what he would claim in his fits of anger.



He slowly opened his mouth, yet closed it again.



She would pray for all of her children, yet, when it came to his name, her heart ached and she could not prevent the delicate tears from falling. At times, her husband would join in her prayers and shared her tears.



Once again, he opened his mouth, yet failed to produce a sound. His eyes began to feel warm. He lowered his head and saw that the drops which escaped his eyes now landed on the praying mat.



His brother’s heart would break at this site; and he never understood how his eldest brother could live with himself, or how he could sleep at night, knowing that, each morning, his mother and at times his father cried for him in their prayers. A part of him felt he could never forgive him for his indifference and lack of respect, but another part of him shared his parents’ prayers…



He was finally able to utter, “Bismillah”. The words seemed to resound in the air, and he felt as though the entire city had heard him. Soon, his whispers would grow louder and louder, until his heart-felt supplications would awaken even the birds in the trees.



Munir had less of a temper than his older brother, yet he can still recall that night, more than a year ago, where rage had struck his mind. His brother had arrived home inexplicably late, without having called nor hinted as to where he was going. His mother had called him numerous times, yet he had not picked up nor called back. The clock stuck twelve and all were still awake, waiting for any news of Jawad, each heart pounding stronger than the other. Munir remembers seeing his younger sister Muna silently crying. He remembers seeing his older sister, Dana, praying to God that her brother was alright.

At a quarter pass two, a knock on the door was heard, and Jawad had entered with bloodshot eyes.

His father was not the kind to get angry nor yell, for he did not believe in imposing discipline, but rather teaching it through words, yet that night; anger had struck his mind and he shouted in a tone Munir had never heard before. Jawad had refused to say where he had been, and, with what appeared to be not a care in the world, walked upstairs to his room and closed the door; his mother in loss of words and his father white as ghost. That night was the night his mother started weeping in her prayers, Munir noticed. His blood boiled at the sign of her tears and his heart broke at the sound of her pleas, with an uncontrollable rage, he stood in front of his brother’s door and yelled,



“Jawad!” Muna, who was passing by, jumped at the sound of his voice.



“Jawad!” he growled, and now pounded on the door, which was locked.


He kept on pounding on the door, demanding that it would be opened, yet nothing happened.



“How can you live with yourself! How can you close your eyes at night, knowing that your mother cries for you and that you’ve whitened your father’s hair! ”

No response was given. There was no response which could be given to such words.

With a bolt of fury and a voice as grave as a bolt of lightening,, Munir growled:

“If this is the life you choose to lead; then you are not welcomed in mine!”



Jawad had not answered, yet, for some reason which he did not know, repeated constantly in his mind, “I am not asleep”…



The last words spoken by Munir had scarred a brotherhood until this day and claimed the beginning of countless months of reckless sleep for Jawad. That night still tortures his soul.



As soon as he had spoken the first word, the following phrases seemed to flow like fresh water in stream during spring. He prayed to his Lord and asked for forgiveness; a prayer he had longed to utter since the day he began his reckless ways. He felt his heart pound as his voice rang deeper and stronger with each plea; now begging God to have mercy on his actions. A multitude of prayers slipped from his mouth then; at times thanking God, other times simply crying in fear before his Lord.



Not much time had passed before the family awoke to the sound of a grieved heart yearning for peace. The door had been unlocked tonight.



His mother entered, while her husband followed slowly.



He had not heard them.



His brother stood behind them. The youngest sister, Muna, followed out of simple curiosity while Dana came after her.



Endless streams of tears had stained his shirt and wet his hands, and, with a deep sigh, he wiped his face with both his hands, as he would do long ago after reciting supplications, with the hope of a new start burning in his heart.



He approached his mother and kissed her hand, and for the first time in three years, he saw a genuine smile, one rid of fear and sorrow, draw upon her face.



“Forgive me” he whispered, his eyes cast to the ground. She wiped the remaining of his tears and kissed his forehead, and simply answered;

“I already have.”

He embraced his father next with a warm hug, and felt like a child in need of protection.

His sisters hugged him and the youngest one grinned as she welcomed him back; it was then that he realized how much he had missed his own family.



His brother stood aside, his dark eyes fixated on him. Jawad stood in front of him but did not move. He was ashamed and unintentionally lowered his head. He then felt two arms wrap around him, and opened his eyes only to see his brother’s dark black hair near his face. He returned the gesture and tightened his grip, apologizing for not having been the role model he deserved. As he prayed fajr along side his brother, he felt the final stroke of peace touch his heart.



Tonight he had gained a king’s fortune, tonight the world was his; tonight, the wind would cease and its strength would be tamed; tonight, he was unbroken.





“Allaah the Almighty has said" : "O Son of Aadam, as long as you invoke Me and ask of Me, I shall forgive you for what you have done, and I shall not mind. O Son of Aadam, were your sins to reach the clouds of the sky and you then asked forgiveness from Me, I would forgive you. O Son of Aadam, were you to come to Me with sins nearly as great as the Earth, and were you then to face Me, ascribing no partner to Me, I would bring you forgiveness nearly as great as it [too]."

Poll will be closing tomorrow, last chance to vote!

Salaam

why so few voted ? I also did not cast my vote
dont' know why .

^the thread is like a year old.