72 Virgins

God is great and Muhammad is his prophet. This is a fundamental truth and you must accept this to hear my story. You must accept the fact that God's will supersedes all else, and that He determines our destinies. I was born with a stunted left leg because it was God's will. Because of this, I was forced to overcome adversity at an early age and adapt to my handicap in order to survive, and I am stronger because of it.

God is great. It is by His will that I am alive today, and it is His hand that has guided the Israeli bullets away from my face and chest. I have only been shot once and yet have been shot at hundreds of times, a testament my state of grace in God's eyes.

His will is undeniable. The bullet that pierced my shoulder two years ago was a punishment for putting myself in too much danger, although I believe my friend Mahmoud was clearly putting himself in more danger and yet he escaped unscathed. How is that so? Mahmoud was cursed in the eyes of God from even the early days, when we would gather in groups along the West bank and hurl rocks at the Israeli tanks and everyone but Mahmoud would throw rocks at the Jewish soldiers. This was during tense time when Hamas first offered a ten-year truce with Israel, an agreement that would have halted the bloodshed and put a temporary peace on our land.

But Israel, of course, would never agree to such things. Anyone who has read The Protocols of the Elders knows the true desire of the Jews is domination over all things. They expand and will continue to expand until they control all and oppress us in all four corners of the globe. They have gone so far as to orchestrate the mass extermination of their own people for the sole purpose of stealing Jerusalem for themselves. They have flooded our streets with alcohol and drugs in order to deter us from God and corrupt our bodies and minds, and they manipulate the world to reach their Zionistic goals.

And so we fought, since the first Intifada to the present day, although the means have changed to justify our ends. When we were young, Mahmoud was my friend and we fought together in the West Bank and on the Gaza strip. I would hurl whatever refuse I could find in the direction of the Israeli soldiers while Mahmoud shouted anti-Semitic quotes he had memorized, and at times the soldiers would fire on us with their machine guns. Sometimes, before we could provoke them, they would fire. It was God's will that some should die during these moments, in order to rally the rest of us, and we knew our dead friends would be taken care of in Paradise. Sometimes, when we would see some soldiers, with their gray uniforms clinging so loosely to their thin, shaking bodies, it would be tempting to think of them as human beings just like us, teenagers or not much older who are forced into a role their government has preordained.

Then they would raise their rifles. They would point their guns and the turrets atop their dark gray armor-mounted vehicles swing like massive elephants in the direction of Mecca, and they would fire upon peaceful protestors armed with little more than strong vocal chords. Children who are caught in the crossfire were cut down and God weeps but it is His will because He knows their deaths will push the rest of us into action.

Just as it was His will that I was shot in the shoulder, that I be singled out for my fervent protests against the Israeli occupation. God knew the hospital I would be sent to would be visited by Hamas and He knew that Muhammad Abu Hussein would be there. I had been confined to a hospital bed in a small room in the city of Jericho, a cramped closeted space that smelled faintly of crushed asphalt and tasted just as dry. He stared at my wound with a gentle expression on his wrinkled old face that reminded me of my father, so much so that I called him “Father” without immediately realizing it.

“This is a punishment,” he said to me, touching my shoulder just above the bandaged wound. “They punish those who dissent. They will kill and they will never stop until every one of us is dead or waiting at their feet like dogs begging a master for a treat.”

“Yes,” I said, wondering vaguely where Mahmoud had gone. He had not visited me since the shooting and he never would. God had chosen not to fully open Mahmoud's eyes, and as a result he was often away doing things that were forbidden in the Koran.

“They take our land and they punish us,” and Muhammad pressed the fingers of both hands to his chest, which was covered in a dark cowl. “They take and they take and they take and it's never enough. They flood our neighborhood with sinful obsessions like alcohol in order to divide us and crush us, and then cut off funding to our hospitals.”

“Yes,” I said. He was my Father. He was my mentor, my leader, the only trustworthy creature left in this land that resembled home but never quite felt like home. I begged him for an answer, and he provided it for me.

The answer is with me now and I am holding it tightly in both hands as I sit quietly, patiently for the opportunity to share it. I sit alone, atop a two story cream-colored building on the corner intersecting a paved road and an unpaved road on the outskirts of the West Bank. I am alone, hiding under a blanket of night sky and heavy clusters of stars. God is great, and he has poked holes in the infinite blackness to allow the light of Paradise to shine through and illuminate my target: an Israeli patrol, investigating an earlier mortar round fired in the area, completing a sweep of the area before leaving this prison I call home. The soldiers come and go, but I must remain in this refugee camp the world calls a “territory.”

My finger is resting gently on the trigger, the metal tube lying heavily on my shoulder, the rocket waiting restlessly like an infant at term. Whoever had previously used the rocket launcher had etched three lines on the handle to tally the number of dead soldiers, and already I am anticipating adding two more. One more, maybe, and then a horizontal line through the four.

I pray to God for guidance.

Whatever happens, it is God's will. This thought relaxes me and I pull the trigger very softly. The metal tube—unbalanced, like most of the homemade RPG's—lifts up slightly as the rocket hisses out and flies toward the intersection just as the soldiers are getting back into their vehicle. The fireball hits the back of the truck, between the rear wheels. The entire vehicle erupts in an orange glow, flames licking out in every direction, heating the exposed skin around my eyes, and I thank God before turning and fleeing to the other side of the building.

My breath comes in short gasps as I jog down the metal fire escape, the cool air biting at my lungs but there are no shots fired behind me, no evidence that either of the soldiers are alive and I thank God for that. If they are alive, then God has willed them to live and they will serve another purpose. It is not my business to know. I feel nothing for them.

I run between the one-story houses, jumping over the mounds of garbage that has been dumped on the brown, withered grass that has not been cut in months. I do not know where I am running, where to turn because Father expressly forbade me from returning to the nearest Hamas compound. It is a delicate time, and our jihad must be carried out delicately now that Fatah supporters have taken up arms. When I finally hear the sirens in the distance, I am out of breath and unsure of where I am. There are no street signs. The road is paved and the buildings are nearly identical, all one or two stories and painted a plain white. Few streetlights work, fewer more after Israel destroyed the nearby power station, which has not yet been replaced.

In desperation, I drop my black scarf and jacket and catch my breath behind a small one-story building with no lights on before walking casually onto the main street. I continue walking, avoiding the group of armed men standing in front of a boarded up building that once contained a small market before the newest surge of violence, ignoring as best I can the chorus of sirens at my back. I stop in front of a small clothing boutique for men, breathing deeply through my nose and finding the air suffused with rotting food and stale pastries. A dog is licking at the bag of garbage lying on the street, its rough tongue crinkling against the stretched plastic.

This place is familiar. Mahmoud lives here, somewhere nearby. I remember vaguely even with the butterflies in my stomach, even with my head spinning wildly while alien sounds and sirens pummel me from every direction. Quickly, I cross the empty street, following a row of non-functioning streetlights to maintain some cover. I dart through the next alley, jumping over bags of accumulating garbage, over the body of an old man wrapped in gray robes who remains motionless even though the sound of my footsteps sounds deafening in my own ears.

Mahmoud's home. It is a good home, a one-story building shaped like a package, painted an unassuming white with a small fenced-in yard comprised mostly of dried, brown grass. The metal fence is not locked, and so I walk through the yard on shaky legs, toward the front door. It has a beige shade covering the small window in the center, and behind it I can see that a light is on. I am nervous because I have not seen Mahmoud in over a year, and I look disheveled and will do a disservice tracking dirt into his nice home. His sister risks detainment sneaking into Israel every morning to work in the home of a wealthy family, and what little money she earns she has obviously put back into this house and now I am planning on entering and tracking in dirt.

As my hand reaches up to knock, the door opens. Mahmoud is standing in the doorway, wearing a loose white t-shirt and tattered jeans. He is still skinny, still with a clean shave, still with unruly dark hair that clings to his forehead.

“Come in!” he says immediately, smiling broadly and opening the door further. “I've been watching out the window ever since I heard the explosion. I was expecting to see another street fight between Hamas and Fatah, and here I see you sneaking into our yard. Come in, come in.”

I hesitate, considering whether I should take off my shoes. Before I can decide, Mahmoud takes me by the shoulder and ushers me inside. The inside of the house smells like freshly woven fabrics, of cotton and satin. The room is small with a simple couch resting on the opposite wall and a large bookshelf directly next to it on the adjacent wall. There is an old Magnavox TV resting on an old wooden milk crate with the name of a local grocer printed in black letters along the side.

“I am sorry,” I begin, watching as Mahmoud ducks into the kitchen and returns with a large glass of ice water. I take it and savor the cold liquid in my throat before continuing. “I got lost on my way home.” I have no home. “After visiting family.” I have no family. “And I remember you lived in this area.”

Mahmoud nods. “It is always good to see you, my friend.”

“Yes, I …” hear music. The words hang on my tongue. I had not noticed it before, with the echoes of the outside world still ringing in my head. But here in Mahmoud's home, the outside world seems miles away. All I hear now is the music. This music is forbidden.

“Do you like it?” Mahmoud asks. His brown eyes are bright even under the dim overhead light.

“This …” I cannot finish. The words are stuck in my throat. I take another drink of water, but it no longer has the same calming effect. The icy water numbs my throat.

“It is mine,” Mahmoud says.

“Yours?” I ask. The music sways, reverberates between my ears. The melodic voice lies on top of the deep rhythm like a desperate whore would on a traveling businessman. The singing reaches a high pitch, drops low, growls and pick up pace like the recitation of a morning prayer.

“Mine,” he says again, his eyes still beaming. “I recorded it in a studio in Gaza last year. People listen to it online! Listen,” he closes his eyes, “the fight of our people, our message and protest against Israel's occupation, all of it is in here. People are listening to it and they are hearing about Palestinian life, about Palestine, about our struggle to survive.”

“This is forbidden!” I cry out. “You will incur the wrath of God!”

“Listen!” he says, grabbing hold of my shoulders. I am too stunned to struggle. “I sing about the drug dealers who infect our neighborhoods, about the outside world that condemns us and congratulates Israel for the same actions! I sing about the injustices they commit, about our brothers and sisters who go missing, about the Jewish soldiers who shoot children without remorse! This is hip-hop. This is a new way to fight.”

“We fight with the sword,” I say, tearing his soft hands away from me. I cannot stand to tolerate his tainted skin so close to mine. “We fight their fire with our own fire, not with forbidden music. You are violating the laws of Muhammad!”

“I am telling the world about our struggle!” Mahmoud's bright complexion has darkened, singed a bright red and surely matching my own.

“You are dooming yourself!” I say, taking a step back to the door. “You are betraying our religion!”

“Don't leave!” he says, holding out a hand. His face has cooled but mine continues to burn hot. “Listen! Please!”

I turn and leave, running through the small yard and slamming the gate behind me. The clink of metal on metal echoes through the street. I don't know where I'm running but I cannot stop. I feel tainted, unclean, dirty. The devastated, crumbling three-story buildings give way to more rectangular homes, and I begin to recognize the neighborhood. I turn down the next street, still running along the sidewalk, tripping occasionally over piles of garbage that have collected next to abandoned cars, until I reach Father's home.

I open the unmarked door of the one-story building and immediately feel the presence of a gun barrel pointed in my direction but my eyes are scrambling to adjust to the overhead lamps and I cannot immediately see the danger. By the time they have adjusted, the guns have already lowered. Three older men sit at a table in the mostly empty room, staring at me with only mild curiosity. Father has a smile on his face. I cannot see it, not completely because his dark gray beard obscures his mouth, but I can sense it.

“I am pleased,” he says.

For a moment, I cannot understand what he is talking about. Then I remember the RPG attack. I nod quickly.

“They will react, as they always do,” Father says. The other two men—both slightly younger, with thinner beards and dark eyes—nod solemnly.

“And the world will watch,” one of the others says. I do not recognize him, and even staring at him, I am not sure I could pick his face out in a crowd. He has short black hair, a stubby nose and a hint of green in his eyes that catches fire underneath the fluorescent lights.

“And support the Jews,” Father finishes. His voice is low, quiet, filled with the sorrow of God's will. “Our enemy will kill innocent Palestinians as revenge, and the rest of the world will approve. We are nothing. We are people without a homeland, wanderers who were made to be refugees and nothing else. We must continue to fight back.”

“And evict our enemies,” Green Eyes adds.

Father closes his eyes, nodding. He opens them and looks directly at me. “Yes … what is wrong, son?”

I blink hard, wiping away the glaze that had formed while my mind had wandered. I look up at Father. “Nothing,” I say quietly. My lip quivers slightly. I have to sit down. I take a seat at the table without permission, burying my head in my arms and embracing the darkness, calling upon the strength of God to calm my senses.

When I raise my head, the two unfamiliar men are gone. Only Father is still sitting with me, staring at me with dark eyes that hold an untapped well of understanding. I tell him the story of Mahmoud, and he is not surprised.

“I have heard his name,” Father says. “This is God's will: we had been discussing him earlier in the week. He has become lost, and his words are now infecting others who are abandoning God's laws by infecting their ears with his sinful acts.”

“What will you do?” I ask, hoping against hope that there may be some salvation for my friend.

“He is having a gathering in Jordan in two days,” Father says. “Where he will sing his music and taint the ears of more brothers and sisters. He must not be allowed to do this. A message must be sent, God willing, to deter anyone else from walking down this path of sin. He must die so his infectious music does not spread through the Muslim world.”

My heart beats hard in my chest.

“The message must be clear,” he says, holding out one of his large, calloused hands. I take it in my own and he squeezes it tightly. “He cannot be martyred. Someone more valiant than him must die as well, someone whose name will be remembered among our brothers and sisters as a savior who prevented a disease from spreading through the community.”

“Yes,” I say weakly.

“A martyr is rewarded by God,” Father continues. “A martyr, upon reaching the afterlife, is rewarded with seventy-two virgins in eternal happiness. They are favored for having died in the name of their religion, and God wills that I favor them in this life as well. Those who martyr themselves for our cause can rest assured knowing their families will always be taken care of. Your family has been displaced, has it not?”

“Yes,” I say, although I am not sure exactly where my family is anymore. When I was young, we moved to and from various refugee camps in the Gaza Strip, never fully settling down and always struggling to stay alive. Provisions were few and far between, and when I could take no more I ran away, to the West Bank where I thought things would be better but they were no different. There was no money and there were no jobs, and everyone had the same displaced pain weighing down their eyelids.

“We will provide for your family. We will house them and treat them with the honor they deserve. And in the afterlife, you will watch them prosper while you are surrounded by virgins and feasting upon the very food God Himself has chosen.”

“Yes.”

He squeezes my hand again. “And then you will meet Muhammad. He will come to you and he will thank you for killing those Israeli soldiers, because they occupy Muslim lands and they murder His people.”

“Yes.” My voice is no longer my own. The words trail out in a long line, vibrating through the open air between us like ripples in a pond. Father says something about sleep, resting before my final jihad. I want a family. I want a son to carry my name, and I want him to grow up on a street with a name in a home with an address. I want to him to be free. I want to teach him about the five pillars so he can be a good person and ensure he has all the opportunities I never had.

He cannot be free, not now, not under these conditions. Not while Israel illegally occupies our land, not while Jewish soldiers are free to spill Palestinian blood without consequence. I cannot bring up a son in this world.

I am standing on the top of a building. The cold metal wrapped tightly around my chest serves as a reminder of my purpose, why I am standing outside on the top of a two-story building in the middle of Amman, Jordan's capital that more closely resembles an American city than one in the center of the Muslim world.

Below, I watch a van pull up and I see Mahmoud step out, carrying a large black box he must use to amplify his music. A number of others follow, carrying more electronic devices that all look identical. I turn toward the door leading to the stairwell and the words of Arthur Balfour ring through my ears. Long ago I memorized his 1917 speech that forever doomed us, the full speech Israelis don't dare utter. They recite Arthur Balfour's speech just as we do: His Majesty's Government views with favor the establishment in Palestine of a national home for the Jewish people, and will use their best endeavors to facilitate the achievement of this object.

That is where the Israelis stop. But Palestinians continue the speech: … it being clearly understood that nothing shall be done which may prejudice the civil and religious rights of existing non-Jewish communities in Palestine.

Why am I here? The words are ringing in my head, bouncing between my ears. They are the reason I fight Israel, why I cannot allow my neighbors any peace, why I must continue to fight, God willing, in order to restore the justice my people deserve.

Then why am I here? This is God's will, I remind myself, and I grab the door handle. As I pull back the door, the words in my ears are very briefly interrupted by the pat-pattering sound of footsteps that register in my ears before the figure fully steps out of the shadows of the dark stairwell. I feel a heavy body press into me. I fall backward, and the larger person follows. I pull the detonator from my jacket pocket and immediately feel it slide out of my sweaty hand as we collapse on the hard concrete roof.

I look briefly at the man lying next to me and he looks at me. He is Jewish, and he makes no point of hiding his distinct features, wearing only a heavy white sweatshirt and tight jeans, a style that would allow him to easily blend into this city. I look away from him for a brief second, then immediately return my gaze to his scrutinizing eyes. I can see the small black detonator in my mind's eye, lying on the concrete out of arm's reach. Next to it is a small, black pistol.

The Jew stumbles to his feet, his eyes turning in the direction of the stairwell. Panicked, his body leaving a scent trail of sweat, he runs for the stairwell and slams the door shut. I get up and walk over to the pistol and detonator, picking both up and putting one in each jacket pocket. I hear the echo of another door slamming shut and run to the other side of the small building. Below my feet, I can feel the heavy bass rhythm reverberating between the steel support, girders and I-beams that my bomb was supposed to mangle, destroy and deform.

I watch the Israeli man run through the dark alley, disappearing into the traffic of the next street. Below me, the musical rhythm has picked up in intensity, and I can hear a familiar voice amplified by the black machines.

Carefully, I take off my jacket, then the Velcro straps holding the explosives in place. I disarm the detonator and throw it into the alleyway.

This is God's will.

I open the door to the stairwell and climb down the first flight, feeling the music under my feet strengthen and the rhythm in my chest following suit. I open the door leading into the small club, which is filled with men and women of all ages, standing mostly but some openly celebrating by moving their hips and arms to the music. On stage, Mahmoud holds a microphone to his mouth and recites the lyrics of prayers I have never heard. Prayers for peace, love, justice for Palestinians in a world where we are seen as nothing more than refugees and killers. And the crowd cheers him on.

Mahmoud, my friend … you will be our new weapon.

- www.KenBrosky.com