PuristLove
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Dec 11, 2000
- Messages
- 1,694
Judges 16:30 "And Samson said, Let me die with the Philistines. And he bowed his head with all his might; and the house fell upon the Lords, and upon all the people that were therin. So the dead which he slew at his death were more than the dead which he slew in his life."
There would be no funeral for Makin. And there was only one to mourn for him. When the body of a Muslim is not recovered, even a martyr, supplication is given, but there is no funeral rite.
Makin was no martyr, just a fool. But Lina mourned him, and she needed release. There would be a ceremony, a heretical one. So she stood here, in this quiet grove, with a sapling in one hand and a shovel in the other.
It was very late, the sun still hiding in the east, but Lina knew instinctively where Mecca was. She was always aware of her position in relationship to the Holy City.
Setting the shovel aside, Lina gently lay the young cedar tree so that it's conical top faced the east. Then she took a step backwards and turned to the north. Though there was no Qiblah, she would do this as properly as possible.
Raising her hands, she said, "Alla-who Akbar."
Folding her right hand over her left, she recited The Opening.
In the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful.
Praise be to Allah, Lord of the Worlds,
the Beneficent, the Merciful.
Owner of the Day of Judgement,
Thee alone we worship; Thee alone we ask for help.
Guide us on the straight path,
The path of those whom Thou has favored.
Not of those who earn thy anger, nor of those who go astray.
#
"Makin, don't do this. The people you would kill are innocent. They aren't the government. Some of them aren't even infidels. There will be Muslims on that plane. And children," Lina plead with him, literally clutching his ankle as he stood in the doorway of their apartment.
"And I regret that loss. Lina, we've been through this. If they declare war on our people, we have to strike back. We do not have huge armies, or missiles capable of crossing the ocean. All we have are the brave men who give their lives for the sacred work." He bent down, prying her fingers from his leg one by one.
"It is not bravery, but cowardice that you go to do," she screamed, and clutched at him harder. Her fingers would have drawn blood from his skin if the legs weren't protected by the blue jeans he wore. The jeans he detested, but were necessary to avoid being searched.
He slapped her with the back of his hand, his eyes wild with anger. "You would defend these… these uncouth philistines? These war-mongering, oil-devouring barbarians?"
She cried out, letting go of his leg. "Go then, go to your seventy-two virgins."
This was far beyond a wife's place, but sometimes, the wife is the only one who remembers Allah's compassionate truth.
Makin slammed the door. Wiping the blood from her lips, Lina crawled across the floor. There was no choice. She picked up the phone.
After several rings, there was an answer, "Sergeant Sorek."
"My husband," She gritted her teeth and forced down the waves of anguish. "My husband is going to kill many people."
"Ma'am, calm down. Has he been drinking?"
"No you fool," she almost slammed the phone down. "He's going to the airport. His name is Makin, but he has a false ID."
"Ok, Ma'am, what's he planning to do?"
"He's going to take over the plane. Encased in his walkman, there's a razorblade. Your x-rays will never pick it up."
"Alright ma'am, I'm guessing he's brown, long beard, etc? Anything else you can tell us to help us pick him out? I'm sure our profilers will spot him, but are there any identifying marks or scars?"
"Your profilers are worthless. Makin was not born Muslim. He has blonde hair and blue eyes. He'll be wearing a red hat, and carrying on a green backpack."
Lina loathed herself. As she hung up the phone, she considered what she had done. Betrayed her husband to protect the lives of a people who hated her.
#
"Alla-who Akbar."
Lina bowed her head. She needed to hurry, the Salatul Janazah had to be completed before the sun rose. The recitation of Tashahood came next.
Oh Allah! Grant peace to Muhammad and his family as You did to Abraham and his family. Oh Allah! Bless Muhammad and his family as You blessed Abraham and his family. Truly You are Most Glorious and Most Praiseworthy!
#
The fury in his eyes, as he stood in the lineup, was amazing. Never had she seen Makin so full of hate, never so angry. He had to know who accused him from the other side of the glass.
Lina was sure he'd spend the rest of his life despising her. She wished she was as sure that what she'd done was right.
In the months that followed, he never wrote, never called. She knew that he wouldn't be allowed. Terrorists weren't given the liberties other murderers were granted. If the crime was committed by an Islamic Extremist, due process vanished. She did not waste time wondering why the hate crimes committed by skinheads and Klan members weren't taken as seriously.
But even if he'd been allowed, she knew he wouldn't have sent her words. The hate in his eyes had spoken without them.
She tried to keep up with his case. At first it was difficult. Sergeant Sorek didn't return her calls. She was given the run-around by the prison where he was being held. But when Makin agreed to testify against Islam, his story began to get media coverage.
Apparently, he had agreed to testify to Congress, of Iraq's involvement in terrorism. In exchange, he would be given life imprisonment instead of the death sentence. The President wanted his testimony, he wanted Congress convinced that they must make war against Iraq.
Lina knew something was wrong. Makin would never sell his life so cheaply.
She watched on television as they dragged him into the room. His orange clothes, his handcuffs, these horrified her even more than the dark bruises on his face. She had known he would be tortured, but it was painful to watch him bound and trussed like a calf.
When he began to speak, his words seemed stripped of all passion. Someone else spoke, questioning him, but the camera remained on his face. Lina watched him mouth Allah's name over and over.
"What is he doing?" Her palms tore fabric from the chair, she clutched it's arms so tightly.
The explosion was brilliant. It lasted a split second before static conquered the screen as the camera and it's crew were obliterated.
#
"Alla-who Akbar."
Lina supplicated silently, begging Allah to spare Makin's soul. She knew that his crimes were unforgivable, but begged that he be saved anyway.
Her wordless dua eventually faded to tears. Just before the sun rose she lifted her head. "Assalamu alykum."
The burial could not take place until the sun had risen fully into the sky. She watched, standing at dutiful attention, as the dark blue became pink became orange.
Night became day.
Finally, bending with cramped hands, she picked up the shovel and dug a suitable hole at the foot of the sapling. When it was deep enough, she cast the shovel aside and reached for the tree's base.
It was usually a man's job to do this. Burials were forbidden to women, Lina had been forced to look on the Internet for the correct words.
As she planted the tree in the ground, she could smell the rich cedar. Makin had always loved cedar, the real tree, not the juniper that people down here gave that name to. All their furniture had been made from it.
She closed her eyes as she patted the earth down firmly around the trees roots. "In the name of Allah and in the faith of the Messenger of Allah."
She tossed three final handfuls of soil on the grave, and rose. Lina walked away quickly. No dua could do anything else for him, only Allah's mercy.
There would be no funeral for Makin. And there was only one to mourn for him. When the body of a Muslim is not recovered, even a martyr, supplication is given, but there is no funeral rite.
Makin was no martyr, just a fool. But Lina mourned him, and she needed release. There would be a ceremony, a heretical one. So she stood here, in this quiet grove, with a sapling in one hand and a shovel in the other.
It was very late, the sun still hiding in the east, but Lina knew instinctively where Mecca was. She was always aware of her position in relationship to the Holy City.
Setting the shovel aside, Lina gently lay the young cedar tree so that it's conical top faced the east. Then she took a step backwards and turned to the north. Though there was no Qiblah, she would do this as properly as possible.
Raising her hands, she said, "Alla-who Akbar."
Folding her right hand over her left, she recited The Opening.
In the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful.
Praise be to Allah, Lord of the Worlds,
the Beneficent, the Merciful.
Owner of the Day of Judgement,
Thee alone we worship; Thee alone we ask for help.
Guide us on the straight path,
The path of those whom Thou has favored.
Not of those who earn thy anger, nor of those who go astray.
#
"Makin, don't do this. The people you would kill are innocent. They aren't the government. Some of them aren't even infidels. There will be Muslims on that plane. And children," Lina plead with him, literally clutching his ankle as he stood in the doorway of their apartment.
"And I regret that loss. Lina, we've been through this. If they declare war on our people, we have to strike back. We do not have huge armies, or missiles capable of crossing the ocean. All we have are the brave men who give their lives for the sacred work." He bent down, prying her fingers from his leg one by one.
"It is not bravery, but cowardice that you go to do," she screamed, and clutched at him harder. Her fingers would have drawn blood from his skin if the legs weren't protected by the blue jeans he wore. The jeans he detested, but were necessary to avoid being searched.
He slapped her with the back of his hand, his eyes wild with anger. "You would defend these… these uncouth philistines? These war-mongering, oil-devouring barbarians?"
She cried out, letting go of his leg. "Go then, go to your seventy-two virgins."
This was far beyond a wife's place, but sometimes, the wife is the only one who remembers Allah's compassionate truth.
Makin slammed the door. Wiping the blood from her lips, Lina crawled across the floor. There was no choice. She picked up the phone.
After several rings, there was an answer, "Sergeant Sorek."
"My husband," She gritted her teeth and forced down the waves of anguish. "My husband is going to kill many people."
"Ma'am, calm down. Has he been drinking?"
"No you fool," she almost slammed the phone down. "He's going to the airport. His name is Makin, but he has a false ID."
"Ok, Ma'am, what's he planning to do?"
"He's going to take over the plane. Encased in his walkman, there's a razorblade. Your x-rays will never pick it up."
"Alright ma'am, I'm guessing he's brown, long beard, etc? Anything else you can tell us to help us pick him out? I'm sure our profilers will spot him, but are there any identifying marks or scars?"
"Your profilers are worthless. Makin was not born Muslim. He has blonde hair and blue eyes. He'll be wearing a red hat, and carrying on a green backpack."
Lina loathed herself. As she hung up the phone, she considered what she had done. Betrayed her husband to protect the lives of a people who hated her.
#
"Alla-who Akbar."
Lina bowed her head. She needed to hurry, the Salatul Janazah had to be completed before the sun rose. The recitation of Tashahood came next.
Oh Allah! Grant peace to Muhammad and his family as You did to Abraham and his family. Oh Allah! Bless Muhammad and his family as You blessed Abraham and his family. Truly You are Most Glorious and Most Praiseworthy!
#
The fury in his eyes, as he stood in the lineup, was amazing. Never had she seen Makin so full of hate, never so angry. He had to know who accused him from the other side of the glass.
Lina was sure he'd spend the rest of his life despising her. She wished she was as sure that what she'd done was right.
In the months that followed, he never wrote, never called. She knew that he wouldn't be allowed. Terrorists weren't given the liberties other murderers were granted. If the crime was committed by an Islamic Extremist, due process vanished. She did not waste time wondering why the hate crimes committed by skinheads and Klan members weren't taken as seriously.
But even if he'd been allowed, she knew he wouldn't have sent her words. The hate in his eyes had spoken without them.
She tried to keep up with his case. At first it was difficult. Sergeant Sorek didn't return her calls. She was given the run-around by the prison where he was being held. But when Makin agreed to testify against Islam, his story began to get media coverage.
Apparently, he had agreed to testify to Congress, of Iraq's involvement in terrorism. In exchange, he would be given life imprisonment instead of the death sentence. The President wanted his testimony, he wanted Congress convinced that they must make war against Iraq.
Lina knew something was wrong. Makin would never sell his life so cheaply.
She watched on television as they dragged him into the room. His orange clothes, his handcuffs, these horrified her even more than the dark bruises on his face. She had known he would be tortured, but it was painful to watch him bound and trussed like a calf.
When he began to speak, his words seemed stripped of all passion. Someone else spoke, questioning him, but the camera remained on his face. Lina watched him mouth Allah's name over and over.
"What is he doing?" Her palms tore fabric from the chair, she clutched it's arms so tightly.
The explosion was brilliant. It lasted a split second before static conquered the screen as the camera and it's crew were obliterated.
#
"Alla-who Akbar."
Lina supplicated silently, begging Allah to spare Makin's soul. She knew that his crimes were unforgivable, but begged that he be saved anyway.
Her wordless dua eventually faded to tears. Just before the sun rose she lifted her head. "Assalamu alykum."
The burial could not take place until the sun had risen fully into the sky. She watched, standing at dutiful attention, as the dark blue became pink became orange.
Night became day.
Finally, bending with cramped hands, she picked up the shovel and dug a suitable hole at the foot of the sapling. When it was deep enough, she cast the shovel aside and reached for the tree's base.
It was usually a man's job to do this. Burials were forbidden to women, Lina had been forced to look on the Internet for the correct words.
As she planted the tree in the ground, she could smell the rich cedar. Makin had always loved cedar, the real tree, not the juniper that people down here gave that name to. All their furniture had been made from it.
She closed her eyes as she patted the earth down firmly around the trees roots. "In the name of Allah and in the faith of the Messenger of Allah."
She tossed three final handfuls of soil on the grave, and rose. Lina walked away quickly. No dua could do anything else for him, only Allah's mercy.
