It is 6am. I sit in the coffee bar, and eye the route of the motorcade. It's a beautiful Pakistani sunrise, and Rawalpindi seems to epitomize everything that is beautiful in our country; the sort of place we strive so hard to keep, but will inevitably fall to modern vice, like every city in
Dar al-Islam.But right now, at this exquisite dawn, watching the sun's rays hit my beloved Jamia Mosque, accentuating the curves of the dome, the sensual and spiritual genius of the architecture – at 6am, Rawalpindi is a home fir for Our Prophet, blessed be his name.
But as I drink, and as the divine sun retreats, violated, to the sky above, our reality becomes clear.
There are only a few of them at first. Loathsome, slavish brutes in brown uniforms, each of them convinced he's a Caliph. They are like the British, but uncivilized; my stay at Oxford allowed me to see the twisted reasoning behind our former occupiers. If enveloped in hypocrisy and sin, at the very least the British were brilliant.
Musharaff's men – they are but great apes in formation.
I avert my gaze, so as not to cause suspicion – I am one of a very few in the vicinity of the motorcade route, very young as well. In other words, a very weak hand when dealing with these thugs.
I turn my attention to a copy of the Koran I have with me – even taking into account Musharaff's crimes against Our Prophet, I was inconspicuous. Nothing can change that part of our nation.
It is 9am. I think of last year's crimes, of the assault on Islamabad's Red Mosque, and the brutalization of its students. I think of Musharaff's treachery, his dealings with the Americans. I think of the liberals, and their ceaseless arrogance.
As I ponder, one of the
kuffar approaches me.
"Young man – why are you here?"
Ever the subtle type.
"I am enjoying a beautiful Pakistani morning, and enriching myself with the verse of Our Prophet."
The fascist snorted.
"You are subject to a mandatory full-body search, as per Pakistani law requirements for political rallies of currently campaigning candidates."
The brute can memorize a mouthful.
"So be it."
He asserts his authority, and searches for imaginary weapons, explosives, drugs. I am not afraid. He has decided to check at the wrong time, and I have nothing to hide.
As I am humbled before the beast, I gather my bearings, search my surroundings; few others roam the dusty street running through the marketplace at this hour. More than likely, they have mindlessly congregated around their savior at an earlier stop in her motorcade.
Across the trail, a chicken scavenges for crumbs. Several of her chicks follow. The mother clucks, her chicks obey. They devour their minuscule morsels, and wander clueless through the town. Before the year is over, the mother will be slaughtered, and we will eat her. In another year, her chicks will follow.
The soldier finishes his "check-up", and leaves with a grunt.
It will go off without a hitch,
insha'allah.
It is 12pm. The entire marketplace is now swimming with the rabid mass. Soon, I will have to move into position.
I remove what I have hidden in the tome of His Holy Words.
I begin to make my way to the site of Bhutto's last stop in Rawalpindi, where I will wait.
As I walk, I look at the faces of my countrymen. One young woman seems possessed by hope, like a desperate hunger, left malnourished all her life. A small boy, overwhelmed by everything around him, holds his parents' pro-Benazir poster high over his head, seated on father's shoulders. An old man, wizened by the years, is cautious, actively suppressing a budding excitement. Teenagers, skipping out of University, shout rhyming slogans with the energy only blind youth can afford, pumping their fists in the air.
How lost they are.
It is 3pm. Bhutto has just delivered her lies to the ravenous masses. Her vehicle is within sight. I am ready.
I push my way to the front of the crowd, and play my role.
"Long live the PPP! Bhutto for Pakistan!"
Others join in, and soon Bhutto takes notice. She smiles widely, and by her own volition stops her driver, and exits the vehicle to wave to her supporters.
Even I must admit that Benazir Bhutto has a certain beauty about her. Looking into her eyes, watching her speak, one can only regret that such talent has been wasted on such worthless causes. In the service of Our Prophet, in a role truly befitting of her, she could have been a great woman.
I take my weapon into my hands, point it directly at the whore, and empty my round.
Before anyone, myself inlcuded, can fully understand what has just happened, the game is changed.
Suddenly, I am overwhelmed with scalding heat, and knocked to the ground with all the force of a murderous bull, my head spinning.
The sky is on fire. My lungs have been emptied, and then clogged with thick black wafting smoke, and my eyes burn with the sharpest pain I have ever felt. For a moment, I think I've gone deaf, my eardrums blasted to hell by the violent ringing.
I stumble away from the heat, unable to see, unable to hear, my senses inflamed. I cough and I cough, hacking up phlegmy blood, my throat torn and aching. I vainly clutch at the air, clawing for a wall, a pole, a man – something to lead me away from this nightmare of limbo.
I start to breathe a little easier. In my pained stupor, maybe I've escaped from the smog, found a patch of open space where I could stabilize myself instead of losing the fight, fainting, maybe dying.
At this point I remember what I was doing. My left hand searches the right, and I realize that I've dropped my gun. I can't remember if I missed, if I succeeded, if I even had a chance to fire at all.
I fall to the ground, landing hard on my back. I cannot move.
My left hand searches upwards across my arm, and then I feel it – sharp, metal, charred, the shrapnel has cut to the bone.
My eyes force themselves open. A gray smokescreen greets my vision, and I quickly look to my right arm. The sight nauseates me, I'm losing blood, and I struggle to stay conscious.
A strong hand grips my shoulder.
"Young man – are you hurt?"
I turn, wild-eyed, and stare at the man. It is the
kafir from before.
"Young man – you need help, there are doctors on the way, you need immediate..."
His words trail off, and soon all I can hear is the beating of my own heart.
In the next world, Allah waits for me.
In this world, I am utterly alone.
