Images of Death

August 13, 2004

It was dark.The clock next to the bed cast an eerie glow across her face as she looked at the time. It was 1:56 A.M. Looking across the small room,

she noticed that the small television was still on. She had apparently fallen asleep watching CNN. She was lying awkwardly across the small bed, her clothes still on.The fog in her head was clearing now and she remem- bered:There had been an attack in the Middle East.

The news was on nearly all the television and cable networks; they all gratuitously showed blood in the broadcasts, splattered across the broken concrete, bricks, and splintered wood laying in haphazard piles.The bombing had occurred earlier that day in the Iraqi town of Najaf.The world press had jumped on the story hoping to play on the tragedy, rec- ognizing the audience loved death and destruction, as long as it was far from home.

The inadvertent victims of the attack this time were children; their small, innocent bodies lying in the road, covered with blankets as their mothers and fathers sobbed as they kneeled beside them. CNN was rat- tling off useless statistics about body counts and the number of injured while live pictures of the fatal incident flicked across the screen in an endless stream.The scene made Layla cry. Although she tried to be strong and make her heart cold inside, there was a hurt inside of her; memories of her past tormented her. She could recall her own experience within that violence, losing someone she loved to what they had called an “unfortunate accident.”Unfortunate, she thought viciously.

As she watched the horrible images on the screen, her mind drifted off, oblivious to the tears that fell slowly from her face, wetting the front of her shirt and blurring her vision.There was too much death in the world. Watching these children cry in terror was nearly more than she could bear.The children who had died were now safe, having escaped from the

pain.Those who had survived were destined to bear this pain for years, until their own death. Something inside told her to change the channel, to run away from the images, but she couldn’t, not yet.

The local authorities in Najaf were reporting that the intended target actually may have been a British government building on the neigh- boring block.The British army had been using a local building as a com- mand point, but that location was still safe, untouched.There had been an error in the attack. A young man, roughly 17 to 18 years old and of Middle Eastern descent, was seen walking into the building wearing a red backpack just moments before the explosion. No one even questioned him. “He wasn’t a foreigner, what was there to fear from our own people?” No one tried to find out why he was there. Perhaps they thought he was someone’s brother.

Layla imagined in her mind what it would take to convince a young man that killing so many people was worth ending his own life. What power held sway over his mind, causing him to believe this one act could possibly be the right thing to do? She prayed silently to Allah for some guidance. She desperately needed to understand. Why would He allow someone doing His bidding to wander into a school full of young chil- dren? The boy had likely been confused since he had walked into a clearly marked grade school.That one point kept eating at Layla’s insides. He hadn’t really wanted to do it. He was just as innocent as the other children who died today.

Layla imagined the young man’s thoughts as he watched the explosives stuffed into his bag earlier that day by the men controlling his mind and his actions. Did he have the same thoughts she was having? Was there a gen- uine fear of dying in his eyes? Had he considered the implications of taking other human lives through his own actions, or had he blindly followed where the religious zealots had led him? She wondered whether he had realized at that last moment the mistake he had just made.

Wherever he had started that morning, there were older men behind this, hateful men who had used the boy to achieve their goals. But in the 64 Chapter 6 • Images of Death

end it was the boy that had died, along with a lot of other innocent chil- dren.There had been a misfire in their war. Instead of inflicting harm on the enemy, it had created a tremendous amount of pain for their own people.Their own children had died. It was Arab blood that coated the surrounding sidewalks and roadways.

Religious zealots, regardless of their god, were experts at bending the truth, manipulating words and intentions to fit their own goals. It was easier with children. Kids knew less about life and death.They had fewer life experiences with which to gauge their thoughts and actions. Over the course of history, religions around the world had and still were used by their leaders to make people do terrible things. Layla imagined the words that filled the boys ears while he was being prepared to die for their cause. She could almost hear their voices in her own ears, “This is the will of Allah.You will have a great reward for your actions.”

The actions of terrorists reminded her of the Crusades. When a people decided collectively that something was either wrong or right, even in ignorance, the results were devastating. How many people had died in the Crusades because they would not agree to the demands of the religiously zealous? How many of her own people must die before this religious war also came to an end?

A voice in the back of her head urged Layla to ignore the images and concentrate on the reality of the situation. But she was finding it increas- ingly difficult to concentrate on what she had to do. Her grades were dropping, and she was losing serious sleep due to bad dreams. She had put all of her energy into her work, but she was starting to realize that she had missed that precious balance between what was really important and those things that were just idealistic shadows; shadows placed in her mind by someone else. She missed having friends, having a social life. Inside her mind, she wondered where her youth had gone. Where was the fun in life? She had started taking courses during the summer semester in an effort to graduate a little quicker, but she was starting to

wonder if that was part of the reason she was so emotionally strung out lately.

A British correspondent on the screen was trying desperately to talk over the chaos in the background. Men and women crowded the site digging through the rubble, looking for signs of life. Western military forces from the U.S., Britain, Germany, and France scoured the area looking for clues and trying to maintain the peace.The news anchor tried as best she could to appear sympathetic to the chaos and pain sur- rounding her. Layla had always wanted children. She had always wanted a family.What would her husband be like? Would he play with the kids in the backyard? Would they have a backyard?

The real trouble in her mind had started when she had really taken the time to examine the words within the Qur’an on her own. In the past, voices had told her that Allah commanded diligence in the fight against the West.They used a verse in the Qur’an to defend their posi- tion. She could almost hear men telling the young man responsible for tragedy on the screen the same things, filling his mind with confusion so that he would be more likely to act in faith.

And slay them wherever ye catch them, and turn them out from where they have Turned you out; for tumult and oppression are worse than slaughter; but fight them not at the Sacred Mosque, unless they (first) fight you there; but if they fight you, slay them. Such is the reward of those who suppress faith.Qur’an 2:191

She had believed her entire life was in her control, but found herself being controlled by ghosts, figures from the past.The truth in the words of the Qur’an had been distorted and half-spoken.These battles were only to be fought when you were attacked first. Her young heart had fol- lowed along faithfully, as a child should. But now she was an adult with her own mind. Layla was fighting desperately to free herself from her past. Human life was worth treasuring and protecting.

The clock read 2:13 A.M. when she finally broke down and turned

the television off. She laid back down on the bed, quietly crying to her- 66 Chapter 6 • Images of Death

self.The soft, warm sheets cradled her and held her close.There seemed to be no easy way out. She trembled with fear and the cold feeling of let down. She had been betrayed by her family and friends. Whom could she turn to now? Jeremy was the closest thing she had to a real friend.The two had become close when they had started studying together. He offered no malice or pretensions, just a friendly smile and affinity to make her laugh.

The two had enjoyed speaking to each other, but no pretense was ever made at evolving the relationship beyond a simple friendship.They had spent many days and nights studying their schoolwork, trying to bring Jeremy’s grades up before he graduated. She was proud to have helped him achieve his goals.They were comfortable with that arrangement, and nei- ther seemed bent on changing their situation. But Jeremy had graduated months ago and now she felt utterly alone at school. She had his new phone number and thought that perhaps she would feel better if she called him. It had been a couple of weeks since they last spoke.

He was now working back in the United States, for some organization in Washington, D.C. Although they didn’t see each other much anymore, there was always time for a quick phone call or an e-mail. Perhaps she would call him tomorrow and check on him. E-mail was always conve- nient, but she really needed the warm touch of a friend’s voice on the other end of the phone.

Her head started to drift into the darkness. Jeremy’s face flashed before her mind’s eye just before she lost all contact with conscious world.