War on terror -as seen from the other side-

“[2.190] ...fight in the way of Allah with those who fight with you...[2.191] And kill them wherever you find them...”1


These words still play over and over in my mind. It's been a year since I've realised the truth, the 'real' truth, yet I cannot bring myself to discard old teachings. Why must man be so weak? Why must he succumb to the will and power of another? Why must he follow the blind path even when truth hits him directly in the face. I guess I don't have enough time to answer this myself.2

I was born in Waziristan, but I have no memory of my early life in this so called “Land of Wazirs”. The scorn in my voice for my own birth place is due to the disgrace I feel whenever I think of reasons that compelled us to migrate. Though at the time I was too young to understand why I was being dragged away from my home and friends, it was later on that I understood the reasons due to which Waziristan is unsuitable for families. We were part of one of the southern tribes in the area; Waziris. Thought the Waziris are the largest tribe on the frontier, the state of civilisation is very low. They are a race of robbers and murderers, and regarded as utter barbarians. The women there also enjoy more freedom than those of other Pathan tribes and are frequently unfaithful. The Waziris have a formidable reputation as warriors and are known for the frequent blood feuds. 3


In the extreme winter of 1989, when I was twelve years old, my family decided to migrate to the valley of Swat. I remember praying day and night for the chance to go back to my home. I remember pretending to be sick for two weeks, trying convince my parents to go back. I would throw tantrums, refuse to eat, refuse to bathe but my efforts were in vain. I used to sit for days and days trying to remember a way back home. I used to hope that maybe Allah would hear my thoughts and guide me back. I would get up at sunrise everyday and stare out at the sheet of snow, desperately searching for a sign. I had too much faith in Allah. I knew somehow one day, He would answer my prayer. And He did. My body drowns in pain and anguish as I fight with my soul to forget that day. Every time I attempt to do so, I curse the gift of memory; darkness fills my eyes and blood curdling screams echo in my head. I see the eyes of my mother and father and try my best to forget the sorrow swimming in their tears. 4

One winter morning, while I was treading on the white, spotless sheet of snow, admiring the peace that filled my surroundings, a truck carrying five fair-skinned bearded men passed by. This surprised me, as I was not accustomed to seeing such huge bulky vehicles during my daily morning walks. They would usually patrol the streets in the afternoon. Nevertheless, as difficult as it was, I ignored their piercing stares and continued with my aimless walk. That did not stop me from thinking about it though. All five men were dressed in shalwar kameez and armed with long rifles. All except the driver glared at me while they drove past and one of them whispered something to the driver who nodded curtly in return. I dismissed the fear creeping up inside me by justifying their reaction as pure curiosity. After all, no sane twelve year old boy was seen roaming aimlessly at sunrise in Swat valley. The next morning, I expected them to pass by again, but all I saw during my walk was miles and miles of plain white snow. After a week I lost hope of ever discovering the secret behind the 'bearded men' and occupied myself once again with plans of escaping back to Waziristan. 5

Two weeks had passed since I'd seen those men. I woke up one morning to find the same five men sitting in my parents room. All of them held grave expressions. The one who had been driving was sitting next to my father explaining something in low whispers. The other four stood behind him, one of them was watching my mother with a rather distasteful expression, another was scratching his beard and examining the room as if searching for something. His eyes fell on my person; a little skinny boy peering from behind the curtain which hung in the door frame. To my surprise, he smiled. The most kind and gentle expression rested on his face. I searched his eyes for a sign of trickery but found none. I ventured across the curtain and caught sight of my mothers face. She was sitting behind my father, sobbing. Frightened, I retreated back behind the curtain. No one but the kind man seemed to take any notice of me. He saw the tremor in my feet as I retraced my steps, he noticed my nails digging deeper and deeper into my palm as I held on tightly to the edge of the curtain. But he did not utter a single word. He just stared. 6

It felt like hours had passed when the man finally stopped talking to my father. After a pause of less than a second, my father nodded. As soon as he did, all the men smiled and raised their hands in prayer and my mother stopped sobbing. When I looked to see why, I saw the most horrifying and angry expression darken her face. I had never seen her look at my father directly in the eyes. She would always lower her gaze while talking to him. But this time she broke out into violent screams and started accusing him. “Did we raise him and care for him all these years just to sell him? You will not destroy my sons future, tell these men to go back to Waziristan. We did not come all the way here to have Abid sent back to that treacherous land, tell these men to leave us alone!”, she cried out in rage. My father did not speak, which meant he would not change his mind. I had not grasped the gist of their conversation, so stayed behind the curtain. 7

It was almost noon but I could feel the wisps of cool air trespassing through the cracks in our walls. The light in my room was, as usual, flickering and our gas heater was no match for the winter breeze. I looked at my father, observing him closely. He looked exceptionally old and rusty in comparison to the other five men. I counted six stitch marks on his shirt and the hem of his shalwar was completely tattered. For the first time in my life, I realised that we were poor. I was shocked at myself for not thinking of this earlier. I understood why everyone praised my parents for giving birth to a son. They knew I would grow up and earn money for them. I suddenly began to feel extremely disappointed with myself. I shuddered as I thought of myself running away to Waziristan and leaving my parents behind. It dawned on me that I was needed at home, and the longing to escape disappeared immediately. I suddenly remembered where I was, and looked again at the five men. The kind man was still looking at me. It was as if he was listening to all the thoughts bouncing around in my head. 8

Finally, my father turned towards me. I will never forget the shame and grief pouring out of his eyes as he beckoned me towards him. His hands were trembling as he rested them on my shoulders. Suddenly the room felt very cold, and from the corner of my eye I saw my room light flicker for the last time and die out. My father gently embraced me and kissed my forehead. He then looked at my mother. She did not acknowledge him, instead she held out her arms for me. I could feel all eyes on me as I stepped towards her. She hugged me tight and put me on her lap. “He is not going anywhere”, she said to my father. The warning in her tone was obvious, but I had a feeling that the men would not give up that easily. My father put his hand on her shoulder but she backed away, dragging me with her. The driver spoke, his voice harsh, “What sort of a mother are you? Do you not want to see your son entering the gates of heaven? We will show him the right path, we will give him the opportunity to serve Allah”. I could feel the grasp on my shoulder getting firmer, “I do not believe in your ways, Allah did not create us for the sole purpose of ending our lives for him. And he certainly did not ask us to kill other people. Even they are His creation!” my mother exclaimed. The man with the kind eyes sighed and cleared his throat. I felt my mothers hands loosen as he turned towards her, though his eyes remained fixed on me. “My dear sister”, his voice had the softness of velvet and his lips moved gracefully as he uttered each word. His eyes were surrounded by wrinkles which added to the wise look on his face. The corner of his lips were slightly upturned which made it look like he was constantly smiling. “I understand that this is hard for you, doing the right thing always is. But you must remember what Allah revealed through the Qu'ran, 'Fight in the way of Allah with those who fight with you... And kill them wherever you find them'. Your son has been chosen for this highly noble task, please do not abstain him from following the path of illumination”. Once he stopped there was silence in the room.9

I do not remember what I was thinking during that silence but I do know that what my father said next swarmed my mind with a million rapid thoughts. “Let Abid decide for himself”, my father spoke, breaking the silence. I realised that throughout this encounter I had not thought of what I wanted. Some people would regard that as selfless, but I considered it extremely stupid. Maybe if I had begun thinking about it from when I heard my mother scream at my father, I would have made a better choice. My mother swiftly held my face in her hands and explained, “Abid, my son, do not believe these men. They use the name of Allah as an excuse to take out their own anger at others. They have no tolerance for people with different views, and they want to make you like them. Do you want to be a murderer?”. Of course I did not want to be a murderer, but I had heard what the kind man had said about fighting in the way of Allah, I felt proud to be chosen as one of them, but I did not want to leave my parents. The kind man turned towards me, “Dear child, your mother is afraid, and has reason to be so, but you are a man of Allah. She must not fear for you, as Allah has decided your fate. And we are not murderers my son. You and your family will be rewarded for your work. This is why your parents have been blessed, they have a son who is wise at such a young age, a son who can earn for his family at the mere age of twelve. Every month we shall send a sufficient amount of money to your family, if you want you can come deliver it yourself. It shall be a reward for all the hard work they have done by raising a marvellous boy such as yourself. A boy who has to now make a very important decision, a decision which will affect his life as well as life of his family and all other Muslims who are in need of our help”. At the time, what this man said made complete sense to me. I realised that this is how I can make my family rich. It dawned on me that my parents had struggled to raise me for twelve years, it was time for me to do make them proud. My imagination ran wild and I dreamed of them living in luxury without a worry in the world. My heart fluttered with excitement as I thought of how happy they would be when my work for Allah would be done and I would go back home to them. The thought of going to heaven was what played the major role in my decision. 'I'll come', I wanted to say, but then I remembered the cries of my mother and the remorse in my fathers voice and I could not bring myself to tell them that I wanted to leave. My head swarmed with confusion. I could not hurt my parents like this, what if they thought I hated them. They would live all their lives in misery thinking of what they did wrong. 10

Again, the kind man was looking at me as if he could hear every word I was thinking. “Perhaps you would like to speak to someone alone my child?”, he whispered to me. I nodded, half dazed by the warmth flowing through his voice. I led him to my room, which was immersed in darkness. I could tell that my parents were staring suspiciously at him. No one moved though. I think they trusted him as much as I did. Once away from my parents I told him that I wanted to come, but I did not want to hurt my parents. To my surprise he nodded gently and kissed my forehead, “You truly are a remarkable young boy, don't worry my son, go and tell them that you do not want go with us, but tomorrow morning go for your walk and we will find you there. This way your parents will not feel hurt because of you, instead they will think that we kidnapped you.” He led me back to my parents room and I went and hugged my mother. “I'm staying”, I said without looking her in the eyes. My father looked at the men in shock as they got up to leave. His face suddenly eased and he thanked them for letting me stay. The tension which had built up inside room slowly disappeared. It did not feel so cold any more though the heater had gone out completely. 11

I could not sleep that night. I stared constantly at the ceiling above. I could hear water dripping from the left corner and made a mental note to myself to leave a bucket under it the next morning. I gave up trying to sleep and tip toed quietly to my parents room. I stayed in my earlier position, behind the curtain, peering in at their beautiful peaceful faces. I tried to imagine them rich and happy, proud to have a son like me but I could not. I suddenly realised why I never found a way back to Waziristan during my morning walks. It was because I never looked hard enough, I never prepared myself to leave home. I was never ready to leave my parents. My prayers and tantrums were a futile attempt to get my way. I realised how different a person I had been just two weeks ago. A stupid young boy thinking only of himself. Now I had the responsibility of my parents on me and more importantly the responsibilities of a Muslim. 12

Early morning, the same five men took me away in the truck. No one spoke throughout the entire journey, not even the kind man. So I fell asleep, and woke up to find myself in a mosque. The men told me we were in Waziristan. I was overjoyed at the fact that Allah had listened to my prayers, and was happy that He showed me the right path back home. However I was confused as well, I had never seen this part of Waziristan. It was secluded from the rest of area. I could not make out much of my surrounding due to the pitch black darkness, and decided that I would explore around in the morning. I never got the chance to do so. As I walked inside the mosque, I looked around to see many other young boys sitting and listening to the Muslim Preacher. He was reading verses from the Qu'ran and translating them for us. After every two or three lines he would explain the message behind the words. It was like any other mosque in Waziristan, but it felt like more sacred. That was probably due to the purpose it was built for; Jihad. The preacher explained to us how jihad was an important act for every Muslim. He said that Allah created us so we fight in His name and clear his world from all evil. We were taught how the Non-Muslims insulted our religion, how they killed our people and spread disease in our society. 13

I learnt in a few weeks that every other boy with me was equally determined to serve Allah, and all were doing it for there families. We were not allowed to fight though, not until we reached the age of sixteen. The preacher said that we must first make ourselves fully aware of the purpose we serve in this world. I tried to explain to him many times that I was already aware of my purpose and I was ready to fight. My blood would boil in anger every time a man would enter the mosque and report yet another attack on the Muslims We were never allowed to step outside the mosque, the preacher said it was for our own good, he reasoned that it was for our safety, that the non-Muslim soldiers out there would do anything for the thrill of killing innocent children. I learnt that the 'kind man's' name was Yousuf and his father was martyr, he had served his purpose in life and Allah had decided to call him back. Yousuf had been waiting for his time ever since his father's death. 14

I made a lot of friends during my time there, but we were always told not to get attached to one another. We were told that attachment interferes with our focus and we forget our purpose. Yousuf explained to me how a man who lost his best friend during jihad had run away. He was murdered by the foreign soldiers a week later. He had spent all his life preparing for jihad but had lost his life in disgrace. I would think a lot about my parents at my time in the mosque but Yousuf assured me that they were safe, and were receiving money for all my work. Though he never told me if they asked about me or if they were using the money to fix the house. All he said was they are fine and happy.15

After years of teachings we all were sent to different areas. I do not know where they were, or whether they were even inside Pakistan. We were always in dark underground rooms, with hanging lanterns and stone walls. It was there we were taught how to use guns and handle bombs. We spent months practising our shooting skills, and even more time studying how to initiate a bomb. Thinking of that time clouds my mind as if a black silk cloth is slowly enveloped around my brain. It heightens the sense of claustrophobia in me and reminds me again of who and what I should not be. We were constantly reminded that Muslims all over Pakistan were suffering in the hands of Americans; the biggest enemy of Islam. The preacher would preach from the Qu'ran and explain how it is important for us to destroy non-Muslims He would relate the tales of wars led by Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) and how lucky the Muslims of that generation were. 16

I could go on and on thinking of the ways we were brain washed, but as I mentioned earlier, I do not have enough time. I have learnt the truth, I have learnt what the Qu'ran really says '[2.190]fight in the way of Allah with those who fight with you...[2.191] And kill them wherever you find them, and drive them out from whence they drove you out, and persecution is severer than slaughter, and do not fight with them at the Sacred Mosque until they fight with you in it, but if they do fight you, then slay them; such is the recompense of the unbelievers'. I have understood that we were never meant to fight. Jihad was only to be carried out if the Muslims were in real mortal danger. Instead we initiated a fight. We are called the terrorists. I tried to explain this to Yousuf who accompanied me on my mission, and he listened intently. Still, he did not deter from his task, he said if I was unable to carry out the attack he would do it for me, and advised me to run away. Despite my pleads he refused to listen and ordered me to hand over the jacket to him. For the first time in my life, I disobeyed Yousuf. I walked away from him, waiting to hear the click of the remote which would end my life. Instead I heard him disconnect the remote and throw it away. “Abid, my child, I beg of you to not go back. They will kill you if they find out. Go back to your parents, go live your life”. I could not let Yousuf go back to those murderers and die. “Al right Yousuf, I will go back, but promise me one thing, stay here until dark so they don't suspect that you let me go”.17

My mother had been right, they were murderers and made me like them. I do not know where and how my parents are, I do not know if they are in the same house, if my room light is still off or if the bucket I placed under the dripping water is overflowing. I have not made them proud, and I am unable to face them. I am a coward. Putting on a brave face in the name of Allah and preparing to die was not bravery or piety, it was stupidity and naivety. Allah has created us, and He alone will decide our time of death. But like I said before, I am too much of a coward to face my life. After speaking to Yousuf, I headed back to the underground caves. If I was to die, I would take them all with me. The world would be a better place without us. Though I could never kill Yousuf, by the time he would come back all will be gone and I pray that then he understands what I've been trying to explain to him. None of my kind deserve to live, and the only good thing I will do in my life is save them all the misery of the truth. I guess this is what they call dying; when your life flashes in front of you in a second, and the next second you blow it all away.