Two

Glory in death, he said. You will be remembered. Your mother will rejoice for you. Your father’s death will be avenged. It is the only way.         It is the only way; hatred must not crumble to forgiveness; war will bring peace, suffering will bring liberation. They must suffer as we have suffered. How many on the bus? Eighteen, nineteen: at least half women, a child there too. So be it.         There is no place for sympathy, he said. In the last moments, you will be tempted into weakness. Do not cry; you must not fail; pray rather that Allah may strengthen you.         May Allah give me strength. I am His soldier; it is His holy war. But why must we fight? Is our God not a God of peace? When they will not let us pray in our holy places, he said, then we have no choice but to fight. Others talk of politics – of land, self-rule – but we act as the faithful, not as politicians. I am no fool; I know the politics; I have learned the history; I read the newspaper; ours is a just cause.         And tomorrow in the newspaper, they will read of my war. They will read in Jerusalem, they will read in Washington, they will read in London that here, today, I fought for liberation. They will condemn me. I am no fool, I know they will hate me; but they will also fear me. They will say, ‘Here is another, like the last – when will they end? The bloodshed is everywhere, it cannot go on, something must be done.’ But eventually they will realise that there will be no end until we have our freedom. Still, they will judge me. They do not understand us; to them we are figures on a television, a gruesome entertainment; they sit, comfortable, fat, watching us as we struggle. They do not want to understand. Let them hate me, they will not know my name, none but my own will know me, and it is not fame I seek. I think it is not even glory: Allah will be grateful, I know, for it is a martyr’s death, but He will thank me for the love of my people and the love of my faith, He will know I do not seek glory in death. Glory in death, he said – what is glory in death? You will be remembered. Your mother will rejoice for you.         Mother, I am sorry. Mother, I know that you will mourn. Mother, do not cry for your dead son as you cried for your husband: your husband was a victim, your son refuses to be a victim. Here is a mother whose child peers down at me through the dirty windows. They will be the victims soon. It is a hard way. Do not look at their faces. Do not think of them as people; they are symbols, they represent a cruel nation, a state, and it is your duty to attack that state. Do not feel sorry for our enemies.         Why aren’t the bus doors open? There are five here to get on, then me. The sooner the better; Allah, give me patience. The explosives weigh heavy on my back. Sweat on my face, an oasis in this dry land. Can they not see I am out of place? Soon they will notice me. No matter, a moment will decide all. There, the doors are open, get on in front! What is the delay? That man argues with the bus-driver. Make your peace, men, this day is your last. Will their god forgive them their argument? Will he forgive me? No need. Surely this god is not Allah, this other cannot be our God when they persecute us. Come, move on there – someone help the old man on. The older they are, he said, the greater their guilt, the more they deserve death. What about the young? The less their guilt. Still the child looks at me. I do not want this. No. I must get on now. No. The driver calls to me. No. Turn, turn away.         Security police. Rifles! They have seen me. If the security police come for you, you must not hesitate. They will kill you anyway. They are running at me. They will shoot me. The bus is leaving. Jump on! I must not die in vain, I am not one for a bullet’s death. Jump on.         Shouts in the street fading behind me. The door is closed. I am safe. Pay the money. Sit. Here is the pin: pull it, that is all. Not while the bus is moving. You must wait until it stops in traffic. Then pull.         Now it is decided. Do not look at their faces. Some eyes glare at mine, some eyes avoid mine. Bus, do not stop. I am scared. You will die soon anyway, he said. They will kill you, or let you live to die a hundred deaths until you are old. Twenty years is not long – your life has not meant anything so far. It will be a waste if they kill you. You will die, but if you must die, do not let your life be wasted. Here is the pin: pull it, that is all.         I do not want to die. There is no other way. Here is the pin: pull it. That is all. I do not want to die. I AM SORRY. Pull it. I do not want to die. Do not hate me. Pull it. I do not want I do not want I DO NOT                                               * They are evil, he said. They are dictators, they are tyrants, they kill their own people. You are here to free those people. There is no shame in this war; ours is a just cause.     First you have to decide if you believe in justice. I am the sword of justice; a very advanced sword, swift, deadly, ten thousand feet high in the desert sky, charged with the justice of destruction. I am not a player, I am merely a skilled worker of a skilled machine. Technology kills people, not people.     There will be casualties, he said. Some civilians will probably die. You must put that out of your mind and stay focused on the goal. Remember, you are fighting for long-term interests, not short-term ease. This is not a movie, gentlemen: this is war. But I can tell you one thing – we are the good guys, and we will win.     I can’t believe this is supposed to be the Holy Land. Tigris, Euphrates, Eden – there are no more Edens. There is only desert. Desert from … to the Gaza strip. That is one messed-up place. At least we are fighting a war against an obvious enemy – our president against their president, our military against their military, we know who we are against and why. No civilians. Well, few – and none of our own. We fight far from home so that they will not know war. A pre-emptive strike, he said. There, they have no precise tactics; their soldiers are their civilians; everyone is at war. Heard that story the other day about the suicide bomber who burst into tears and shouted out apologies before blowing himself and twenty others to pieces. At least we let go of our bombs. Would I cry?         Must I apologise? No. I aim at no innocents. When I have fired on the buildings of the bad men, I will pray that what good men there may be will survive. Women and children too, of course. Will they pray?         next to of course god america i, as he didn’t say. So where does God fit into all this? First you have to decide if you believe in him at all. Then you have to decide who and where and when: is your god my God and is my God, God? Or just a god like your god (who is your God) …? It’s impossible. Even if you figure that out you still have to sort out the how, before getting to the why.         Don’t ask why, he said. That is guilt. How God? I think we’ve got it wrong. We reckon He - HE, God He, not he, who thinks he is God he, you will obey my orders, he said he - we reckon He lied to us about free will; we see Him manipulating us with guilt, catching us off guard, putting images of mothers and sisters in young men’s minds when they’re masturbating. I can’t believe I’m thinking of that at a time like this.             There is no place for emotions, soft thoughts, anything that makes you vulnerable - this is war, here we do not know love, sex, care. We do not know fear, we shed no tears, we feel no guilt, we suffer no loss, he said.         But even so why would God be so petty? Why would He waste his time on guilt instead of putting images of love and peace and pity into politicians’ heads when they’re blowing the world to bits? Surely an infinite God would have stopped this by now? Then again, maybe it would be worse if it wasn’t for God. Or is it up to us? Perhaps it is up to me. I am the hate-carrier, I cannot be a peace-maker. There is no use in the executioner pleading for the condemned man. I cannot choose mercy.         No time for games, he said. No time for philosophy, no time for heavy thoughts.         Maybe we’re an experiment. We have to sort ourselves out without any help. Miracles (I believe in miracles) are like God feeding us bits of cheese as we run through the maze or on the treadmill. No, that’s not it either. Too easy. Just as easy to be an atheist. An infinite God can be infinitely involved in the world at the same time as being infinitely detached from it. I think I’ve got it wrong.         Here is the target. Cool, calm, slow, easy, he said. Here is the sword in my hand. Justice, he said. Justice for the world, peace for all men. Strike.         Death for a few. We suffer too. Such is the world. God forgive all. Under dark, down there, the burning city behind, the lone and level sands stretch far away.

 

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