MY name is Muhammad Yasin Talha. I am fifteen and I used to study in a high school which has been shut down by Israeli soldiers for over a year. I love to read and write since my mother says that if you want to be respected, you must study hard. My father once owned an olive plantation and life was quite comfortable.
Then came the Israeli soldiers and drove us out with only the clothes on our back. We have been living in the refugee camp since then. My father now labours all day long to feed us one square meal a day. My elder brother wants to be a doctor while my younger sister was just a baby when we were thrown out of our home. My mother has planted a vegetable patch outside our shanty quarter to supplement the kitchen.
I woke up this morning with my right palm itching. Mother told me that I would come by good fortune today. I hope she is right since we need good fortune. I left home to play with my friends. We loitered around most of the morning. The market place is adorned with portraits of Ayat Akhras. She was eighteen, only three years older than me and engaged to be married soon. She detonated explosives tied around her body outside a grocery store in Jerusalem and took her own life and a number of Jews’.
Two Apache helicopters passed overhead. We could hear the roar of tanks and the sharp report of automatic guns firing. We are quite used to these sights and sounds. A truck load of Israeli soldiers passed, we made faces at them and hid in the backstreets for fear of retaliation. But they had no time for us kids today. We wandered around aimlessly a little more, kicking empty coke cans or throwing stones.
I passed in front of a bakery; its owner knew my father in our better days; he gave me two buns. I ate one and saved the other one for my little sister, who is always hungry. We got bored after a little while and decided to return home. On the way back, we were strip checked on different posts. At one place, the soldier planted a kick on my back side, perhaps he was the one we had made faces at a little while back.
This was nothing unusual for us as we are subjected to this kind of treatment every day. As we neared the camp, we could smell smoke and saw billows of dust. The Apache helicopters we had seen earlier must have dropped their missiles and rockets on our camp. As I got closer, I found our camp to be in a shambles. My heart missed a beat. It was mid-day and my father must be home for his afternoon siesta. My brother must be home too, his medical college has been closed down by the Israelis for the past many months.
I got to my devastated home, and started digging frantically through the debris and found my parents’ bodies buried underneath. Their corpses were riddled with bullets. My sister was lying lifeless and cold, a stone clenched in her fist, perhaps she had picked it up to hit one of the Israeli soldiers, but before she could hurl it with her tiny arms, she had been shot in the forehead.
My brother’s medical journals were lying about tattered and torn; his body sprayed with bullets. Why was this happening to us? They say we are terrorists. How could we be terrorists? My father was such a gentle person; he never ever raised his voice at us. Mother doesn’t even know the meaning of terrorism. My brother wanted to be a doctor and serve humanity. My sister was, after all, a kid. Our shanty shelter was never a breeding place or meeting point for terrorism. Why were we targeted?
I ran about with the excruciating pain in my heart because of my terrible loss, because of the brutal injustice. Where should I go? What should I do? Then I met them, they wiped my tears and asked me if I wanted to avenge myself and end it all, the brutality, the terror, the injustice. I nodded my head; I would do anything. They took me to a mosque, and we prayed.
Mother would have been so happy to see me, she always directed us to offer our prayers. They brought some food for me. I wasn’t hungry but remembered the bun I had saved in my pocket for my sister. Tears welled up in my eyes, my sister had died hungry. They strapped me with explosives and showed me the cord to pull so that they would explode simultaneously. At that moment I remembered Ayat Akhras. Was she out to avenge her parents too or she wanted to end it all, the brutality, the terror, the injustice.
They gave me a copy of the Holy Qurán in my hand, tied a piece of coffin shroud around my head. The kalima was embroidered on it. We crawled through streets, avoiding the different check posts, darkness shrouded our movement. They took me close to a restaurant. It was crowded; perhaps a party was going on. They beckoned me on. I leapt up from the darkness and entered inside. A number of soldiers pounced on me but before they could reach me, I detonated the explosives… There was a huge explosion, but I feel no pain, only relief. Mother is calling me. I am coming mother, now no Israeli soldier will terrorize you…La Ilaha Ilallah O Muhammadur Rasul Allah.
Postscript: This is an imaginary episode but based on facts and was published two decades ago. How many more innocent lives must be sacrificed before the bloodshed of Muslims will stop? To quote a translated verse from Faiz: When humanity will perish, then will you mete justice? If You are a Just God; Why Don’t You Raise Hell now?
—The writer is a Retired Group Captain of PAF, who has written several books on China.
Email: sultanm.hali@gmail.com
views expressed are writer’s own.
