The Blood of Lambs: A Former Terrorist's Memoir of Death and Redemption Read Online Free Page B
Author: Kamal Saleem
from next door, was down there.
My father pulled a lighter from the pocket of his white shirt and lit a Kent. Leaning his elbows on the wall, he turned his head toward me. “Do you remember what you asked me about your mother?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Your mother will become the head of the, the head of the seventy-two,” he said. “She will be in charge of them all.”
Father never told me where he got that. Maybe he went to the mosque and asked the imam. If he did, I learned later, the imam most certainly told him, “The woman gets nothing.”
But Father could not come and tell me that.
5
People traveled to Beirut from all over the world, and the richest ones rented chalets—colorful tents on the seashore. Yellow stripes, blue stripes, white, red, like candy dotting the sand. Americans called them cabanas. The rich people jetted across the cobalt water on their big boats with wooden skis, nearly naked in their western swimsuits. It was the fancy life.
“These people bring evil with them,” Mother told me. “When the flesh is exposed, the devil gets loose.”
I nodded solemnly, but was secretly fascinated.
During the summer, Saturday was my favorite day. The whole family would get up at the crack of the sun and walk the short distance to the shore. I remember those walks, my heart beating, excited to visit the sea again. From my dreaming window, the Mediterranean had always called to me, inviting me to explore its endless blue depths. To come and dabble at its cool, clear edge was to me like ruffling stars at the fringe of another universe.
At that hour, the infidels would not yet have defiled the water, Mother and Father told us, having stayed up too late the night before indulging in their debaucheries.
I walked along the shore with my brothers and sisters, collecting seashells and watching tiny crabs scurry across the wet sand. Rising over the mountains behind us, the sun turned the sea foam pink as it tickledour ankles. My aunt and sisters waded into the water wearing bathing suits underneath long shirts and snug pants down to their ankles. They did not remove these outer garments even when they swam. Afterward, they were careful to wrap up tightly and quickly, not wanting anyone who might be out early to see their hair or skin.
On these days, my father tried to teach me to be a man. He would grab me and throw me into the water with just one instruction: “Swim back if you want to live!”
6
In madrassa , when we learned about Sura 99, “The Earthquake,” my father sat with us again.
“At the day of judgment, Allah will bring all your good works and your bad works together and put them on a scale,” he said, looking pointedly at me and each of my brothers as we sat on the kitchen floor. “If your good works outweigh your bad works, you will go to heaven more quickly. If your bad works outweigh your good works, you will go to hell.”
My own works flipped through my mind like snapshots: fighting with my brothers and sisters…helping myself to guavas and plums from my grandfather’s garden…the “medical games” I secretly played with Marie next door.
I am in bad trouble….
I glanced across the table at my younger brother Omer and saw no concern. Nothing fazed him; he was always happy as a little rabbit. But Ibrahim would not look at me. I could see he was as tormented as I, stuck somewhere in his thoughts like a mouse in a trap.
Father had talked to us several times about the flames of hell and the tormenting giants who would use meat hooks to rip you apart. We had already learned that, according to the Koran, every Muslim, except for al-shaheed , has to pass through hell. There, Allah purifies you throughburning. After a long time, if you were not an altogether bad Muslim, Allah would excuse you and admit you to a dry place between heaven and hell. Finally, if you pleaded many times, Allah would let you into jannah . You would be among the lowliest and receive only a few virgins and
My father pulled a lighter from the pocket of his white shirt and lit a Kent. Leaning his elbows on the wall, he turned his head toward me. “Do you remember what you asked me about your mother?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Your mother will become the head of the, the head of the seventy-two,” he said. “She will be in charge of them all.”
Father never told me where he got that. Maybe he went to the mosque and asked the imam. If he did, I learned later, the imam most certainly told him, “The woman gets nothing.”
But Father could not come and tell me that.
5
People traveled to Beirut from all over the world, and the richest ones rented chalets—colorful tents on the seashore. Yellow stripes, blue stripes, white, red, like candy dotting the sand. Americans called them cabanas. The rich people jetted across the cobalt water on their big boats with wooden skis, nearly naked in their western swimsuits. It was the fancy life.
“These people bring evil with them,” Mother told me. “When the flesh is exposed, the devil gets loose.”
I nodded solemnly, but was secretly fascinated.
During the summer, Saturday was my favorite day. The whole family would get up at the crack of the sun and walk the short distance to the shore. I remember those walks, my heart beating, excited to visit the sea again. From my dreaming window, the Mediterranean had always called to me, inviting me to explore its endless blue depths. To come and dabble at its cool, clear edge was to me like ruffling stars at the fringe of another universe.
At that hour, the infidels would not yet have defiled the water, Mother and Father told us, having stayed up too late the night before indulging in their debaucheries.
I walked along the shore with my brothers and sisters, collecting seashells and watching tiny crabs scurry across the wet sand. Rising over the mountains behind us, the sun turned the sea foam pink as it tickledour ankles. My aunt and sisters waded into the water wearing bathing suits underneath long shirts and snug pants down to their ankles. They did not remove these outer garments even when they swam. Afterward, they were careful to wrap up tightly and quickly, not wanting anyone who might be out early to see their hair or skin.
On these days, my father tried to teach me to be a man. He would grab me and throw me into the water with just one instruction: “Swim back if you want to live!”
6
In madrassa , when we learned about Sura 99, “The Earthquake,” my father sat with us again.
“At the day of judgment, Allah will bring all your good works and your bad works together and put them on a scale,” he said, looking pointedly at me and each of my brothers as we sat on the kitchen floor. “If your good works outweigh your bad works, you will go to heaven more quickly. If your bad works outweigh your good works, you will go to hell.”
My own works flipped through my mind like snapshots: fighting with my brothers and sisters…helping myself to guavas and plums from my grandfather’s garden…the “medical games” I secretly played with Marie next door.
I am in bad trouble….
I glanced across the table at my younger brother Omer and saw no concern. Nothing fazed him; he was always happy as a little rabbit. But Ibrahim would not look at me. I could see he was as tormented as I, stuck somewhere in his thoughts like a mouse in a trap.
Father had talked to us several times about the flames of hell and the tormenting giants who would use meat hooks to rip you apart. We had already learned that, according to the Koran, every Muslim, except for al-shaheed , has to pass through hell. There, Allah purifies you throughburning. After a long time, if you were not an altogether bad Muslim, Allah would excuse you and admit you to a dry place between heaven and hell. Finally, if you pleaded many times, Allah would let you into jannah . You would be among the lowliest and receive only a few virgins and
Readers choose
Jenn McKinlay
Stephan Morse
E. Nesbit
Michele Paige Holmes
Elizabeth Little
Trisha Telep
Ann B Harrison
Tina Donahue
Glynn Stewart
Cathy Bramley