Martyrdom of a suicide bomber

By Ali Suleman

He heard a buzz of loud, unintelligible voices just as he gained consciousness. It was dark and murky all around. He sat up and looked around, trying to figure out where he was. It seemed like a huge room with no source of light. Though he couldn't make out anything, his instincts told him he wasn't alone there. He rubbed his eye, hoping to see something when he opened them. Inside, he felt a queer consternation. He knew he was contented, he should've been. After all he just had very neatly accomplished his task…the utmost task for which he had longed for so many years…the last task of that mortal life, mundane life… But still there was that feeling of apprehension, of anxiety, of trepidation that he couldn't help. It was as if something was pinching his heart --the heart that should have been filled with satisfaction, delight and pride.

Was this the place he had always wished for? It couldn't be. It wasn't SUPPOSED to be like this! "Strange," he muttered as he again opened his eyes and this time he could see things more clearly…maybe because his mind was a little clearer now. He saw faces. Human faces. Men, women, children; all kind of faces! They seemed perplexed, even more than he was, for he at least knew what they didn't -- they were dead -- suddenly, in a fraction of a second…dead. "No one under the radius of ten meters can survive!" Maulana Sahib's words echoed in his mind. "This is how it happens! This is how a bomb explodes, Shabbir, my boy! First chemical plus second chemical plus third chemical, and BOOM!" he smiled recalling these words which he had heard only a few hours ago.

While he was trying to come back to his senses, he discerned a distinct voice saying "welcome, young man." He jumped with incredulity and fear, took a step forward and wheeled back to find a bright faced, white-bearded man grinning at him. He appeared to be in his fifties.

"My name is Najeeb," the man said, "and you are?"

"Sha… Sha… Shabbir," he stammered.

"Ah… Shabbir!" smirked Najeeb.

"What's this place, Najeeb uncle?" he asked.

"Najeeb," the man corrected him. "Call me Najeeb. I'm just a month senior than you here. You don't call your friends who are just a month older than you 'uncle', do you?" Najeeb chuckled.

Bewildered, Shabbir asked again, "How is this possible? What's this place?"

Najeeb raised an eyebrow and replied, "This…is Barzakh, Shabbir. This is the place you come to when you're dead."

The deep impression of perplexity on Shabbir's face ebbed as enlightenment took its place and he nodded knowingly. "So how long will it take before, well…I am…you know, taken to the Jannat?"

Najeeb laughed loudly and then replied, "My friend, judgment of Jannat and Dozakh will be made on the Day of Judgment. You're here till then."

Shabbir blinked. Huh! That couldn't be true. The old man certainly had taken leave of his senses. It wasn't supposed to be like this! Najeeb was lying for sure. He was just trying to be funny. "You won't talk to me like that if you knew who I am," Shabbir ventured.

"Oh! So who are you?" chuckled Najeeb.

"I am," said Shabbir with pride, raising his chest, "a martyr. I sacrificed my life for Islam."

"I see," Najeeb smiled and nodded. "And how did you perform this noble duty?"

"I blew up a bomb in a crowded market in the city," boasted Shabbir.

Najeeb, who seemed unimpressed by this, took a deep breath and said, "And who asked you to do so?"

"Maulana Sahib," replied Shabbir and waited for Najeeb to respond. When he didn't, Shabbir realised the need to fill in Najeeb with more information. "Maulana Sahib says a fidaai bomber is a true martyr of Islam. Only a fidaai bomber can carve out a real Islamic society out of the sinful civilisation the West has enforced upon us through their filthy conspiracies. The extent to which Allah loves a fidaai bomber can't be measured. Death through fidaai bombing is the most fortunate death one can have. The martyr is taken to the Jannat by the angels even before the sound of the blast can touch anyone's ears. A huge palace, with 70 nymphs, welcomes him there. He'll live there forever and will never die." Shabbir said in one breath, like a third grader would recite a math table.

Najeeb listened to him silently. When Shabbir finished, Najeeb asked gravely, "But this doesn't seem to happen over here."

"Maulana Sahib said it would happen, and I'm sure it would. Allah is the King of the entire universe! He might be busy in some more important task right now. I can wait." Shabbir said exactly what was going on in his mind.

Najeeb's mouth opened in surprise. "Have you ever read the Quran?" he asked after a few seconds.

Shabbir knew his answers. "We don't waste time reading; we follow!"

Najeeb scowled. "If you don't read, how do you know what to follow?"

"Maulana Sahib interprets it to us. He tells us what we should do to get an exalted position in the hereafter."

"And you agree?" demanded Najeeb.

"Why wouldn't we?" laughed Shabbir. "We just follow."

Najeeb smiled after a long time. "Look around you Shabbir. Most of these people around you, do you know, who are they? They are the ones who died due to your bomb today. Seventeen they are. You all entered here together."

Now this was information. Seventeen hypocrites killed! That was encouraging, for sure. His lips curled into a satisfied smile as he said "Alhamdulillah".

"You glorified Islam, and helped its followers by causing death to seventeen of them. Bravo!" Najeeb shook his head.

That was surprising for Shabbir. How misguided Muslims could be! He expected Najeeb to laud his effort instead of sounding like those imprudent infidels. "Don't you know? They were munaafiqs! The blindly kept on following the pagan system of the West, the kafirs, the mushriks!" he fumed.

"You would think the same about him?" Najeeb pointed his finger at a middle-aged man who appeared to be a labourer, and was slapping his face in woe. It seemed that he had just come to know that he was dead.

Shabbir cast a quick glance at him, then looked back at Najeeb and said, "It isn't my fault if he didn't bother to investigate for the truth. He deserved this fate."

"You're right. He should've searched for the truth himself instead of just assuming that what the others say is right." Najeeb said seriously.

Shabbir grinned. He had at last made Najeeb agree with him. The fact was comforting. "Exactly," he said.

"Just like you didn't believe a word your Maulana Sahib had told you and found out the truth for yourself," said Najeeb, smiling faintly.

The feeling of consternation that had eclipsed under the carapace of apparent joy returned all of a sudden. "You're a loser, Shabbir. You're here till Qayamat. No palace, no nymphs, no angels. You're not a martyr, Shabbir, you're a murderer. You've lost your life as well as your death. You're a loser." Shabbir heard Najeeb saying these words. Najeeb was definitely saying something else, too, but Shabbir was unable to fathom a word. It was as if his inner voices were more dominant than the outer ones. In his heart another bomb was building up; a bomb that blows up when a number of feelings react together. Anger plus frustration plus regret, and BOOM! He grasped his head with his hands and screamed in his mental agony.

"Shabbir…" someone whispered. It wasn't Najeeb; the voice was more distinct. Closer and familiar. Shabbir abruptly sat up, stunned. "Shabbir, you okay?" he turned his head leftwards and found his partner and roommate Nauman sitting beside him. "Hey, relax Shabbir! Looks like you had a bad dream. You were screaming!" said Nauman, confused. Shabbir was still in a trance. He suddenly looked around and realised he was sitting on his sleeping rug, in the roomette he and Nauman shared.

"Shabbir, get up, boy. Whatever it was, it was just a dream. Now perform ablution and get ready, hurry. It's almost Fajr and after the prayers, Maulana Sahib will deliver you the last sermon and tie you the jacket," Nauman said happily. "Congratulations, Shabbir! The day has finally arrived. Your big day, my friend! Err…Shabbir? You don't look fine to me!"

But Shabbir wasn't listening. It was like his inner voice had become more dominant than the outer ones. In his heart there was another bomb building up…an emotional bomb. Fear plus discontent plus regret, and BOOM!

[http://jang.com.pk/thenews/dec2009-weekly/us-11-12-2009/p22.htm]