The Blood of Lambs: A Former Terrorist's Memoir of Death and Redemption Read Online Free Page A

hard belly that rippled in the shape of my mother’s washboard. His arms were thicker than all of me. The heat in the room ignited the smell of his cologne, and it mixed with that of the metal. Suddenly, I realized the strength of my father and pride swelled my heart.
    At that moment, he flashed me a smile; and a great warmth, far beyond the heat of any furnace, flooded through me. To me, my father was everything a man is supposed to be.
    4
    My father did not teach madrassa often, but would sit in during especially important lessons. I remember the day we learned about the seventy-two virgins. My brothers—Fouad, Ibrahim, Omer—were there and also my mother’s brothers, Uncle Khalid and Uncle Shafiq. My mother sat quietly at the end of the table while Father told us a story from the hadith about a man who charged into a Jewish army all alone, sacrificing himself for Allah.
    “The moment he died, he woke up instantly in jannah, ” Father said. “Allah presented him with seventy-two virgins, women who had never before been touched by a man. And each virgin also had seventy-two virgins attending her, and all these women belonged to the man who died as al-shaheed, a martyr.”
    Uncle Khalid winked at Fouad, who grinned widely. It seemed my oldest brother thought this was a fine arrangement. But I sat on my tesat and thought about it. Seventy-two times seventy-two? At six years old, I could not even count that high.
    “Father,” I said, “You only have one woman in the house, and you fight all the time. How are you going to be able to manage so many women?”
    My uncles burst out laughing, and Father smiled a little sheepishly. He thought it over for a moment, then said, “The grace of Allah is sufficient.”
    He went on to explain that there would be no bickering or fighting in jannah . “These women will attend to all your desires and needs.”
    “So they are servants?” I said.
    “No, they are, virgin women. They will not be angels, but not human, either. They will be there to meet your heart’s desire.”
    I knew what he meant. My friends had told me a million versions of how sex was done. Also, I had seen sheep and goats mating in the little barn behind our building.
    But now I wondered: What about my mother?
    I looked down the table and caught her eye. Then I turned to my father again. “You are married to my mother,” I said. “If you die as a martyr and you get this many virgins, how about if my mother died as a martyr? What does she get?”
    My uncles and my brothers laughed, although a bit nervously this time. Father looked at Mother, who returned his glance, then looked down.
    Finally, he said, “Your mother will become one of the.”
    I frowned and looked down at the wood patterns in the table. This answer did not settle well with me. My brother Ibrahim had once told me angrily that in the Koran, Muhammad referred to women as the “ground that we walk on.” We could not think of our mother that way.
    I could feel everyone staring at me, waiting. Finally, I looked up at Father. “If Mother works hard in this life and dies as al-shaheed , why doesn’t she get seventy-two virgin men?”
    My uncles’ mouths popped open. Then they looked at each other, threw their heads back, and roared with laughter. My father’s face flushed red, and a vein on his neck began to pulse. Then, quick as a cobra, his hand closed the distance to my face. Whack!
    “Insolent boy! Never talk about your mother that way!”
    My father glared at my uncles, but the joker Khalid did not care what my father thought, and he snorted out loud. Mother did not say a word.
    My question ended madrassa that day. But a week later, I was out on the roof chasing lizards through the liquid sun when my father emerged through the door from the living room and walked to the wall overlooking our street. I went over and stood beside him. Below, a vegetable merchant slowly wheeled his cart past a knot of giggling girls. Marie, the Christian girl