He crests the hill as the sun slowly reaches out for the embrace of the horizon; the desert is hotter than he imagined it. All around him is a land that is slowly falling to the desert, the sand is relentless. Even now he can hear it in the wind, a storm is coming and he longs for the cool fields back home. Home, can he call it that anymore? He was born here, in these dry and rocky lands. His parents, searching for a better life moved to the west, America, the land of the infidels. He was only eight years then and has always felt he should have been given the choice to stay. "It is the promised land" his father had said, "where all are free and equal." His father had lied. He had never really felt free let alone equal. School had been hard; he hadn't said much in class because everyone laughed at him. They said he had a funny way of talking. The boys always teased him, calling him funny names. He had spent most of his time reading, the holy book was his favourite.
He had just turned twenty three when it all begun. The bombings hadn't been shown on CNN but there was a new TV station called "Al Jazeera". A particular image had sparked the anger, a young boy in the mountains of Afghanistan crying for his Quran, the infidels' bombs had destroyed it with the rest of his family! He had gotten tired of the way everyone treated him ever since the towers burned down. They made him feel like he had flown the planes. He had tired of this "Promised Land" and somehow the image of that boy had spurred him to action.
The local mosque was where he had met him. He had introduced himself as "Halil" and over the course of two years had taught him about the "true" Islam. There was a "Jihad" and all the faithful who fought and died fighting would be justly rewarded in paradise. He had felt a sense of brotherhood with Halil and had gotten distant from his family. His parents were not faithful, why did they not go back home to fight the infidels? Why did his father work in their factories and still receive no respect? His mother had stopped wearing the "Hijab" because it made people uncomfortable. She had had to give it up. Her boss at the diner had hinted as much if she wanted to keep her job. How could he live in the heartland of the infidel and still call himself faithful? He had to go and fight with his brothers, Allah commanded it.
Two years had passed since he got here, "The Land of Two Migrations" it was called. He had done terrible things in the name of Allah, but "The Teacher" said it was all Allah's will. He did not know what to believe anymore. He had watched women and children die in the name of Allah; he could not bring himself to believe that truly these were the ways of a "religion of peace." Tomorrow he would put on the cloths of a warrior, a soldier of Islam and he would die for it. Did he do the right thing? Only Allah knew the absolute truth, all he knew was that tomorrow he would die and take with him as many infidels.
The sun touches the horizon, the wind whispers to him and the sands of time fall ever so gently. In the distance he hears the call to prayer. He lays down the mat, kneels and faces the holy city. "God is great, God is great!" he begins his evening prayer.
