Present
In the name of Allah, the most beneficent, the most merciful.
The silent prayer calms me, and I hold still while Karim adjusts the shoulders.
All the praises and thanks be to Allah, I pray.
And as I shut my eyes, I see him again, crying for me not to lock him up.
I open them, but he is still there.
I squint. Finally, he is gone.
Allah, help me. Give me strength, I pray. Accept my offering.
“There,” says Karim. He straightens up and hands me the remote.
Press the button and end the guilt-soaked years of waiting.
“You won’t feel a thing,” Karim says, eyeing the remote, but I’m certain I will, and I can only pray it will be pure ecstasy, and then the bright light and then, if Allah wills…
My chest tightens. Not perhaps. A true believer does not doubt: you must believe Jihad will save you.
For what else do I have?
I look at Karim, remembering Imam Faisel's words.
“As Abu Musa told us of those believers, even with mountains of sin on them, Allah will say 'Unload the sins from them and put the same over the Jews and Christians; then let the humble slaves get into Paradise by virtue of My Mercy.' You have nothing to fear Nada, nothing at all. Allah has created the Jews to bear your sins for you."
I look down then because I want to believe those words. And how can I not? They are from the Hadith, sworn to be true. The Jews I kill will take my sin with them down to Hell. It is right, and it must be so.
And yet, Yasser's face still haunts me. Why can I not shake it? Will he accost me even into the next life? Is what happened that day sealed in my eternal destiny? Deep down, I fear, no matter what is written, that Allah will not forgive, that Allah cannot forgive.
I would not forgive myself if I were sitting in judgment.
I look up at Karim. I had never told him, of course. He had just been a baby then anyway.
“You will make me proud,” he says now, leaning down to plant a kiss on my forehead. “Perhaps I will follow you later.”
I take a breath. If only I knew.
Just yesterday, Imam Faisal had again assured me. “The Qur’an is very clear, my child,” he had said.
Fear had risen in my throat, and I felt a terrible compulsion to tell him my sin before it was too late.
But instead, I had swallowed and nodded, unable to shake this terrible weight which, now that the moment is approaching, seems to grow heavier still.
“Don’t worry, my child,” Imam Faisal had said, perhaps seeing the crease in my brow. “You will send at least five Jews down to hell. There is no sin too great for that glorious act. Allah will forgive you anything, plus, it is clear, your sins will be put on them. You will be absolutely without blemish.”
And I had looked down at that moment so as to ensure Imam Faisal could not see any more into my past than he already had.
“You will be glorified forever. Both down here and above. You will fight not only for your people but for Allah. He will reward you greatly.”
And I had swallowed and prayed the deepening pit in my stomach away. "As Allah wills," I had mumbled, but I had felt no release, only the pressure of the Imam’s gaze.
…
In two minutes, we are out of the garage and entering Al-Shifa by a side gate, joining the throngs of people going through the main entrance. Suddenly, alarms start blaring, and the jostling in the packed hallway gets even more intense and I reach out for Karim’s hand, grab it through the thronging of sweaty male bodies and Kalashnikovs, and push against the crowd as Karim yanks me forward.
“Stay strong,” he’d told me just minutes earlier, looking me straight in the eyes as he’d bent down in front of me, down in the tunnel beneath the garage where he'd prepped me.
Karim is my baby brother, and so instead of nodding, I had spat on the ground next to my chair. “Curse the Jews,” I had said. “I don’t need a pep talk.”
And then I had gotten up and turned to the aluminum shelf lined with grenades, knives, and up top, a row of machine guns.
“Good,” Karim had said, his lower jaw working. “Praise be to Allah. You are worth a thousand of our fighting men.”
I scowl. “A thousand Jews,” I say.
But my chest still swells with pride. I am worth a thousand of the bravest of fighters, I think. But I am really worth nothing at all. Again, Yasser's image comes to my mind, and the guilt sears through me.
